Childe Harold's pilgrimage, with a memoir by W. Spalding |
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Page 22
... shores , and pass Earth's central line . XII . The sails were fill'd , and fair the light winds blew , As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view , And soon were lost in circumambient foam ...
... shores , and pass Earth's central line . XII . The sails were fill'd , and fair the light winds blew , As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view , And soon were lost in circumambient foam ...
Page 23
... shores receded from his sight , Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night . " 66 I. ' Adieu , adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night - winds sigh , the breakers roar , And shrieks the wild sea - mew ...
... shores receded from his sight , Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night . " 66 I. ' Adieu , adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night - winds sigh , the breakers roar , And shrieks the wild sea - mew ...
Page 25
... 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 pay ; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap , And steer ' twixt fertile ...
... 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 pay ; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap , And steer ' twixt fertile ...
Page 32
... shore ? Red gleam'd the cross , and waned the crescent pale , While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons ' wail . XXXVI . Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? Ah ! such , alas , the hero's amplest fate ! When granite ...
... shore ? Red gleam'd the cross , and waned the crescent pale , While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons ' wail . XXXVI . Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? Ah ! such , alas , the hero's amplest fate ! When granite ...
Page 41
... shore ? Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? Crashing the lance , he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed , o'erthrown beneath his horn ; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for ...
... shore ? Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? Crashing the lance , he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed , o'erthrown beneath his horn ; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for ...
Common terms and phrases
Albania amidst aught bards beauty behold beneath bleed blood bosom breast breath Brentford brow Byron Cadiz canto charm Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chivalry clime dare dark dear deeds deem deem'd deep desolate didst dome dost doth dread dream dust dwell earth fair fair Mount fame fate feel fix'd foes gainst Gaul gaze Giaour glorious Glory glow Greece hand hath heart Heaven hope hour hyæna Idlesse immortal Italy land Latian light lone lord Lord Byron maids mighty mind mortal mountains Nature's ne'er night o'er o'er thy once pass'd passion perchance Pindus poison'd proud Rhine rise rock Rome round scarce scatter'd scene shore shrine sigh skies smile soft song sooth sought soul Spain spirit star steed stern stream sweet tear thee thine things thou thought throne tomb tyrants Venice walls waves ween wild wind woes young youth
Popular passages
Page 166 - The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And Monarchs tremble in their Capitals, The oak Leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of Lord of thee, and Arbiter of War— These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Page 99 - And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee!
Page 93 - 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...
Page 145 - There is the moral of all human tales ; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Page 159 - Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? It is not lessen'd; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
Page 78 - But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is— it is— the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear...
Page 97 - At intervals some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Page 134 - The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set...
Page 100 - Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? XCVII.
Page 155 - He recked 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, Butchered to make a Roman holiday — All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! CXLII.