Childe Harold's pilgrimage, with a memoir by W. Spalding |
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Стр. 17
... hath there been matchless deem'd ; Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd , Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : Nor , having seen thee , shall I vainly seek To paint those ...
... hath there been matchless deem'd ; Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd , Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : Nor , having seen thee , shall I vainly seek To paint those ...
Стр. 25
... hath done for this delicious land ! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! But man would mar them with an impious hand : And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge ' Gainst ...
... hath done for this delicious land ! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! But man would mar them with an impious hand : And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge ' Gainst ...
Стр. 27
... hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife , Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land , where law secures not life . XXII . On sloping mounds ...
... hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife , Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land , where law secures not life . XXII . On sloping mounds ...
Стр. 30
... hath built A dome , where flaunts she in such glorious sheen That men forget the blood which she hath spilt , And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt . XXX O'er vales that teem with fruits , romantic hills , ( Oh that such ...
... hath built A dome , where flaunts she in such glorious sheen That men forget the blood which she hath spilt , And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt . XXX O'er vales that teem with fruits , romantic hills , ( Oh that such ...
Стр. 33
... hath no friend , no brother there ) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery , Their various arms that glitter in the air ! What gallant war - hounds rouse them from their lair , And gnash their fangs loud - yelling for the prey ! All ...
... hath no friend , no brother there ) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery , Their various arms that glitter in the air ! What gallant war - hounds rouse them from their lair , And gnash their fangs loud - yelling for the prey ! All ...
Часто встречающиеся слова и выражения
Albania amidst aught bards beauty behold beneath bleed blood bosom breast breath Brentford brow Byron Cadiz canto charm Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chivalry clime dare dark dear deeds deem deem'd deep desolate didst dome dost doth dread dream dust dwell earth fair fair Mount fame fate feel fix'd foes gainst Gaul gaze Giaour glorious Glory glow Greece hand hath heart Heaven hope hour hyæna Idlesse immortal Italy land Latian light lone lord Lord Byron maids mighty mind mortal mountains Nature's ne'er night o'er o'er thy once pass'd passion perchance Pindus poison'd proud Rhine rise rock Rome round scarce scatter'd scene shore shrine sigh skies smile soft song sooth sought soul Spain spirit star steed stern stream sweet tear thee thine things thou thought throne tomb tyrants Venice walls waves ween wild wind woes young youth
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Стр. 166 - The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And Monarchs tremble in their Capitals, The oak Leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of Lord of thee, and Arbiter of War— These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Стр. 99 - And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee!
Стр. 93 - I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture...
Стр. 145 - There is the moral of all human tales ; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Стр. 159 - Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? It is not lessen'd; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
Стр. 78 - But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is— it is— the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear...
Стр. 97 - At intervals some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Стр. 134 - The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set...
Стр. 100 - Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? XCVII.
Стр. 155 - He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday — All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! CXLII.