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Adeline beautiful better blood call'd Canto cause death deep doubt earth eyes face fact fair fame feelings give grace grew grow half hand hath head heard heart heaven hero hope hour human Italy Juan kind knew lady land late least leave less light lives look look'd Lord matter mean mind moral mother Muse nature ne'er never night o'er once pass passion Perhaps poor present pretty rest rhyme round scarce seem'd seen short sometimes sort soul spirit Stanza stood strange sure sweet tears tell there's things thou thought thousand true truth turn turn'd Twas whole wind wish women wonder young youth
Seite 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. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade...
Seite 9 - I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one: Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan — We all have seen him, in the Pantomime Sent to the devil, somewhat ere his time.
Seite 47 - Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange: Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.
Seite 116 - 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?
Seite 283 - A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping ' ' In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head — and there is London town ! LXXXIII.
Seite 116 - 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 ! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah ! no : the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, 'Let one living head, But one arise, — we come, we come ! ' 'Tis but the living who are dumb.
Seite 122 - Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.
Seite 52 - tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper ; Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour, For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their " midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
Seite 52 - What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's king Cheops erected the first pyramid, And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other, rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
Seite 137 - Thus lived- thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful- such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.