The poetical works of lord Byron, ed. with a critical mem. by W. M. RossettiWard Lock, 1880 |
From inside the book
Results 1-5 of 89
Page 1
... better in condemning my scribblings than in mending their own . But my object is not to prove that I can write well , but , if possible , to make others write better . As the poem has met with far more success than I expected , I have ...
... better in condemning my scribblings than in mending their own . But my object is not to prove that I can write well , but , if possible , to make others write better . As the poem has met with far more success than I expected , I have ...
Page 8
... better , meddling fool , than they ? " And every brother rake will smile to see That miracle , a moralist in me . No matter when some bard in virtue strong , Gifford perchance , shall raise the chastening song , Then sleep my pen for ...
... better , meddling fool , than they ? " And every brother rake will smile to see That miracle , a moralist in me . No matter when some bard in virtue strong , Gifford perchance , shall raise the chastening song , Then sleep my pen for ...
Page 12
... better sons his farewell ray , That closed their murder'd sage's latest day : Not yet not yet - Sol pauses on the hill , The precious hour of parting lingers still ; But sad his light to agonizing eyes , And dark the mountain's once ...
... better sons his farewell ray , That closed their murder'd sage's latest day : Not yet not yet - Sol pauses on the hill , The precious hour of parting lingers still ; But sad his light to agonizing eyes , And dark the mountain's once ...
Page 16
... better kept than any other vows whatsoever ; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent , and certainly were much less refined than those of Ovid . The " Cours d'amour , parlemens d'amour , ou de courtésie et de gentilesse ...
... better kept than any other vows whatsoever ; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent , and certainly were much less refined than those of Ovid . The " Cours d'amour , parlemens d'amour , ou de courtésie et de gentilesse ...
Page 44
... better , then , to be alone , And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone , Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake , Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care ...
... better , then , to be alone , And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone , Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake , Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care ...
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
Adah Anah art thou aught beauty behold beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Cæs Cain call'd Calmar coursers dare dark dead death deep Doge doth dread dream e'er earth eyes fair fame father fear feel gaze Giaour glory grave Greece hand hath hear heard heart heaven honour hope hour Iden Juan king knew Lady leave less Lioni live look look'd lord Lucifer Michel Steno mortal Myrrha ne'er never night nought o'er once PANIA pass'd passion Rome round SARDANAPALUS satraps scarce scene seem'd shore Sieg Siegendorf sigh sire slave sleep smile soul spirit stars Stral strange Suwarrow sweet sword tears thee thine things thou art thought turn'd twas twill unto voice wave whate'er wild words young youth
Popular passages
Page 38 - 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; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering with white lips — "The foe! They come! they come ! " And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering
Page 134 - 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 38 - No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet But hark! - that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is - it is - the cannon's opening roar!
Page 555 - THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Page 555 - And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail : And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
Page 403 - Phoebus sprung. Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. 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 64 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll [ Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed...
Page 64 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar. I love not man the less, but Nature more...
Page 64 - The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war,— These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.
Page 403 - Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd 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.