Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - 756 Seiten |
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... sound learning , These are his claims to the respect of his cotemporaries - these are his titles to the admiration of posterity . That they may be fully un- derstood , and that the honours which his memory deserves may be ren- dered to ...
... sound learning , These are his claims to the respect of his cotemporaries - these are his titles to the admiration of posterity . That they may be fully un- derstood , and that the honours which his memory deserves may be ren- dered to ...
Seite 15
... sound , Far different incense now ascends to Heaven , Such victims wallow on the gory ground . There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse , Noisome and ghast , defiles thy sacred sod ; O'er mingling man , and horse commixed with ...
... sound , Far different incense now ascends to Heaven , Such victims wallow on the gory ground . There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse , Noisome and ghast , defiles thy sacred sod ; O'er mingling man , and horse commixed with ...
Seite 55
George Clinton. And , when that gale is fierce and high , A sound is heard in yonder hall : It rises hoarsely through the sky , And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall . Yes , when the eddying tempest sighs , It shakes the shield of Oscar ...
George Clinton. And , when that gale is fierce and high , A sound is heard in yonder hall : It rises hoarsely through the sky , And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall . Yes , when the eddying tempest sighs , It shakes the shield of Oscar ...
Seite 56
... sounds of pleasure cease . But where is Oscar ? sure ' tis late : Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? While thronging guests and ladies wait , Nor Oscar nor his brother came . At length young Allan join'd the bride . · Why 56 THE LIFE ...
... sounds of pleasure cease . But where is Oscar ? sure ' tis late : Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? While thronging guests and ladies wait , Nor Oscar nor his brother came . At length young Allan join'd the bride . · Why 56 THE LIFE ...
Seite 57
... sounds through Morning's misty light , But Oscar comes not o'er the plain . Three days , three sleepless nights , the Chiet For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; Then hope is lost in boundless grief , His locks in grey torn ringlets ...
... sounds through Morning's misty light , But Oscar comes not o'er the plain . Three days , three sleepless nights , the Chiet For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; Then hope is lost in boundless grief , His locks in grey torn ringlets ...
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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
Beliebte Passagen
Seite 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.
Seite 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...
Seite 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.
Seite 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.
Seite 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!
Seite 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.
Seite 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.
Seite 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...
Seite 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.
Seite 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?