Childe Harold's pilgrimage

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printed at the Armenian Monastery of S. Lazarus, 1860 - 146 Seiten
 

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Seite 47 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy...
Seite 28 - And this is in the night. — Most glorious night ! Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Seite 42 - Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruin'd battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
Seite 47 - And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth ; there let him lay.
Seite 28 - The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
Seite 21 - As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.
Seite 43 - He heard it, but he heeded not ; his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday.
Seite 13 - To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.
Seite 19 - And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now: Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth...
Seite 28 - All heaven and earth are still— though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still: From the high host Of stars, to the...

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