The poetical works of lord Byron, ed. with a critical mem. by W. M. RossettiWard Lock, 1880 |
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Page 9
... Twas thine own genius gave the final blow , And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low . So the struck eagle , stretch'd upon the plain , No more through rolling clouds to soar again , View'd his own feather on the fatal dart ...
... Twas thine own genius gave the final blow , And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low . So the struck eagle , stretch'd upon the plain , No more through rolling clouds to soar again , View'd his own feather on the fatal dart ...
Page 13
... twas Minerva's self ; but , ah , how changed Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! Not such as erst , by her divine command , Her form appear'd from Phidias ' plastic hand : Gone were the terrors of her awful brow , Her idle ...
... twas Minerva's self ; but , ah , how changed Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! Not such as erst , by her divine command , Her form appear'd from Phidias ' plastic hand : Gone were the terrors of her awful brow , Her idle ...
Page 29
... twas said , still sigh'd to all he saw , Withstand , unmoved , the lustre of her gaze , Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe , Their hope , their doom , their punishment , their law ; All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims ...
... twas said , still sigh'd to all he saw , Withstand , unmoved , the lustre of her gaze , Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe , Their hope , their doom , their punishment , their law ; All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims ...
Page 45
... twas a foolish quest , The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest . LXXVII . Here the self - torturing sophist , wild Rous- seau , The apostle of affliction , he who threw Enchantment over passion , and from woe Wrung ...
... twas a foolish quest , The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest . LXXVII . Here the self - torturing sophist , wild Rous- seau , The apostle of affliction , he who threw Enchantment over passion , and from woe Wrung ...
Page 64
... twas a pleasing fear , For I was as it were a child of thee , And trusted to thy billows far and near , And laid my hand upon thy mane - as I do here . CLXXXV . My task is done - iny song hath ceased - my theme Has died into an echo ...
... twas a pleasing fear , For I was as it were a child of thee , And trusted to thy billows far and near , And laid my hand upon thy mane - as I do here . CLXXXV . My task is done - iny song hath ceased - my theme Has died into an echo ...
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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.