Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - 756ÆäÀÌÁö |
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... beneath an elm , in the churchyard a Harrow on the Hill . Criticism on Hours of Idleness , from the Edinburgh Review . Animadversions thereon . Disposition of Lord Byron on his entrance into life . His fondness for a Newfoundland dog ...
... beneath an elm , in the churchyard a Harrow on the Hill . Criticism on Hours of Idleness , from the Edinburgh Review . Animadversions thereon . Disposition of Lord Byron on his entrance into life . His fondness for a Newfoundland dog ...
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... Beneath their coursers ' hoofs the valleys shake ; What fears , what anxious hopes , attend the chase ! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; Exulting shouts announce the finished race . Ah ! happy days ! too happy to endure ! Such ...
... Beneath their coursers ' hoofs the valleys shake ; What fears , what anxious hopes , attend the chase ! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; Exulting shouts announce the finished race . Ah ! happy days ! too happy to endure ! Such ...
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... Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; And sees , on high , amidst the encircling groves , From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ! While waters , woods , and winds , in concert join , And Echo swells the chorus to the skies ...
... Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; And sees , on high , amidst the encircling groves , From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ! While waters , woods , and winds , in concert join , And Echo swells the chorus to the skies ...
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... beneath , Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below ; ¢Ó Untutored by science , a stranger to fear , And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew , No feeling , save one , to my bosom was dear- Need I say , my sweet Mary , ' twas ...
... beneath , Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below ; ¢Ó Untutored by science , a stranger to fear , And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew , No feeling , save one , to my bosom was dear- Need I say , my sweet Mary , ' twas ...
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... beneath , Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow , Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death , She saw the gasping warrior low ; - While many an eye , which ne'er again Could mark the rising orb of day , Turn'd feebly from the gory plain ...
... beneath , Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow , Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death , She saw the gasping warrior low ; - While many an eye , which ne'er again Could mark the rising orb of day , Turn'd feebly from the gory plain ...
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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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333 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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.
315 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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...
328 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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.
732 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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.
545 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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!
385 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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.
673 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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.
183 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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...
388 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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.
545 ÆäÀÌÁö - 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?