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Page 49 - And, but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart...
Page 232 - I know you, Clara Vere de Vere ; You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.
Page 50 - 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 45 - A convent, even a hermit's cell, Would break the silence of this dell : It is not quiet, is not ease ; But something deeper far than these : The separation that is here Is of the grave ; and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead : And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race ! Lies buried in this lonely place.
Page 47 - Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita.
Page 47 - Tant' e amara che poco e piu morte; ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai, diro de l'altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte. [Midway in the journey of our life I found myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.
Page 49 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead, Ere the first day of death is fled — The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress — (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers...
Page 235 - Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills^ The generations are prepared ; the pangs, The internal pangs are ready ; the dread strife Of poor humanity's afflicted will Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.
Page 238 - Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho...
Page 57 - The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.