Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt |
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Side 6
A Romaunt George Gordon Byron Baron Byron. knight templar.” By the by, I fear
that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although
very poetical personages and true knights “sans peur,” though not “sans
reproche.
A Romaunt George Gordon Byron Baron Byron. knight templar.” By the by, I fear
that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although
very poetical personages and true knights “sans peur,” though not “sans
reproche.
Side 15
Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile ! Where Superstition once had made her
den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem
their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII
.
Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile ! Where Superstition once had made her
den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem
their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII
.
Side 33
... in public view, Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden
is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt
beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI.
... in public view, Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden
is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt
beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI.
Side 38
... Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense
burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. LXVIII. The Sabbath
comes, a day of blessed rest: What 38 CHILD e H A R O I, d's cax to t.
... Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense
burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. LXVIII. The Sabbath
comes, a day of blessed rest: What 38 CHILD e H A R O I, d's cax to t.
Side 47
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood 1 When all were changing thou
alone wert true, First to be free and last to be subdued: And if amidst a scene, a
shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye; A traitor only fell ...
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood 1 When all were changing thou
alone wert true, First to be free and last to be subdued: And if amidst a scene, a
shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye; A traitor only fell ...
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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 |