Cato to lord Byron on the immorality of his writings

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W. Wetton, 1824 - 128 pages
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Page 70 - 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...
Page 65 - O unexpected stroke, worse than of death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave Thee, native soil ? these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods ? where I had hoped to spend, Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both...
Page 54 - Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility : Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
Page 56 - He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress...
Page 77 - There is a mood, (I sing not to the vacant and the young) There is a kindly mood of melancholy, That wings the soul, and points her to the skies...
Page 83 - And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou!
Page 84 - 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...
Page 30 - This, therefore, is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him may here be cured of his delirious ecstasies by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world and a confessor predict the progress of the passions.
Page 70 - 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 ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Page 81 - What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ? How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind ! To the Mjft entrance of thy rosy cave How dost thou lure the fortunate and great! Dreadful attraction ! while behind thee gapes Th...

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