The Poetical Works of Lord Byron, Volume 7, Part 1

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Page 241 - Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Page 247 - Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.
Page 158 - And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die.
Page 238 - The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! "Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
Page 246 - Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print — that I have no" devotion ; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great Whole. Who hath produced, and will receive the souL...
Page 70 - in medias res," (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, What went before — by way of episode, While seated after dinner at his ease, Beside his mistress, in some soft abode, Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.
Page 239 - The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea. And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free, For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
Page 246 - The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along...
Page 100 - Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth ; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, Sweet is revenge — especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who've made 'us youth...
Page 99 - Tis sweet to hear, At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

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