Imágenes de páginas

War, war is still the

cry, war even to the knife!” 1

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 86. Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

Canto ii. Stanza 2. A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Ibid. Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Ibid. The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.? Stanza 6. Ah, happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ?

Stanza 23. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear. Stanza 24. But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

Stanza 26. Coop'd in their winged, sea-girt citadel.

Stanza 28. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

Stanza 73. Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not, Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow ?

Stanza 76.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state:
An hour may lay it in the dust.

Stanza 84. Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Stanza 85. Where'er we tread, it is haunted, holy ground. Stanza 88. Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.


1 “War even to the knife” was the reply of Palafox, the governor of Saragossa, when summoned to surrender by the French, who besieged that city in 1808.

2 See Waller, page 221.

Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 1.


Once more upon the waters ! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.

Stanza 2.
I am as a weed
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath

Ibid. He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

Stanza 5.

Years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb,
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Stanza 8.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.

Stanza 21. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it? — No! ’t was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. Stanza 22. He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting fell.

Stanza 23.

And there was mounting in hot haste.

Stanza 25.

1 See Sheridan, page 443.

Or whispering with white lips, " The foe! They come ! they come !”

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 25. Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.

Stanza 27. Battle's magnificently stern array.

Stanza 28. And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

Stanza 32. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

Stanza 42. He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Stanza 45. All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. Slanza 47. The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine. Stanza 55.

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

Stanza 57. But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

Stanza 70. By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. . Stanza 71. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me;' and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture.

Stanza 72.

Stanza 85.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction.

On the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

Stanza 86.

1 I am a part of all that I have met. — Tennyson: Ulysses.

All is concentr'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Cunto iii. Stanza 89. In solitude, where we are least alone.1

Stanza 90. The sky is changed, — and such a change! O night And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder.

Stanza 92. Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year. Stanza 107. Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.

Ibid. I have not loved the world, nor the world me.? Stanza 113.

I stood
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand. Canto iv. Stanza 1.
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

Ibid. Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. Stanza 3. The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

Stanza 10.

i See Gibbon, page 430.

2 Good bye, proud world; I'm going home.
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.

EMERSON : Good Bye, proud World.
See Johnson, page 374.

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

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. The Ariosto of the North.

Stanza 40.

Strinza 42.

Stanza 49.

Stanza 53.

Stanza 54.

Italia! O Italia ! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty.”

The air around with beauty.
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 57.

Stanza 58.

Stanza 69.

Stanza 77.

1 See Wordsworth, page 474.

2 A translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja: “Italia, Italia! O tu cui feo la sorte."

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