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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt : and Other Poems
George Gordon Byron Baron Byron
Obegränsad förhandsgranskning - 1812
ashes bear beauty beheld beneath blood born breast breath bright brow charm cities claim clear clouds darkness dead death decay deem deep desolate divine doth dust dwell earth empires Eternity face fair fall fame feeling foes gaze glory glow grave grow hand hate hath heart heaven hills hope hour hues human immortal Italy lake land leaves less light live look lord mighty mind mortal mother mountains Nature never night o'er O’er ocean once pass Passion plain proud rays reared rise rocks roll Roman Rome round ruin scene seems seen shadow shine shore Sighs sought soul spirit spring stand stars stream strength suffer sweet tears thee thine things thou thought throne tomb tree turn vain Venice voice walls waters waves wild wind woes wrong young youth
Sida 205 - There is the moral of all human tales ; « 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Sida 212 - tis not in The harmony of things, — this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see, And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.
Sida 149 - Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
Sida 142 - But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay...
Sida 222 - Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined .Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
Sida 133 - The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round : The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here ; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! LVI. By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; Beneath...
Sida 236 - Farewell ! a word that must be , and hath been — A sound which makes us linger ; — -yet — farewell ! Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his , if on ye swell A single recollection , not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon , and scallop-shell; Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were- — with you , the moral of his strain ! , NOTES TO GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
Sida 145 - Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm, — When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?
Sida 195 - 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 her wither'd hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; The Scipios...