The works of lord Byron, Том 2

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Сторінка 223 - These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame : For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won.
Сторінка 7 - In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 2 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers...
Сторінка 7 - Gul in her bloom? Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie...
Сторінка 222 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Сторінка 74 - How gloriously her gallant course she goes! Her white wings flying — never from her foes — She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Сторінка 163 - All was so still, so soft in earth and air, You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; Secure that nought of evil could delight To walk in such a scene, on such a night...
Сторінка 222 - And but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart...
Сторінка 71 - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
Сторінка 224 - Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age ! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land ! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die...
Сторінка 221 - 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, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers...

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