Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,: A Romaunt: and Other Poems

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Thomas Davison, 1814 - 304 頁

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第 17 頁 - And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea : But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me ? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands ; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands.
第 113 頁 - tis haunted, holy ground, No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
第 112 頁 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his...
第 245 頁 - My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. Yet was I calm : I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look ; But now to tremble were a crime — We met, — and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there : One only feeling couldst thou trace ; The sullen calmness of despair. Away ! away ! my early dream Remembrance never must awake : Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? My foolish heart be still, or break.
第 107 頁 - Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
第 232 頁 - Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine. The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pass'd away,...
第 129 頁 - Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice ; and thrice my peace was slain ; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
第 55 頁 - It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see : To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore : That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before.
第 118 頁 - What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
第 68 頁 - Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The Dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul...

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