The Works of Lord Byron: Comprising the Suppressed Poems, Volumes 4 à 5A. and W. Galignani, 1826 |
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arms band bear beauty beneath better blood break breast breath bright broke brow cheek chief close cold dare dark dead death deeds deep dread dream earth face fair fall fate fear feel fell felt fire foes friends gave gaze glance grave half hand hate hath head hear heard heart heaven hope hour knew land Lara Lara's late least leave less light lips living lonely look meet mind ne'er never night Note o'er once Page pass pass'd past pride raised rest rose round scarce seem'd seems seen shore side silent slave sleep smile soul sound spirit step stern stood tale tears tell thee thine thing thou thought till turn voice wall waters wave wild wound young youth
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Page 155 - 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.
Page 170 - It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count — I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote...
Page 167 - For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone, — Lone — as the corse within its shroud, Lone — as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay.
Page 9 - The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold obstruction's apathy...
Page 164 - I found him not. 7 only stirred in this black spot; / only lived — / only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place.
Page 164 - And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot ! A little talk of better days, A little hope my own...
Page 9 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers...
Page 170 - These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage — and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home...
Page 168 - Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me : No child — no sire — no kin had I, No partner in my misery; I...
Page 161 - And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt it shake unshock'd, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.