The works of ... lord Byron

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الصفحة 30 - By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air ! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
الصفحة 29 - Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe : Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
الصفحة 12 - A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, My dog howls at the gate. »Come hither, hither, my little page: Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along«.
الصفحة 75 - To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.
الصفحة 19 - Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates...
الصفحة 112 - The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; Death in the front, Destruction in the rear ! Such was the scene...
الصفحة 109 - And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou! Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now : Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough s So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; *** v - 4 LXXXVI.
الصفحة 66 - 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 ! Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion's host, that never brooked control : Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! " All that we know is, nothing can be known.
الصفحة 110 - 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...
الصفحة 103 - And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait— Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?

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