The Works of Lord Byron, Part 12

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Page 309 - Not to covet nor desire other men's goods, but to learn and labour truly to get mine own living, and to do my duty in that state of life, unto the which it shall please God to call me.
Page 421 - ... winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical— a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And...
Page 420 - Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice — as tell The annals of full many a line undone, — The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.
Page 413 - Shall I go on ? — No ! I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, So let the often-used volcano go. Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and others, It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! XXXVII.
Page 500 - tis held as faith, to their bed of death He comes— but not to grieve. When an heir is born he is heard to mourn, And when aught is to befall That ancient line, in the pale moonshine He walks, from hall to hall.
Page 474 - She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone.
Page 447 - I told you so," Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " botios mores," With a long memorandum of old stories.
Page 418 - An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion, — of a rich and rare Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferr'da hill behind, To "shelter their devotion from the wind.
Page 421 - Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.
Page 420 - The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; She made the earth below seem holy ground.

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