Don Juan: Cantos III, IV, and V.

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Thomas Davison, Whitefriars, 1821 - 215 pages
 

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Page 61 - CV. Sweet hour of twilight!—in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Cesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee
Page 62 - 5 ) Oh Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things— Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gather'd round us by thy look
Page 23 - wrong.—He was the mildest manner'd man That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; With such true breeding of a gentleman, You never could divine his real thought; No courtier could, and scarcely woman can Gird more deceit within a petticoat; Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, He was so great a loss to good society.
Page 67 - 1 disio, " A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore ; " Lo di eh' han detto a' dolci amici a dio ; " E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore " Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, " Che paia '1 giorno pianger che si muore.
Page 209 - Empire," hints that Solyman was the last of his line; on what authority, I know not. These are his words: " The destruction of Mustapha was so fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks from Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, and of strange blood; for that Solymus the second
Page 62 - 6 ) 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; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns
Page 3 - the current of her sinless years, II. Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh F
Page 56 - XCVI. But let me to my story : I must own, If I have any fault, it is digression; Leaving my people to proceed alone, While I soliloquize beyond expression; But these are my addresses from the throne, Which put off business to the ensuing session: Forgetting each omission is a loss to
Page 40 - LXXV. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged (It is the country's custom), but in vain; For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, And in their native beauty stood avenged: Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
Page 104 - Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. LXVII. Short solace, vain relief!—thought came too quick, And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose

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