The Works of George Byron: With His Letters and Journals, and His Life, Volume 10 (Google eBook)

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1835
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Page vii - They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between; But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been.
Page 241 - As then to me he seem'd to fly, And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled and would fain I had not left my recent chain ; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load ; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save, And yet my glance, too much opprest, Had almost need of such a rest.
Page 75 - And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.
Page 313 - Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
Page 315 - So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.
Page 236 - The last the sole the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place.
Page 127 - There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, 50 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Page 228 - PRISONER OF CHILLON. MY hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd, and barr'd forbidden fare...
Page 232 - A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave, Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay; We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knocked.
Page 186 - FARE thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well : Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again : Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'T was not well to spurn it so.

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