W. White's catalogue (Google eBook)

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Page 187 - Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore: Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages...
Page 115 - Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold; Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific and all his men...
Page 115 - Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations; all were his! He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set, where were they?
Page 114 - 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. The...
Page 117 - Trust not for freedom to the Franks They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells : But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad.
Page 116 - 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? You have the letters Cadmus gave Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Page 117 - Place me on Sunium's marbled steep Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! LXXXVII.
Page 115 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
Page 116 - Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 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!
Page 116 - Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call How answers each bold Bacchanal!

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