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" 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. "
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Сторінка 223
1818
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Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt

George Gordon N. Byron (6th baron.) - 1837
...fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. Lx xvm. 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 hreasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferanee ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl,...
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The spirit of the woods, by the author of 'The moral of flowers'.

Rebecca Hey - 1837
...touching effect, what mournful grace, does it throw over the architectural remains of ancient Rome ! • " come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples." " Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd On what were...
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The Quarterly Review, Том 131

1871
...Alps : — ' Oil Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thce, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. \\hat are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps...
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The Complete Works of Lord Byron: Reprinted from the Last London Edition ...

George Gordon Byron Baron Byron - 1841 - 935 стор.
...Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. LXXVUI. Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! sheen of beauty's cheek, Nor feel the heart can never...rises o'er her steep, nor climb? Harold, once more — Л world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,...
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The Young Ladies' Class Book: A Selection of Lessons for Reading, in Prose ...

Ebenezer Bailey - 1841 - 408 стор.
...every comfort which I enjoy. LESSON CXLIV. Rome. — BYRON. O ROME ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother...misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and we The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples ; ye, Whose...
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Letters from an Artist, Sojourning on the Continent

Joshua Horner - 1841 - 142 стор.
...can refrain from tears P Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must tarn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control...and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owlf and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye Whose agonies are evils of a day,—...
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Synonymisches Handwörterbuch der englischen Sprache für die Deutschen

H. M. Melford - 1841 - 448 стор.
...Glaucns were torn from his clasp. (Bulwer's Last days of Pompeii.) Oh Rome! my country! city of the souli The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control, In their shut breast their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl,...
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The works of lord Byron, with notes by T. Moore [and others].

George Gordon N. Byron (6th baron.) - 1842
...Yet fare thee well— upon Soracte's ridge we part LXXVin. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! vanish. There are thoughts thou canst not banish ;...alone ; Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Thou art suflerance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones...
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Rambling Recollections of a Soldier of Fortune

William Hamilton Maxwell, Hablot Knight Browne - 1842 - 296 стор.
...pride and pomp of human greatness, the fall will only be the more marked and the more miserable. " Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your...and temples, ye ! Whose agonies are evils of a day. M The Goth, the Christian, Tune, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride...
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An Essay on Elocution: With Elucidatory Passages from Various Authors

John Hanbury Dwyer - 1843
...still loveliest, till— 'tis gone and all is gray. ROME. OH Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother...and temples, Ye ! Whose agonies are evils of a day — world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless...
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