Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord Byron |
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Page 33
... beauty of his fair innamorate that contented him , but he levied pecuniary contributions on them also ; and thus made his in- trigues of the back stairs supply the frequent draughts which the gaming - table made on his finances ...
... beauty of his fair innamorate that contented him , but he levied pecuniary contributions on them also ; and thus made his in- trigues of the back stairs supply the frequent draughts which the gaming - table made on his finances ...
Page 41
... beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight , Thy comrade's honour , and thy friend's delight . If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie , The battle of ...
... beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight , Thy comrade's honour , and thy friend's delight . If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie , The battle of ...
Page 45
... Beauty's cheek ; Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim , And meet indulgence , though she find not fame ! Still , not for her alene we wish respect , Others appear more conscious of defect ; To - night no veteran Roscii you behold ...
... Beauty's cheek ; Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim , And meet indulgence , though she find not fame ! Still , not for her alene we wish respect , Others appear more conscious of defect ; To - night no veteran Roscii you behold ...
Page 47
... beauty must enrapture all , But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? ' Tis said that Berenice's hair In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; But they would ne'er permit thee there , Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven . For , did those ...
... beauty must enrapture all , But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? ' Tis said that Berenice's hair In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; But they would ne'er permit thee there , Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven . For , did those ...
Page 51
... Beauty's mould , The lips which made me Beauty's slave . Here I can trace - ah , no ! that eye , Whose azure floats in liquid fire , Must all the painter's art defy , And bid him from the task retire . Here I behold its beauteous hue ...
... Beauty's mould , The lips which made me Beauty's slave . Here I can trace - ah , no ! that eye , Whose azure floats in liquid fire , Must all the painter's art defy , And bid him from the task retire . Here I behold its beauteous hue ...
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Common terms and phrases
Ali Pacha appeared arms bard beauty behold beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Cain called Calmar canto Cephalonia character Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dark dead death Doge dread dream earth Edinburgh Review English eyes fair fame fate father fear feel gaze genius Giaour grave Greece Greek hand hath heart heaven hero honour hope hour knew lady Lara less letter live look Lord Byron lordship Mavrocordatos Mazeppa mind Missolonghi Morea mortal Muse ne'er never Newstead Abbey night noble o'er once Parisina passed passion Patras perhaps person poem poet poetry replied Samian wine Sardanapalus scarce scene seemed shore Siegendorf sigh sleep smile song soul Southey speak spirit stanzas Suliotes tears thee thine things thou thought turned twas Venice verse voice wave wild wish words young youth
Popular passages
Page 333 - To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Page 315 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
Page 328 - 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.
Page 732 - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep ! He hath awakened from the dream of life. 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.
Page 545 - Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah, no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head. But one, arise — we come, we come!
Page 385 - Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray.
Page 673 - 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! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile.
Page 183 - And marked the mild, angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye...
Page 388 - Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.
Page 545 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear ! Must we but weep o'er days more blest?