Byron

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Harper, 1880 - Всего страниц: 212
 

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Стр. 116 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Стр. 191 - Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.
Стр. 116 - The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time...
Стр. 59 - 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 vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Стр. 60 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled And still his...
Стр. 170 - there was no matter,' And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said: They say his system 'tis in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head ; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to Stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
Стр. 99 - Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Стр. 126 - I despair of rivalling Lord Byron, as well I may, and there is no other with whom it is worth contending.
Стр. 126 - mid mortality ; As the love from Petrarch's urn Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp, by which the heart Sees things unearthly ; so thou art, Mighty spirit : so shall be The city that did refuge thee.
Стр. 157 - It was that fatal and perfidious Bark Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

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