The Life of Lord Byron

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H. Colburn and R. Bentley, 1830 - Всего страниц: 372
 

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Стр. 127 - Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there.
Стр. 126 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Стр. 145 - As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; So well had they broken a lingering fast With those who had fallen for that night's repast.
Стр. 126 - Morea's hills the setting sun; not as in northern climes obscurely bright, but one unclouded blaze of living light : o'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows. On old jEgina's rock and Idra's isle the god of gladness sheds his parting smile; o'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, though there his altars are no more divine.
Стр. 106 - Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that were : First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won and pass'd away — is this the whole ? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vam, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Стр. 189 - I saw him stand Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight of his Boyhood...
Стр. 181 - The mother of Sisera looked out at a window and cried through the lattice Why is his chariot so long in coming? why tarry the wheels of his chariots?
Стр. 200 - It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream The stars are studding, each with imaged beam; So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, And yet they glide like happiness away...
Стр. 214 - She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine...
Стр. 316 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile.

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