Byron and Greece

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J. Murray, 1924 - Greece - 336 pages
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Page 81 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress...
Page 89 - 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 161 - The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse : Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires'
Page 256 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!
Page 39 - Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Page 91 - 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 color though varied, in beauty may vie...
Page 99 - 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 hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
Page 105 - Salamis ! Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.
Page 47 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his...
Page 95 - Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 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 soothes not...

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