Lord Byron's Works ... (Google eBook)

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Page 5 - KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime...
Page 183 - It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure...
Page 18 - Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of an idiot boy...
Page 61 - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way...
Page 17 - Who warns his friend to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double; Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose...
Page 5 - Gul in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie...
Page 43 - So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Page 143 - A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped By choice the perils he by chance escaped; But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet His mind would half exult and half regret...
Page 194 - Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath ; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb ; Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away...
Page 137 - At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, For yet they strove, although of no great use : There was no light in heaven but a few stars, The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head foremost sunk, in short.

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