The Giaour, and the Bride of Abydos. [With a Memoir of the Author.]

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S. Lingham, Chichester Place, Gray's-Inn-Road, 1844 - English poetry - 154 pages

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Page 3 - 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 12 - Clime of the unforgotten brave ! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, That this is all remains of thee...
Page 3 - Wax faint o'er the gardens of 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 colour though varied, in beauty may vie...
Page 47 - But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, Be thon the rainbow to the storms of life ! The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray...
Page 11 - And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him...
Page 27 - Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain. — So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;* So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death!
Page 10 - 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 ; (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers...
Page 19 - XII He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt; He raised the maid from where she knelt ; His trance was gone — his keen eye shone With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 330 With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt.
Page 19 - Twas but a moment that he stood, Then sped as if by death pursued; But in that instant o'er his soul Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, And gather in that drop of time A life of pain, an age of crime.
Page 83 - Orieutalej" but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations ; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley " will not bear a comparison with the

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