The Works of Lord Byron: With His Letters and Journals,

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Page 207 - KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime...
Page 152 - Such is the aspect of this shore; >Tis Greece, but living Greece no more So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath...
Page 208 - Gul in her bloom? Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie...
Page 264 - Ours the wild life in tumult still to range From toil to rest, and joy in every change. Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! Whom slumber...
Page 179 - But first, on earth as Vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be 'rent : Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race : There, from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life ; Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse : Thy victims, ere they yet expire, Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
Page 165 - Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome!
Page 272 - There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell...
Page 99 - We know what we are, but we know not what we may be...
Page 215 - Such was Zuleika — such around her shone The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul...
Page 309 - SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light ! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.

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