The works of ... lord Byron

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Page 105 - KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime...
Page 106 - Gul in her bloom? Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie...
Page 8 - That this is all remains of thee ? Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Say, is not this Thermopylae? These waters blue that round you lave, Oh servile offspring of the free — Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ! The gulf, the rock of Salamis...
Page 139 - THE winds are high on Helle's wave, As on that night of stormy water When Love, who sent, forgot to save The young, the beautiful, the brave, The lonely hope of Sestos
Page 7 - Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath ; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb — Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling past away ! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.
Page 71 - She was a form of life and light, That, seen, became a part of sight ; And rose, where'er I turned mine eye The Morning-star of Memory...
Page 9 - Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age ! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land ! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die...
Page 26 - Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower...
Page 6 - And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart...
Page 6 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some' moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

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