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Books Bücher 1 - 10 von 180 in Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee. Lone...
" 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. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your... "
Spirit of the English Magazines - Seite 300
1818
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The Edinburgh Review: Or Critical Journal, Band 30

Sydney Smith, Lord Francis Jeffrey Jeffrey, Macvey Napier, William Empson, Sir George Cornewall Lewis, Henry Reeve, Arthur Ralph Douglas Elliot (Hon.), Harold Cox - 1818
...to answer, only as it may be spoken to them by the mournful breezes of the surrounding desolation. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans...must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and controul In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see...
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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Band 3

1818
...Augustus Schler 78. Oh Rome! my country! city of the loul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to 1 1 ice. Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are oar woe< and sutteranee ? Come and ice The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken...
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The Literary Gazette: A Weekly Journal of Literature, Science, and ..., Band 2

William Jerdan, William Ring Workman, Frederick Arnold, John Morley, Charles Wycliffe Goodwin - 1818
...preceding poems from the same source, and which this subject seems so "well [calculated to have excited. Oh Rome '. my Country ! City of the Soul ! The Orphans...control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What arc our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, nnd plod your way O'er steps...
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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Band 3

1818
...us a translation of an EJegy, by William Augustus Schle, 78. Oh 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 see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! Whose...
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The British review and London critical journal

1818
...will conclude our extracts ; which, though numerous, will not, we think, be thought too numerous. " Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans...must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and controul In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The...
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The works of ... lord Byron, Bände 7-8

George Gordon N. Byron (6th baron.) - 1819
...Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, Yet fare thee well — upon Socrate's ridge we part. LXXVIII. Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans...misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples , Ye! Whose...
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Hermes; oder kritisches Jahrbuch der Literatur

1819
...£efer¿, Ьоф mciüíid; oerfagt er e$ ftd), ben (S'mbrucf weitet ju treibea ali nfc¡i;tg war. ,,Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans...heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires I and controul In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woei and sufferance? Come and...
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The works, of ... lord Byron

George Gordon N. Byron (6th baron.) - 1819
...fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. LXXVI1F. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul f The orphans of the heart must turn to thee', Lone mother of dead empires ! and controul In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see...
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The Literary Panorama and National Register, Band 8

1819
...there is a mixture of pathos and sublimity worthy of the subject ; and we cannot give it higher praise. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart nuibtturn to ther, Lone mother of dead em pires! and coutruul lu their shut breasts their petty uiiseiy....
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The works of lord Byron, Band 1

George Gordon N. Byron (6th baron.) - 1820
...Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, Yet fare thee well— upon Soracte's ridge we part. LXXVIII. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lane mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut hreasts their petty misery. What are our woes...
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