Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - 756 σελίδες |
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Σελίδα 628
... Siegendorf , near Prague , where the poor fugitive Werner , become , by the death of Stralenheim , the Count of Siegendorf , and the possessor of the domains of his an- cestors , is living with his wife , his son , and Ida Stralenheim ...
... Siegendorf , near Prague , where the poor fugitive Werner , become , by the death of Stralenheim , the Count of Siegendorf , and the possessor of the domains of his an- cestors , is living with his wife , his son , and Ida Stralenheim ...
Σελίδα 631
... SIEGENDORF interposes . Sie . Liar and siend ! but you shall not be slain ; These walls are mine , and you are safe within them . Ulric , repel this calumny , as I [ He turns to ULRIC . Will do . I avow it is a growth so monstrous , I ...
... SIEGENDORF interposes . Sie . Liar and siend ! but you shall not be slain ; These walls are mine , and you are safe within them . Ulric , repel this calumny , as I [ He turns to ULRIC . Will do . I avow it is a growth so monstrous , I ...
Σελίδα 632
... Siegendorf , because I know you innocent , and deem you just . But ere I can proceed - Dare you protect me ? - Dare you command me ? [ Siegendorf first looks at the Hungarian , and then at Ulric , who has unbuckled his sabre , and is ...
... Siegendorf , because I know you innocent , and deem you just . But ere I can proceed - Dare you protect me ? - Dare you command me ? [ Siegendorf first looks at the Hungarian , and then at Ulric , who has unbuckled his sabre , and is ...
Σελίδα 636
... Siegendorf bids Gabor retire into an adjoining closet , and then asks his son what he says to it . Ulric coolly replies that it is true ; and in a few speeches he displays the whole of his character , and the motives which urged him to ...
... Siegendorf bids Gabor retire into an adjoining closet , and then asks his son what he says to it . Ulric coolly replies that it is true ; and in a few speeches he displays the whole of his character , and the motives which urged him to ...
Σελίδα 639
... Siegendorf is past ! Thus this tragedy concludes : it is beyond question the worst that Lord Byron ever wrote . There are some attempts at humour in the character of the Intendant , but they are very feeble . Much of the verse is ...
... Siegendorf is past ! Thus this tragedy concludes : it is beyond question the worst that Lord Byron ever wrote . There are some attempts at humour in the character of the Intendant , but they are very feeble . Much of the verse is ...
Άλλες εκδόσεις - Προβολή όλων
Συχνά εμφανιζόμενοι όροι και φράσεις
Ali Pacha appeared arms bard beauty behold beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Cain called Calmar canto Captain Cephalonia character Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dark dead death Doge dread dream earth Edinburgh Review English eyes fair fame fate father fear feel gaze genius Giaour grave Greece Greek hand hath heart heaven hero honour hope hour knew lady Lara less letter live look Lord Byron lordship Mavrocordatos Mazeppa mind Missolonghi Morea Muse ne'er never Newstead Abbey night noble o'er occasion once Parisina passed passion Patras person poem poet poetry replied Samian wine Sardanapalus scarce scene seemed shore Siegendorf sigh sleep smile song soul Southey speak spirit stanzas Suliotes tears thee thine things thou thought turned twas Venice verse voice wave wild wish words young youth
Δημοφιλή αποσπάσματα
Σελίδα 335 - To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Σελίδα 317 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
Σελίδα 330 - And this is in the night. — Most glorious night ! Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Σελίδα 744 - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep ! He hath awakened from the dream of life. 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.
Σελίδα 547 - 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! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah, no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head. But one, arise — we come, we come!
Σελίδα 387 - Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray.
Σελίδα 689 - 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.
Σελίδα 185 - And marked the mild, angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye...
Σελίδα 390 - Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.
Σελίδα 547 - 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? 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear ! Must we but weep o'er days more blest?