Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord Byron
J. Robins and Company, 1825 - 756 pages
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Ali Pacha appeared arms beauty beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Cain called Calmar canto Cephalonia character cheek Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dark dead death Doge Don Juan dread dream earth English fair fame fate father fear feel friends gaze genius Giaour glory grave Greece Greek hand hath heart heaven honour hope hour knew lady Lady Byron Lara less live look Lord Byron Lord Carlisle lordship Mavrocordatos mind Missolonghi Morea ne'er never Newstead Abbey night noble o'er occasion once pain Parisina passed passion Patras perhaps person poem poet poetry reply Samian wine Sard Sardanapalus scarce scene seemed shore Siegendorf sigh sleep smile song sorrow soul speak spirit stanzas Suliotes sword tears thee thine things thou thought turned twas Venice voice wave wild words young youth
Page 560 - You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one?
Page 751 - Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due ; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Page 400 - Oh 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.
Page 330 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms - the day Battle's magnificently stern array...
Page 394 - I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand ; I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles...
Page 559 - Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 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?
Page 699 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone ! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile.
Page 329 - 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 But hark!
Page 346 - Twas still some solace in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each, With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold.
Page 350 - ... mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink Had brought me back to feel and think.