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affected afterwards answer appeared arrived beautiful called canto cause character Childe Harold close comparatively course critic daughter death died Don Juan doubt early England English expression fact feeling frequent gave genius give Greece Greek half hand heart Hunt interest Italy John July kind Lady later least leave Leigh less letter lines literary lived London look Lord Byron manner March mark married meet Mesolonghi mind months Moore mother nature never Newstead occasion passage passed period poem poet poet's poetry present published received record reference regard remained remark respects Reviewers satire says Scott seems sent Shelley spirit story suggested things thought took verse whole wife wished writes written wrote young
Page 116 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Page 116 - The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time...
Page 59 - Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that were : First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Page 60 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled And still his...
Page 170 - there was no matter,' And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said: They say his system 'tis in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head ; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to Stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
Page 99 - Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Page 126 - I despair of rivalling Lord Byron, as well I may, and there is no other with whom it is worth contending.
Page 126 - mid mortality ; As the love from Petrarch's urn Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp, by which the heart Sees things unearthly ; so thou art, Mighty spirit : so shall be The city that did refuge thee.