Childe Harold's pilgrimage, with a memoir by W. Spalding |
From inside the book
Արդյունքներ 35–ի 1-ից 5-ը:
Էջ 7
... young man of no ordinary promise . While he was still at the university , he circulated privately copies of a thin volume of verses , which was prudently reserved for friendly readers , and soon suppressed . But before the end of 1807 ...
... young man of no ordinary promise . While he was still at the university , he circulated privately copies of a thin volume of verses , which was prudently reserved for friendly readers , and soon suppressed . But before the end of 1807 ...
Էջ 8
... all things through the medium of a cynical and despondent philosophy , had been avowedly presented as an idealized portrait of the young poct himself , bitterly convinced , by a premature experience , 8 Memoir of Lord Byron .
... all things through the medium of a cynical and despondent philosophy , had been avowedly presented as an idealized portrait of the young poct himself , bitterly convinced , by a premature experience , 8 Memoir of Lord Byron .
Էջ 17
... And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth , in thee , thus hourly brightening , Beholds the rainbow of her future years , Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears . Young Peri of the West ! - ' tis well TO IANTHE. ...
... And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth , in thee , thus hourly brightening , Beholds the rainbow of her future years , Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears . Young Peri of the West ! - ' tis well TO IANTHE. ...
Էջ 18
... young my strain I would commend , But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend . Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page , Ianthe's here enshrined Shall thus be ...
... young my strain I would commend , But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend . Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page , Ianthe's here enshrined Shall thus be ...
Էջ 35
... young - eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : Girt with the silent crimes of capitals , Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls . XLVII . Not so the rustic - with his trembling mate He lurks , nor casts his heavy ...
... young - eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : Girt with the silent crimes of capitals , Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls . XLVII . Not so the rustic - with his trembling mate He lurks , nor casts his heavy ...
Common terms and phrases
Albania amidst aught bards beauty behold beneath bleed blood bosom breast breath Brentford brow Byron Cadiz canto charm Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chivalry clime dare dark dear deeds deem deem'd deep desolate didst dome dost doth dread dream dust dwell earth fair fair Mount fame fate feel fix'd foes gainst Gaul gaze Giaour glorious Glory glow Greece hand hath heart Heaven hope hour hyæna Idlesse immortal Italy land Latian light lone lord Lord Byron maids mighty mind mortal mountains Nature's ne'er night o'er o'er thy once pass'd passion perchance Pindus poison'd proud Rhine rise rock Rome round scarce scatter'd scene shore shrine sigh skies smile soft song sooth sought soul Spain spirit star steed stern stream sweet tear thee thine things thou thought throne tomb tyrants Venice walls waves ween wild wind woes young youth
Սիրված հատվածներ
Էջ 166 - The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And Monarchs tremble in their Capitals, The oak Leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of Lord of thee, and Arbiter of War— These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Էջ 99 - And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee!
Էջ 93 - I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture...
Էջ 145 - 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...
Էջ 159 - 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.
Էջ 78 - But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is— it is— the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear...
Էջ 97 - At intervals some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Էջ 134 - The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set...
Էջ 100 - Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? XCVII.
Էջ 155 - He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday — All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! CXLII.