Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - 756ÆäÀÌÁö |
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... youth , ordained to die , A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime . But not from thee , dark pile ! departs the chief ; His feudal realm in other regions lay ; In thee the wounded conscience courts relief , Retiring from the garish blaze of ...
... youth , ordained to die , A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime . But not from thee , dark pile ! departs the chief ; His feudal realm in other regions lay ; In thee the wounded conscience courts relief , Retiring from the garish blaze of ...
39 ÆäÀÌÁö
... youth with pleasure to record . ' 6 It was for this reason , probably , that he neither distinguished himself much at Harrow nor at Trinity College , Cambridge , whither he went on his leaving the former school . His impatience of every ...
... youth with pleasure to record . ' 6 It was for this reason , probably , that he neither distinguished himself much at Harrow nor at Trinity College , Cambridge , whither he went on his leaving the former school . His impatience of every ...
41 ÆäÀÌÁö
... youth and virtue claim a short delay , Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight , Thy comrade's honour , and thy friend's delight . If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where ...
... youth and virtue claim a short delay , Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight , Thy comrade's honour , and thy friend's delight . If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where ...
43 ÆäÀÌÁö
... the maid , From her eyelid he kisses the Tear , Sweet scene of my youth , Seat of friendship and truth , Where love chased each fast - fleeting year , úþ Loath to leave thee . I mourn ' } THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON . 43.
... the maid , From her eyelid he kisses the Tear , Sweet scene of my youth , Seat of friendship and truth , Where love chased each fast - fleeting year , úþ Loath to leave thee . I mourn ' } THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON . 43.
45 ÆäÀÌÁö
... youth and beauty form the female shield , The sternest censor to the fair must yield . Yet , should our feeble efforts nought avail ; Should , after all , our best endeavours fail ; Still let some mercy in your bosoms live , And , if ...
... youth and beauty form the female shield , The sternest censor to the fair must yield . Yet , should our feeble efforts nought avail ; Should , after all , our best endeavours fail ; Still let some mercy in your bosoms live , And , if ...
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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?