The Works of Lord Byron: Childe Harold's pilgrimageJohn Murray, 1821 |
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Сторінка 11
... - How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! And is this all the world has gain'd by thee , Thou first and last of fields ! king - making Victory ? XVIII . And Harold stands upon this place of skulls CANTO III . 11 PILGRIMAGE .
... - How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! And is this all the world has gain'd by thee , Thou first and last of fields ! king - making Victory ? XVIII . And Harold stands upon this place of skulls CANTO III . 11 PILGRIMAGE .
Сторінка 22
... hath brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy , Which , be it wisdom , coldness , or deep pride , Is gall and wormwood to an enemy . When the whole host of hatred stood hard by , To watch and mock thee shrinking ...
... hath brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy , Which , be it wisdom , coldness , or deep pride , Is gall and wormwood to an enemy . When the whole host of hatred stood hard by , To watch and mock thee shrinking ...
Сторінка 23
... hath it proved to thee , and all such lot who choose . XLI . If , like a tower upon a headlong rock , Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone , Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; But men's thoughts were the steps ...
... hath it proved to thee , and all such lot who choose . XLI . If , like a tower upon a headlong rock , Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone , Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; But men's thoughts were the steps ...
Сторінка 24
... hath been thy bane ; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being , but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; And , but once kindled , quenchless evermore , Preys upon high adventure , nor ...
... hath been thy bane ; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being , but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; And , but once kindled , quenchless evermore , Preys upon high adventure , nor ...
Сторінка 29
... Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt , For there was soft remembrance , and sweet trust In one fond breast , to which his own would melt , And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt . LIV . And he had learn'd to love ...
... Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt , For there was soft remembrance , and sweet trust In one fond breast , to which his own would melt , And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt . LIV . And he had learn'd to love ...
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The Works of Lord Byron: Childe Harold's pilgrimage George Gordon Byron Baron Byron Повний перегляд - 1821 |
Загальні терміни та фрази
amidst amongst ancient Ariosto beauty beneath blood Boccaccio breast breath brow Cæsar called Canto Certaldo Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chioza church Cicero Classical Tour clouds Comitium dead death Decameron deep divine Doge dust earth edit Egeria Emperor empire eyes fall fame feeling Ficus Ruminalis Flaminius Florence Florentine foes gaze Genoese glory gondoliers Harold hath heart heaven hills Hist honour hyæna immortal inscription Italian Italy Julius Cæsar lake light live Livy memory mind mortal mountains Muses Nardini nymph o'er Padua pass passion Petrarch poet quæ Roman Rome round ruin scene seems seen shore soul spirit spot stand Stanza star statue Storia delle arti Suetonius Tasso tears temple temple of Romulus thee thine things thou thought throne tomb tree triumphs valley Venetians Venice voice walls waves wind Winkelmann woes wolf words writer καὶ
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Сторінка 179 - And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight : and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
Сторінка 87 - 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...
Сторінка 14 - 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...
Сторінка 15 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Сторінка 17 - The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent...
Сторінка 31 - The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew'da scene, •which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.
Сторінка 157 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony ; And his droop'd head sinks gradually low ; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder shower ; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
Сторінка 157 - Were with his heart, and that was far away; He reck'd 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, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday— All this rush'd with his blood— Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
Сторінка 41 - 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...
Сторінка 62 - I have not loved the world, nor the world me, But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem O'er others...