The Works of Lord Byron: With His Letters and Journals,

כריכה קדמית
John Murray, Albemarles Street., 1834
 

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קטעים בולטים

עמוד 294 - By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; I never knew but one, — and here he lies.
עמוד 239 - Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose...
עמוד 239 - Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend 'to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double...
עמוד 113 - Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again : Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved...
עמוד 112 - I strode through the pine-covered glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch ua Garr.
עמוד 171 - Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers, it would have joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years (she is two years my elder), and — and — and — what has been the result?
עמוד 188 - THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water.
עמוד 211 - These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
עמוד 240 - Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of 'an idiot boy'; A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day; So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the 'idiot in his glory' Conceive the bard the hero of the story.
עמוד 240 - idiot in his glory' Conceive the bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a pixy for a muse, Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegise an ass.

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