Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt |
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Side 54
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it
flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. V. Or burst the banish'd
Hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: He sell, and falling
nations ...
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it
flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. V. Or burst the banish'd
Hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: He sell, and falling
nations ...
Side 58
Cold is the heart, fair Greece' that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust
they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy
mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To
guard ...
Cold is the heart, fair Greece' that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust
they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy
mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To
guard ...
Side 83
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust: and
when Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, Recall its virtues back, and
vanquish Time and Fate? LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land
of ...
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust: and
when Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, Recall its virtues back, and
vanquish Time and Fate? LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land
of ...
Side 85
Such was the scene—what now remaineth here? What sacred trophy marks the
hallow'd ground, Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the
violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. XCI.
Such was the scene—what now remaineth here? What sacred trophy marks the
hallow'd ground, Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the
violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. XCI.
Side 96
... though 't were wild,—as on the plunder'd wreck When mariners would madly
meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,Did yet inspire a
cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
... though 't were wild,—as on the plunder'd wreck When mariners would madly
meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,Did yet inspire a
cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt, Volum 1 George Gordon Byron Baron Byron Uten tilgangsbegrensning - 1885 |
Vanlige uttrykk og setninger
amongst ancient appear arms Athens bear beauty beneath better blood breast breath called Childe church dark dead death deep dust earth edit fair fall fame feel foes gaze glory Greek hand Harold hath heard heart Heaven hills honour hope hour Italian Italy lake land late least leave less light live look Lord memory mind mortal mountains Nature never o'er observed once pass perhaps plain present rise rock Roman Rome round scene seems seen shore song soul spirit stands STANZA statue stream tears temple thee thine things thou thought thousand tomb traveller tree true turn Venice walls waters waves whole winds wolf young youth
Populære avsnitt
Side 119 - 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 118 - 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 118 - 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 196 - 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 120 - 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 89 - 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 98 - 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 178 - 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 182 - 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...
Bibliografisk informasjon
| Tittel | Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt |
| Forfatter | George Gordon Byron Baron Byron |
| Utgiver | G.S. Appleton, 1851 |
| Original fra | New York Public Library |
| Digitalisert | 22. nov 2006 |
| Lengde | 287 sider |
| Eksporter sitat | BiBTeX EndNote RefMan |