The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 5

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Page 564 - And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
Page 168 - Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; Listen for dear honour's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen, and save. Listen, and appear to us, In name of great Oceanus; By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, And Tethys...
Page 268 - The morning precious: beauty was awake! Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile: so that ye taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied.
Page 531 - Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see What conflux issuing forth, or entering in, Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces Hasting, or on return, in robes of state ; Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power, Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings ; Or embassies from regions far remote, In various habits, on the Appian road...
Page 318 - I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
Page 564 - Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a dullness to my trembling heart.
Page 162 - In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays; Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, That life protracted is protracted woe. Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy: In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, The fruit autumnal, and the vernal...
Page 466 - FAME ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
Page 111 - OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. OH ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade. Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid : Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
Page 552 - Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

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