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Abbot Adah aught Bards beauty blood breast breath brow Byron Cain Canto Childe Harold clime Column of Phocas Dante Dante's dead dear death deep didst Doge Doge of Venice Don Juan dost doth dust earth English eternal evil eyes fame father feel Florence forget friends Gambas gentle glory gondolas grave Guiccioli hast hath heart heaven Hobhouse hour immortal Italian Italy JOHN MURRAY JOHN MURRAY Venice lady least Leigh Hunt letter live look Lord Lucifer Manfred marble Marino Faliero mind Morgante Maggiore mortal mountains nations ne'er never night o'er ocean once palace passions Pisa poem poesy poet poetry publish Ravenna Romagna Roman Rome Samian wine scene Shelley shine shore soul spirit stanza stars sweet Tasso thee thine things THOMAS MOORE thou art thought thousand tomb tree tyrants walls waters wave woes word
Sida 101 - 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. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within...
Sida 120 - Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime, Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime — The image of eternity — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Sida 109 - There is a stern round tower of other days, Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — What was this tower of strength ? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave.
Sida 120 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, •To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll!
Sida 72 - Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
Sida 40 - Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesars...
Sida 281 - 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 ? and silent all ? Ah, no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one, arise — we come, we come!
Sida 120 - Ye Elements, in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted, can ye not Accord me such a being ? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot, Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot...
Sida 63 - 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, 18 The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy...
Sida 120 - But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone, with nothing like to thee — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.