The Englishman in Greece: Being a Collection of Verse of Many English Poets

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Clarendon Press, 1910 - 327 pages
 

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Page 172 - Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He...
Page 176 - Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art : Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
Page 307 - Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
Page 300 - he said, and pointed toward the land, ' This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.' In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.
Page 306 - What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Page 25 - Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, And our veins beat together; and our lips, With o'ther eloquence than words, eclipse The soul that burns between them ; and the wells Which boil under our being's inmost cells, The fountains of our deepest life, shall be Confused in passion's golden purity, As mountain-springs under the morning Sun. We shall become the same, we shall be one Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore two...
Page 20 - Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade...
Page 274 - Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
Page 269 - THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Page 216 - THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept as I remember'd how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky...

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