Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - Всего страниц: 756 |
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Стр. 1
... live . That he was entitled to the first place among living poets will hardly now be denied by any one . Those persons who , from the most honest feelings , regretted the levity and censured the immorality of some of his latter ...
... live . That he was entitled to the first place among living poets will hardly now be denied by any one . Those persons who , from the most honest feelings , regretted the levity and censured the immorality of some of his latter ...
Стр. 2
George Clinton. produced . Few , indeed , ( and , among those who live , we may say , fear- less of contradiction , none , ) have possessed at the same time an energy and intellectual grasp like his , together with his facility and ...
George Clinton. produced . Few , indeed , ( and , among those who live , we may say , fear- less of contradiction , none , ) have possessed at the same time an energy and intellectual grasp like his , together with his facility and ...
Стр. 3
... live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find , And think to burst out into sudden blaze , Comes the blind Fury with th ' abhorred shears And slits the thin - spun life .'- CHAPTER I. THE late Lord Byron was descended ...
... live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find , And think to burst out into sudden blaze , Comes the blind Fury with th ' abhorred shears And slits the thin - spun life .'- CHAPTER I. THE late Lord Byron was descended ...
Стр. 19
... live many hours ; that he forgave Lord Byron , and hoped the world would ; that the affair had passed in the dark , only a small tallow candle burning in the room ; that Lord Byron asked him if he meant the conversation on the game to ...
... live many hours ; that he forgave Lord Byron , and hoped the world would ; that the affair had passed in the dark , only a small tallow candle burning in the room ; that Lord Byron asked him if he meant the conversation on the game to ...
Стр. 20
... live under the misfortune of having killed another person . " ' After a little while he seemed to grow stronger , and he was then removed to his own house , where Mr. Adair , another surgeon , Mr. Man , an apothecary , and Dr. Addington ...
... live under the misfortune of having killed another person . " ' After a little while he seemed to grow stronger , and he was then removed to his own house , where Mr. Adair , another surgeon , Mr. Man , an apothecary , and Dr. Addington ...
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Memoirs of the life and writings of lord Byron George Clinton (biographer of Byron.) Полный просмотр - 1825 |
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Ali Pacha appeared arms bard beauty behold beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Cain called Calmar canto Cephalonia character Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dark dead death Doge dread dream earth Edinburgh Review English eyes fair fame fate father fear feel gaze genius Giaour grave Greece Greek hand hath heart heaven hero honour hope hour knew lady Lara less letter live look Lord Byron lordship Mavrocordatos Mazeppa mind Missolonghi Morea mortal Muse ne'er never Newstead Abbey night noble o'er once Parisina passed passion Patras perhaps person poem poet poetry replied Samian wine Sardanapalus scarce scene seemed shore Siegendorf sigh sleep smile song soul Southey speak spirit stanzas Suliotes tears thee thine things thou thought turned twas Venice verse voice wave wild wish words young youth
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Стр. 333 - To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Стр. 315 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
Стр. 328 - 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 ! How the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Стр. 732 - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep ! He hath awakened from the dream of life. 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.
Стр. 545 - Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah, no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head. But one, arise — we come, we come!
Стр. 385 - Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray.
Стр. 673 - 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.
Стр. 183 - And marked the mild, angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye...
Стр. 388 - Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.
Стр. 545 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear ! Must we but weep o'er days more blest?