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Baba beautiful better blood CANTO cause dead death deep Don Juan doubt earth eyes face fact fair father's feelings gazed give gold grew grow Haidee half hand head heard heart Heaven hope hour human Juan Juan's Julia kind knew lady land late least leave less light lips lived look look'd maid mean mind moral mother ne'er never night Note o'er ocean once pair passion past perhaps poets present rest round scarce seem'd seen shore short sleep smile sometimes song sort soul stanza stood strange sure sweet tears tell There's things thou thought true turn turn'd Twas waves wife wind wine wish young youth
Page 139 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Page 51 - 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.
Page 141 - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.
Page 142 - But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Page 152 - And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep Our...
Page 146 - Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way; My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great whole Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Page 139 - 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!
Page 3 - 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...
Page 146 - tis the hour of prayer ! Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — What though 'tis but a pictured image strike, That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like.