The Works of the Right Honourable Lord Byron: The corsair. Lara


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Page 9 - O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home! These are our realms, no limits to their sway — Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. Ours the wild life in tumult still to range From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Page 83 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Page 145 - A high demeanour, and a glance that took Their thoughts from others by a single look; And that sarcastic levity of tongue, The stinging of a heart the world hath stung...
Page 181 - Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. Man has another day to swell the past, And lead him near to little, but his last ; But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, And cry, exulting inly,
Page 160 - A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped By choice the perils he by chance escaped; But 'scaped in vain, for in...
Page 10 - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
Page 22 - There breathe but few whose aspect might defy The full encounter of his searching eye; He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek At once the observer's purpose to espy, And on himself roll back his scrutiny, Lest he to Conrad rather should betray Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day.
Page 14 - She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Page 30 - There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Though vain its ray as it had never been.
Page 11 - Let him who crawls enamoured of decay Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.

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