Childe Harold, ed. by H.F. TozerClarendon Press, 1885 - 336 Seiten |
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Häufige Begriffe und Wortgruppen
Acarnania Albania alliteration Athens aught beauty behold beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Byron Canto Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE clouds contrast dark death deem'd deep desolate dome doth dust earth Epirus epithet Essay on Style expression Extra fcap Faery Queene fair fame feeling foll French gaze Giaour Glory Greece Greek hath heart heaven idlesse immortal Introduction and Notes lake land light Lord Lord Byron M.A. Extra fcap M.A. Second Edition meaning Mesolonghi metaphor mind mortal mountains nature ne'er night o'er once pass'd passage passion Petrarch Pindus plain poem poet poetical poetry proud reference rock Roman Rome ruin scene shore sigh smile song soul Spain spirit stanza star stream sweet tears thee thine things thou thought throne tomb Venice verse W. W. SKEAT walls waters waves wild wind woes word youth
Beliebte Passagen
Seite 104 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Seite 33 - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stern array...
Seite 294 - Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
Seite 104 - 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; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe, they come! they come!
Seite 315 - You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!
Seite 178 - His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields Are not a spoil for him— thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay.
Seite 168 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand— his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd 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 around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
Seite 177 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, his control Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed...
Seite 78 - 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.
Seite 168 - Were with his heart, and that was far away; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!