Lord Byron, Volum 1Antoine-Augustin Renouard, 1824 |
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aimait âme Anglais ASTARTE back beau blood Bonnivard breath Brême brillante c'était CHAMOIS HUNTER chant château de Chillon Childe Harold Chillon ciel cieux cœur cold coursier death deep desirs douleur dream earth écossais eût eyes feel felt femme flow foule friend génie de lord Grèce hand hath head heart heaven high hommes hope hour j'ai jamais jeune Klephtes know l'âme lady Byron last life light look lord Byron love loved madame de Staël made MANFRED Mazeppa Milbank mind Mistress Mardyn montagnes mort mountain name ne'er never night noble Note de lord o'er once Parisina passé passions pensées poème poésie poète poétique power PRISONNIER DE CHILLON rêve scarce seen semble sensations sentimens sentiment seul sort soul spirit stood sublime tears terre thine things thou thought thrice time tombe triste twas vagues Walter Scott wave wild wind word years yeux youth
Populære avsnitt
Side 237 - He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the Starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Side 281 - Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
Side 257 - The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Old Tiber!
Side 99 - That almost made the dungeon bright ; And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot. A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence, lost In this last loss, of all the most, And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less.
Side 67 - Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go.
Side 97 - Less wretched now, and one day free ; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired — He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing...
Side 272 - And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past...
Side 255 - 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...
Side 108 - But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue.
Side 86 - That father perish'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake ; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place...