The Poetical Works of Lord Byron, Том 5

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Страница 7 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Страница 20 - From my youth upwards My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine ; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me Was there but one who but of her anon.
Страница 36 - Thou chief star ! Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth Endurable, and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance Of love and wonder was for thee, then take My latest look...
Страница 39 - Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesars...
Страница 18 - It is not noon— the Sunbow's rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven, And roll the sheeted silver's waving column O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, And fling its lines of foaming light along, And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, As told in the Apocalypse.
Страница 17 - Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps, Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf, And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; This do I see — and then I look within^ — It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! C.
Страница 11 - And a magic voice and verse Hath baptized thee with a curse ; And a spirit of the air Hath begirt thee with a snare ; In the wind there is a voice Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; And to thee shall Night deny All the quiet of her sky ; And the day shall have a sun, Which shall make thee wish it done.
Страница 36 - Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was reveal'd! 10 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd Themselves in orisons! Thou material God! And representative of the Unknown — Who chose thee for his shadow!
Страница 63 - Romanorum," the author of the Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who he may...
Страница 39 - twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old...

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