Memoirs of the life and writings of lord Byron
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appear arms bard bear beauty beneath better blood breast breath called chief claim dare dark dear death deeds dreams earth fair fall fame fate fear feel fire foes gave gaze give given hand hath head hear heard heart hero honour hope hour lady land late least leave less light live look Lord Byron lost mark means mind nature ne'er never night noble notes o'er once passed perhaps persons poem present published raise rest Review rise roll scarce scene seek seems seen shore sigh sleep smile song sons soon soul sound spirit strain tears tell thee thine thing thou thought turn verse voice wave wild wing wish write young youth
Page 197 - 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...
Page 8 - But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone...
Page 8 - Near this spot Are deposited the Remains Of one Who Possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, And all the Virtues of Man Without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over Human Ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of "Boatswain," a Dog Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey Nov. 18, 1808.
Page 3 - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days : But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise...
Page 125 - Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of an idiot boy...
Page 92 - I strode through the pine-cover'd glade : I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. " Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night- rolling breath of the gale ?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Page 176 - Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait— Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?
Page 145 - And wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Page 115 - I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers...
Page 251 - Where lives his grief, or perished his despair ! Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; And fair the monument they gave his bride : For him they raise not the recording stone — His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; He left a Corsair's name to other times, Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.