Autres éditions - Tout afficher
Albanian Ali Pacha arms Athens beauty beheld beneath blood Boccaccio bosom breast breath brow Canto cheek Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE dare dark dead death deeds deep dread earth Egeria fair fame fate fear feel fix'd foes gaze Giaour glance gondoliers grave Greece Greek hand hate hath heard heart heaven hope hour Julius Cæsar land Lara Lara's less light lips live lonely look mountains ne'er never night o'er once Pacha Parisina pass'd perchance Petrarch pride Romaic Roman round scarce scene seem'd seen shine shore sigh slave smile song soul Stanza steed stern tale tears thee thine things thou thought tomb turn'd Venice voice walls waves Whate'er wild wind words youth Zuleika δὲν εἶναι εἰς ἐν καὶ μὲ νὰ τὰ τὴν τὸ τὸν τοῦ τοὺς τῶν
Page 174 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
Page 137 - In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
Page 113 - Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
Page 155 - Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady...
Page 472 - With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are : — even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.
Page 101 - 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...
Page 186 - And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight : and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
Page 46 - midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!