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afterwards answer appeared asked beautiful believe Cain called Canto cause character Childe continued death Don Juan English expected expressed eyes feelings forced gave give Government Greece Greek hand Harold heard heart hope hour idea Italian Italy kind knew Lady Byron late least leave letter lines live look Lord Byron lost matter mean mind Moore Murray nature never night object observed once opinion party passed perhaps person play poem poet poetry present prove published reason remark remember replied rest seems sent Shelley shew soon speak spirits Stanza story suppose taken talk tell thing thought till tion told took translation turned Venice whole wish woman women write written wrote young
Page 146 - He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him ; nor below Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife...
Page 157 - 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 little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Page 118 - The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
Page 251 - There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Page 156 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. 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 158 - We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Page 116 - 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; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.