Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron: Noted During a Residence with His Lordship at Pisa, in the Years 1821 and 1822

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Wilder & Campbell, 1824 - British - 304 pages
 

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Page 74 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Page 74 - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Page 90 - The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself; * Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind.
Page 16 - 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 Caesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest!
Page 35 - I have a passion for the name of " Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be ; All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told.
Page 74 - Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Page 181 - His head was bound with pansies overblown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart.
Page 181 - Midst others of less note came one frail form, A phantom among men, companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm, Whose thunder is its knell.
Page 69 - And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy...
Page 162 - I know not who may conquer : if I could Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every despotism in every nation.

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