Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A RomauntG.S. Appleton, 1851 - 287 sider |
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Side 24
... Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! With diadem hight foolscap , lo ! a fiend , A little fiend that scoffs incessantly , There sits in parchment robe array'd , and by His side is ...
... Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! With diadem hight foolscap , lo ! a fiend , A little fiend that scoffs incessantly , There sits in parchment robe array'd , and by His side is ...
Side 30
... behold the tools , The broken tools , that tyrants cast away By myriads , when they dare to pave their way With human hearts - to what ? -a dream alone . Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? Or call with truth one span of ...
... behold the tools , The broken tools , that tyrants cast away By myriads , when they dare to pave their way With human hearts - to what ? -a dream alone . Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? Or call with truth one span of ...
Side 37
... behold the hallow'd scene , Which others rave of , though they know it not ? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot , And thou , the Muses ' seat , art now their grave , Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot , Sighs in the gale ...
... behold the hallow'd scene , Which others rave of , though they know it not ? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot , And thou , the Muses ' seat , art now their grave , Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot , Sighs in the gale ...
Side 55
... Behold through each lack - lustre , eyeless hole , The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit And Passion's host , that never brook'd control : Can all saint , sage , or sophist ever writ , People this lonely tower , this tenement refit ? VII ...
... Behold through each lack - lustre , eyeless hole , The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit And Passion's host , that never brook'd control : Can all saint , sage , or sophist ever writ , People this lonely tower , this tenement refit ? VII ...
Side 67
... , crescent , cross , For whatsoever symbol thou art prized , Thou sacerdotal gain , but general loss ! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? XLV . Ambracia's gulf behold , where once was lost CANTO II . 67 PILGRIMAGE .
... , crescent , cross , For whatsoever symbol thou art prized , Thou sacerdotal gain , but general loss ! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? XLV . Ambracia's gulf behold , where once was lost CANTO II . 67 PILGRIMAGE .
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt : and Other Poems George Gordon Byron Baron Byron Uten tilgangsbegrensning - 1812 |
Vanlige uttrykk og setninger
Albania Ali Pacha amidst amongst ancient Ariosto Arqua Athens beauty behold beneath blood Boccaccio bosom breast breath brow Cæsar CANTO Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chioza church Cicero Comitium dark death deem'd deep doth dust dwell earth edit Egeria fair fall fame fate feel Ficus Ruminalis gaze glory gondoliers Greece Greek hand hath heart Heaven hills honour hope hour immortal Italian Italy Julius Cæsar lake land less light live Lord mind mortal mountains Nardini ne'er never o'er once pass pass'd passion Petrarch plain poet Pouqueville rock Roman Rome ruin scatter'd scene seems seen shore sigh smile song soul spirit spot STANZA Storia stream Suetonius Tasso tears temple thee thine things thou thought throne tomb triumph Turks tyrants valley Venetians Venice walls waves winds woes wolf words youth καὶ
Populære avsnitt
Side 121 - 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.
Side 120 - All heaven and earth are still— though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep...
Side 119 - Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
Side 198 - Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
Side 122 - Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, — could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe— into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
Side 91 - Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead !' Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on : for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
Side 100 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent!
Side 179 - Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation : — where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair...
Side 162 - The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX.
Side 184 - But I have lived, and have not lived in vain ; My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire; And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire...