The Works of Lord Byron: Childe Harold's pilgrimage

John Murray, 1821
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Página 112 - Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.
Página 9 - little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell; He felt the fulness of satiety: Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. V. For he
Página 104 - forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmanu'd.
Página 20 - 1< XVII. But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, Disconsolate will wander up and down, 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ce; For hut and palace show like filthily: The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; Ne personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Página 87 - XLVIII. Monastic Zitza! ( 20) from thy shady brow, Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground! Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, And bluest skies that harmonize the whole: Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound Tells
Página 39 - daughters—deign to know, There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! (13) whom I now survey, Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! What
Página vii - L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai
Página 19 - XIV. On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay; And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, His fabled golden tribute bent to
Página 38 - form'd for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate
Página 57 - bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees; It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Xor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n

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