Childe Harold's pilgrimage, with a memoir by W. Spalding |
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Стр. 16
... lost on a scul so constituted , or rather misdirected . Had I proceeded with the poem , this character would have deepened as he drew to the close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was , with some exceptions , the ...
... lost on a scul so constituted , or rather misdirected . Had I proceeded with the poem , this character would have deepened as he drew to the close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was , with some exceptions , the ...
Стр. 22
... and fair the light winds blew , As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view , And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then , it may be , of his wish 22 Childe Harold .
... and fair the light winds blew , As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view , And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then , it may be , of his wish 22 Childe Harold .
Стр. 29
... lost : For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! Woe to the conquering , not the conquer'd host , Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast . XXVI . And ever since that martial synod met , Britannia sickens , Cintra ! at ...
... lost : For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! Woe to the conquering , not the conquer'd host , Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast . XXVI . And ever since that martial synod met , Britannia sickens , Cintra ! at ...
Стр. 36
... lost . L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue , Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true : Sharp is the ...
... lost . L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue , Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true : Sharp is the ...
Стр. 38
... lost ? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul , Foil'd by a woman's hand , before a batter'd wall ? LVII . Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons , But form'd for all the witching arts of love : Though thus in arms they emulate her ...
... lost ? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul , Foil'd by a woman's hand , before a batter'd wall ? LVII . Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons , But form'd for all the witching arts of love : Though thus in arms they emulate her ...
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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.