The Works of Lord Byron: Childe Harold's pilgrimageJohn Murray, 1821 |
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Page 47
... spring . This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction ; once I loved Torn ocean's roar , but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved , That I with stern delights should e'er have been so ...
... spring . This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction ; once I loved Torn ocean's roar , but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved , That I with stern delights should e'er have been so ...
Page 56
... springs , And fall of lofty fountains , and the bend Of stirring branches , and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty , here extend , Mingling , and made by Love , unto one mighty end . CIII . He who hath loved not , here ...
... springs , And fall of lofty fountains , and the bend Of stirring branches , and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty , here extend , Mingling , and made by Love , unto one mighty end . CIII . He who hath loved not , here ...
Page 72
... springs with Mount Ida above , and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you ; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library - this I know . Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Method- ism to be ...
... springs with Mount Ida above , and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you ; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library - this I know . Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Method- ism to be ...
Page 92
... spring from such a seed . XI . The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; And , annual marriage now no more renew'd , The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored , Neglected garment of her widowhood ! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood ...
... spring from such a seed . XI . The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; And , annual marriage now no more renew'd , The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored , Neglected garment of her widowhood ! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood ...
Page 97
... springs the trunk , and mocks The howling tempest , till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak gray , granite , into life it came , And grew a giant tree ; —the mind may grow the same . XXI ...
... springs the trunk , and mocks The howling tempest , till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak gray , granite , into life it came , And grew a giant tree ; —the mind may grow the same . XXI ...
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Common terms and phrases
amidst amongst ancient Ariosto beauty beneath blood Boccaccio breast breath brow Cæsar called Canto Certaldo Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chioza church Cicero Classical Tour clouds Comitium dead death Decameron deep divine Doge dust earth edit Egeria Emperor empire eyes fall fame feeling Ficus Ruminalis Flaminius Florence Florentine foes gaze Genoese glory gondoliers Harold hath heart heaven hills Hist honour hyæna immortal inscription Italian Italy Julius Cæsar lake light live Livy memory mind mortal mountains Muses Nardini nymph o'er Padua pass passion Petrarch poet quæ Roman Rome round ruin scene seems seen shore soul spirit spot stand Stanza star statue Storia delle arti Suetonius Tasso tears temple temple of Romulus thee thine things thou thought throne tomb tree triumphs valley Venetians Venice voice walls waves wind Winkelmann woes wolf words writer καὶ
Popular passages
Page 179 - And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight : and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — '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.
Page 87 - I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand ; I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles...
Page 14 - twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet...
Page 15 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Page 17 - The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent...
Page 31 - The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew'da scene, •which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.
Page 157 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony ; And his droop'd head sinks gradually low ; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder shower ; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
Page 157 - Were with his heart, and that was far away; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother— he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday— All this rush'd with his blood— Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
Page 41 - I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture...
Page 62 - I have not loved the world, nor the world me, But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem O'er others...