Selections from the Poetry of Lord ByronH. Holt, 1900 - 412 pages |
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Page vi
... souls that not only at times his sentiments were evidently put on and worn for effect , but also not infrequently he himself did not know his own real sentiments , but was the dupe of his own imaginings . Nevertheless it is important to ...
... souls that not only at times his sentiments were evidently put on and worn for effect , but also not infrequently he himself did not know his own real sentiments , but was the dupe of his own imaginings . Nevertheless it is important to ...
Page vii
... soul Had felt him like the thunder's roll . With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law . " All the passions , at one time or another , were at strife within his soul . And yet , early as was the maturity of his ...
... soul Had felt him like the thunder's roll . With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law . " All the passions , at one time or another , were at strife within his soul . And yet , early as was the maturity of his ...
Page ix
... soul in revolt . Then there is Byron's suspiciousness and distrust , the re- current feeling that every one's hand was against him . There is his melancholy and his moodiness and his love of solitude . There is his improvident extrava ...
... soul in revolt . Then there is Byron's suspiciousness and distrust , the re- current feeling that every one's hand was against him . There is his melancholy and his moodiness and his love of solitude . There is his improvident extrava ...
Page xxiv
... soul is a ' grand peut - être ' —but still it is a grand one . Everybody clings to it , -- the stupidest and dullest and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal . " And again , in his " Detached Thoughts ...
... soul is a ' grand peut - être ' —but still it is a grand one . Everybody clings to it , -- the stupidest and dullest and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal . " And again , in his " Detached Thoughts ...
Page xxxv
... Soul , and has no more to do with the every - day individual than the inspiration with the Pythoness when removed from her tripod . " he holds , should be creative and Promethean . " For what is poesy but to create From overfeeling good ...
... Soul , and has no more to do with the every - day individual than the inspiration with the Pythoness when removed from her tripod . " he holds , should be creative and Promethean . " For what is poesy but to create From overfeeling good ...
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Common terms and phrases
Abbot Æschylus Alps Astarte Athens beauty behold beneath blood breast breath brow Byron Byron's note Cain canto Capitoline hill Childe Harold Chillon clouds Countess Guiccioli dark death deep Don Juan doth dread dream earth edition eternal eyes fair fame Faust feel gaze Giaour glory grave Greece hath heart heaven Hell hour human immortal Jungfrau lake land lines living Lord Lord Byron Lucifer lyric Manfred Manfred's Mazeppa mind mortal mountains nature ne'er never night o'er ocean pass'd passage passion Pausanias perhaps poem poet poet's poetic poetry Prisoner of Chillon rhyme rock sail Samian wine scene seem'd Shelley Shipwreck shore Siege of Corinth smile song soul spirit stanzas star story suggested sweet tears thee thine things thought Twas Venice verse waters wave wild wind Witch woes words Wordsworth written youth ΙΟ
Popular passages
Page 153 - twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
Page 153 - Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime; The image of eternity, the throne Of the Invisible: even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Page 303 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.
Page 128 - There is the moral of all human tales; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Page 263 - 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 ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse ; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires'
Page 264 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
Page 246 - Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
Page 296 - She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes ; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Page 266 - 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 291 - These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear...