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adien Albania arms beauty beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Calmar Carmarthen Chaworth cheek Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dare dark dead dear death deeds Doge doom dread dream earth fair falchion fame fate father fear feel fond gaze genins gentle Giaour glory glow grave Greece hand hath heart heaven honour hope hour knew lady Lady Byron Lara Lara's Latian live look Lord Byron Lord Carlisle lordship lyre mind mortal mountain ne'er never Newstead Newstead Abbey night noble o'er once Orla Oscar Pacha Parisina passed passion person poem poet poetry pride reply rest roll scarce scene seemed shore sigh Sir John Byron sire smile song soul spirit stanzas sword tears thee thine thing thou thought twas twill Venice voice wave weep wild words wound young youth Zuleika
Strona 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?
Strona 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.
Strona 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...
Strona 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...
Strona 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?
Strona 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.
Strona 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!
Strona 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.