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Memories Over the Water: Or, Stray Thoughts on a Long Stroll
Keine Leseprobe verfügbar - 2019
American ancient appearance beautiful blue body building called carriage cars cathedral celebrated CHAPTER church close containing course crossed crowd dance dark death deep early English entered entire face fair falling famous feel feet foot France give ground hand handsome head heart hills horses hour hundred immediately Italy lady lake land leaving light lofty looked marble means memory miles morning mountain mounted move Napoleon never night o'clock object observed once paintings Palace Paris passed present reached rest rising rolled Roman Rome scene seat seemed seen shore side sight situated smile soon spirit stands started statue steps stone stood streets strolled taking thence thought thousand took tower traveler turned valley village walls waters waves wind young
Seite 218 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims aronnd him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
Seite 85 - 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.
Seite 237 - Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of Life, and Poesy, and Light — The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; The shaft hath just been shot— the arrow bright With an Immortal's vengeance— in his eye And nostril beautiful Disdain, and Might And Majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity.
Seite 86 - A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue.
Seite 202 - Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all areund is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn . Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.
Seite 237 - Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — A father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending : — vain The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.
Seite 213 - 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 bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesars...
Seite 202 - And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald : — how profound The gulf ! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent...
Seite 169 - Gondolier," It glides along the water looking blackly, Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, Where none can make out what you say or do.
Seite 211 - A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn Glowing with Roman story, I should live To tread the Appian, once an avenue Of monuments most glorious, palaces, — Their doors sealed up and silent as the night, The dwellings of the illustrious dead : to turn Toward Tiber, and, beyond the city gate, Pour out my unpremeditated verse, Where on his mule I might have met so oft Horace himself : or climb the Palatine...