Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - Всего страниц: 756 |
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Стр. 2
... true merit and sound learning , These are his claims to the respect of his cotemporaries - these are his titles to the admiration of posterity . That they may be fully un- derstood , and that the honours which his memory deserves may be ...
... true merit and sound learning , These are his claims to the respect of his cotemporaries - these are his titles to the admiration of posterity . That they may be fully un- derstood , and that the honours which his memory deserves may be ...
Стр. 39
... true , are not worth retailing . From the fact of his having , for a short time , kept a young bear in his rooms at Trinity College , many fruitful inventions have sprung . Among others , it is said he told the master of Trinity that he ...
... true , are not worth retailing . From the fact of his having , for a short time , kept a young bear in his rooms at Trinity College , many fruitful inventions have sprung . Among others , it is said he told the master of Trinity that he ...
Стр. 50
... true ; The love which you felt was the love of a brother , Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you . But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion- The attachment of years in a moment expires ; Like Love , too , she moves on a swift ...
... true ; The love which you felt was the love of a brother , Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you . But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion- The attachment of years in a moment expires ; Like Love , too , she moves on a swift ...
Стр. 68
... true , Obedient to her call he flew , No fear , no wild alarm , he knew , But lightly o'er her bosom moved : And softly fluttering here and there , He never sought to cleave the air , But chiruped oft , and , free from care , Tuned to ...
... true , Obedient to her call he flew , No fear , no wild alarm , he knew , But lightly o'er her bosom moved : And softly fluttering here and there , He never sought to cleave the air , But chiruped oft , and , free from care , Tuned to ...
Стр. 113
... true . The skull , which was discovered acci- dentally in what had been the old Abbey cemetery , happened to be of a remarkable whiteness . Lord Byron had it mounted , for the purpose of preserving it ; and he afterwards wrote the ...
... true . The skull , which was discovered acci- dentally in what had been the old Abbey cemetery , happened to be of a remarkable whiteness . Lord Byron had it mounted , for the purpose of preserving it ; and he afterwards wrote the ...
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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?