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Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe! 1

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 12.
There are some feelings time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake.

Stanza 19. Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

Stanza 23.

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew,
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost, – too many, yet how

few !

Stanza 24.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang

imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till

't is gone, and all is gray.

Stanza 29.

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Stanza 53.

Stanza 54.

Stanza 57.

Let these describe the undescribable.
The starry Galileo with his woes.
Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.
The poetry of speech.
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture.
Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine.

Stanza 58.

Stanza 69.

Stanza 77.

1 See

Wordsworth, page 474. ? A translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja: "Italia, Italia! O tu cui Leo la soste."

O Rome! my country ! city of the soul!

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 78.

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands.

Stanza 79.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

Stanza 98.

Heaven gives its favourites - early death.

Stanza 102.

Stanza 108.

History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page.

Man !
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

Stanza 109.

Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base.

Stanza 110.

Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast.

Stanza 115.

Ibidha

The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

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Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.

Stanza 120.

I see before me the gladiator lie.

Stanza 140. There were his young barbarians all at play; There was their Dacian mother: he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday!

Stanza 141. " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls — the world.” 2

Stanza 145

1 See Wordsworth, page 478.
2 Literally the exclamation of the pilgrims in the eighth century.

Canto iv. Stanza 168.

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Stanza 177.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou s temi osts]
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head ?

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And hating no one, love but only her!
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; ; 31 30s
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more. Stanza 178.
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,

1 Stunza 179. He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelyd, uncoflin'd, and unknown.” T'ime writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, -+!?? Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.'

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Ibid.

Stanza 182.

Throu glorious mirror, where the Almighty's formi
Glasses itself in tempests. : !

1. Stanza 183.
AI d I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
OF youthful sports was on thy breast to be.
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy ?

1 See Cowper, page 418. 2 See Pope, page 341.

3 And thou vast ocean, on whose awful face 16
Time's iron feet can print no ruin-trace. A

ROBERT MONTGOMERY: The Omnipresence of the Deity.

Stanza 186.

I wantoned with thy breakers,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane,

as I do here. 1 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 184

And what is writ is writ, – Would it were worthier!

Stanza 185,
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been, -
A sound which makes us linger; yet — farewell!

Hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.

The Waltz.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled, -
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.

The Giaour. Line 68.
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Shrine of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?
For freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own;
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring sister's shame.

Line 90.

Line 106.

Line 123

Line 418.

1 He laid his hand upon “the ocean's mane,'
And played familiar with his hoary locks.

POLLOK: The Course of Time, book it. line 389.

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And

rose,

The keenest pangs the wretched find

Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemployed.

The Giaour. Line 957
Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock. Line 969
The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name.

Line 1099.
I die, - but first I have possess'd,
And come what

may,
I have been bless'd.

Line 1114.
She was a form of life and light
That seen, became a part of sight,

where'er I turn’d mine eye,
The morning-star of memory!
Yes, love indeed is light from heaven;

A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Alla given,

To lift from earth our low desire. Line 1127.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime;

of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 1

The Bride of Abydos. Canto i. Stanza 1.
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all save the spirit of man is divine ?

Ibid.
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,

1 Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom,
Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom,
Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows,
And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose !

GOETHE: Wilhelm Meister.

Where the

rage

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