Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - 756 pages |
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Page 17
... sleep ; Thy cloisters , pervious to the wintry showers ; - These , these he views , and views them but to weep ! Yet are his tears no emblem of regret ; Cherished affection only bids them flow ' Pride , Hope , and Love , forbid him to ...
... sleep ; Thy cloisters , pervious to the wintry showers ; - These , these he views , and views them but to weep ! Yet are his tears no emblem of regret ; Cherished affection only bids them flow ' Pride , Hope , and Love , forbid him to ...
Page 25
... sleep from most of us ; for , besides that we pressed upon one another extremely , we were not without our alarms and apprehensions of being attacked by the Indians , from a discovery we made of some of their lances and other arms in ...
... sleep from most of us ; for , besides that we pressed upon one another extremely , we were not without our alarms and apprehensions of being attacked by the Indians , from a discovery we made of some of their lances and other arms in ...
Page 40
... of Horistan * slumbers— Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death . * Horistan Castle , in Derbyshire , an ancient seat of the Byron family . Paul and Hubert too sleep , in the valley of 40 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON .
... of Horistan * slumbers— Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death . * Horistan Castle , in Derbyshire , an ancient seat of the Byron family . Paul and Hubert too sleep , in the valley of 40 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON .
Page 41
George Clinton. Paul and Hubert too sleep , in the valley of Cressy ; For the safety of Edward and England they fell ; My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; How you fought ! how you died ! still her annals can tell . On ...
George Clinton. Paul and Hubert too sleep , in the valley of Cressy ; For the safety of Edward and England they fell ; My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; How you fought ! how you died ! still her annals can tell . On ...
Page 42
... sleep , But living statues there are seen to weep ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb , Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom . What though thy sire lament his failing line , A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ...
... sleep , But living statues there are seen to weep ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb , Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom . What though thy sire lament his failing line , A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ...
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Common terms and phrases
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
Popular passages
Page 333 - 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.
Page 315 - 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...
Page 328 - 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.
Page 732 - 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.
Page 545 - 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!
Page 385 - 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.
Page 673 - 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.
Page 183 - 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...
Page 388 - 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.
Page 545 - 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?