Autres éditions - Tout afficher
Albania Ali Pacha arms beauty beneath blood bosom breast breath brow called Calmar canto character charms cheek Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dare dark dead death deeds deem deep Doge doom dread dream earth fair fame father fear feel gaze gentle Giaour gondolier grave Greece hand hath heart heaven honour hope hour Juan knew lady Lady Byron Lady Morgan Lara Lara's less lips live look Lord Byron Lord Carlisle lordship Manfred mind mortal mountains ne'er never Newstead Abbey night noble o'er once Pacha pain Parisina passed passion perhaps person poem poet poetry pride reply Samian wine Sardanapalus scarce scene seemed shore Siegendorf sigh smile song sorrow soul spirit stanzas tale tears thee thine things thought twas Venice voice wave weep wild words young youth Zuleika
Page 558 - You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one?
Page 400 - 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.
Page 328 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms - the day Battle's magnificently stern array...
Page 392 - 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 557 - Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 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?
Page 697 - 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.
Page 327 - 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 But hark!
Page 344 - Twas still some solace in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each, With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold.