The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 1


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Page 279 - But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect!
Page ix - Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, a Minor.
Page 456 - 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 171 - AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war ; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Page 173 - Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! TO ROMANCE.
Page 309 - And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name. Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
Page 172 - I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
Page 279 - Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust ! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
Page 300 - A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit, Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling— pass your proper jest, And stand a critic hated yet caressed.
Page 300 - twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling; pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment? No! as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff, Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore; Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Boeotian head.

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