Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt, Том 1Joseph Knight Company, 1885 - Всего страниц: 236 |
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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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Acheron adieu art thou Athens aught beauties behold beneath blazon bleed blood blue blush boast bosom breast brow BULL FIGHT castled crag cheer Childe Harold clime crags dare dark dear deeds deemed didst dome doom doth Drachenfels dread dream dwell e'er earth earth art fair Cadiz fame fate foam gainst gale Gaul gaze Giaour glaive glorious glow Greece hand hath heart heaven hope hour land lone Look lurk lyre maid minarets mingling mortal mountain mourn native ne'er NEWSTEAD ABBEY o'er thy once passed perchance Pindus place of skulls plain pride proud Rhine rock scarce scene Seville shore shrine sigh sink skies slave smile song sooth sorrow soul Spain Stamboul steed stern stream sweet tear thee thine eye thought throng tower unmoved vainly walls wanderer waves weary ween Whate'er wild wind young youth
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Стр. 121 - Cameron's gathering' rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
Стр. 122 - And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Стр. 120 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Стр. 29 - Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates...
Стр. 66 - Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : 'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.
Стр. 130 - There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.
Стр. 110 - Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears.
Стр. 119 - But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain...
Стр. 129 - He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.
Стр. 24 - A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, My dog howls at the gate. »Come hither, hither, my little page: Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale?