The Complete Works of Lord Byron: Including His Suppressed Poems, and Others Never Before Published, Band 4

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Seite 110 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
Seite 111 - 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?
Seite 111 - 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? and silent all? Ah! no;— the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise,— we come, we come!
Seite 349 - Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne...
Seite 93 - Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast — but place to die : Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
Seite 293 - A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping ' ' In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head — and there is London town ! LXXXIII.
Seite 503 - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust, disused, and shine no more, My Mary!
Seite 113 - Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!
Seite 67 - Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth- but in vain. The boy expired- the father held the clay, And...
Seite 86 - A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, And beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move...

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