Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A RomauntG.S. Appleton, 1851 - Всего страниц: 287 |
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Стр. 7
A Romaunt George Gordon Byron Baron Byron. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS . NEWSTEAD ABBEY . CADIZ . COLONNA . DRACHENFELS . CHILLON . PETRARCH'S TOMB AT ARQUA . TEMPLE OF CLITUMNUS . FOUNTAIN OF EGERIA . CANTO THE FIRST . TO IANTHE . Nor in those.
A Romaunt George Gordon Byron Baron Byron. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS . NEWSTEAD ABBEY . CADIZ . COLONNA . DRACHENFELS . CHILLON . PETRARCH'S TOMB AT ARQUA . TEMPLE OF CLITUMNUS . FOUNTAIN OF EGERIA . CANTO THE FIRST . TO IANTHE . Nor in those.
Стр. 44
... tomb , Had buried long his hopes , no more to rise : Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life - abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom . LXXXIV . Still he beheld , nor mingled with the throng ; But view'd them not ...
... tomb , Had buried long his hopes , no more to rise : Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life - abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom . LXXXIV . Still he beheld , nor mingled with the throng ; But view'd them not ...
Стр. 46
... tomb , But cannot hope for rest before . 6 What Exile from himself can fice ? To zones though more and more remote , Still , still pursues , where'er I be , The blight of life - the demon Thought . 7 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem ...
... tomb , But cannot hope for rest before . 6 What Exile from himself can fice ? To zones though more and more remote , Still , still pursues , where'er I be , The blight of life - the demon Thought . 7 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem ...
Стр. 79
... tomb ? * Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians . † Infidel . Horse - tails are the insignia of a Pacha . Horsemen , answering to our forlorn hope . Sword - bearer . LXXIV . Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow CANTO II . 79 ...
... tomb ? * Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians . † Infidel . Horse - tails are the insignia of a Pacha . Horsemen , answering to our forlorn hope . Sword - bearer . LXXIV . Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow CANTO II . 79 ...
Стр. 81
... tomb of all its pious spoil , May wind their path of blood along the West ; But ne'er will freedom seck this fated soil , But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil . LXXVIII . Yet mark their mirth - ere lenten days begin ...
... tomb of all its pious spoil , May wind their path of blood along the West ; But ne'er will freedom seck this fated soil , But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil . LXXVIII . Yet mark their mirth - ere lenten days begin ...
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt : and Other Poems George Gordon Byron Baron Byron Полный просмотр - 1812 |
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Albania Ali Pacha amidst amongst ancient Ariosto Arqua Athens beauty behold beneath blood Boccaccio bosom breast breath brow Cæsar CANTO Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chioza church Cicero Comitium dark death deem'd deep doth dust dwell earth edit Egeria fair fall fame fate feel Ficus Ruminalis gaze glory gondoliers Greece Greek hand hath heart Heaven hills honour hope hour immortal Italian Italy Julius Cæsar lake land less light live Lord mind mortal mountains Nardini ne'er never o'er once pass pass'd passion Petrarch plain poet Pouqueville rock Roman Rome ruin scatter'd scene seems seen shore sigh smile song soul spirit spot STANZA Storia stream Suetonius Tasso tears temple thee thine things thou thought throne tomb triumph Turks tyrants valley Venetians Venice walls waves winds woes wolf words youth καὶ
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Стр. 121 - 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. 120 - All heaven and earth are still— though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep...
Стр. 119 - Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
Стр. 198 - Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
Стр. 122 - Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, — could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe— into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
Стр. 91 - Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead !' Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on : for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
Стр. 100 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent!
Стр. 179 - Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation : — where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair...
Стр. 162 - 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, LXX.
Стр. 184 - But I have lived, and have not lived in vain ; My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire; And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire...