Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord Byron |
From inside the book
Results 1-5 of 100
Page 104
... hath known before . Few are my years , and yet I feel The world was ne'er designed for me : Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be ? Once I beheld a splendid dream , A visionary scene of bliss : Truth ...
... hath known before . Few are my years , and yet I feel The world was ne'er designed for me : Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be ? Once I beheld a splendid dream , A visionary scene of bliss : Truth ...
Page 107
... exception would be taken , were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume . To this he might plead minority ; but as he now makes voluntary tender of the article , he hath no THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON . 107.
... exception would be taken , were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume . To this he might plead minority ; but as he now makes voluntary tender of the article , he hath no THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON . 107.
Page 108
George Clinton. makes voluntary tender of the article , he hath no right to sue , on that ground , for the price in good current praise , should the goods be un- marketable . This is our view of the law on the point , and we dare say so ...
George Clinton. makes voluntary tender of the article , he hath no right to sue , on that ground , for the price in good current praise , should the goods be un- marketable . This is our view of the law on the point , and we dare say so ...
Page 113
... I quaffed like thee ; I died - let earth my bones resign . Fill up - thou canst not injure me ; The worm hath fouler lips than thine . Better to hold the sparkling grape Than nurse the earth THE LIFE AND WRITINGS of lord byRON . 113.
... I quaffed like thee ; I died - let earth my bones resign . Fill up - thou canst not injure me ; The worm hath fouler lips than thine . Better to hold the sparkling grape Than nurse the earth THE LIFE AND WRITINGS of lord byRON . 113.
Page 114
... hath shone , In aid of others let me shine ; And when , alas ! our brains are gone , What nobler substitute than wine ? Quaff while thou canst - another race , When thou and thine like me are sped , May rescue thee from earth's embrace ...
... hath shone , In aid of others let me shine ; And when , alas ! our brains are gone , What nobler substitute than wine ? Quaff while thou canst - another race , When thou and thine like me are sped , May rescue thee from earth's embrace ...
Other editions - View all
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?