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"Sydney's" Letter to the King: And Other Correspondence, Connected With the ...
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Admiration affecting amid appeal aspirations Author awful beautiful benevolence born bosom breasts breath bright Cain cause character CHILDE Christian considered contribute COURIER Creator dare dead death defend Deity doubt dust earth EDITOR faith fall feeling finite fire forward foundation freedom fresh future genius give given grave ground hand happy head heart Heaven honour hope humanity interests KING knowledge laurelled lead leave letter liberal liberty light lines living lofty look Lord Byron Majesty memory mind monument moral Morning mysteries nature ness noble observation offer passions peace Poet possible Post present protect religion remains rest reverence sacred seek September soul speak spirit Star sublime Sydney thee things thou thoughts tion tomb true Truth universal unto vindicate virtuous voice Westminster Abbey wisdom written youth بار به کار می
Pàgina 26 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone.
Pàgina 50 - But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride, Contending with low wants and lofty will, Till our mortality predominates, And men are — what they name not to themselves, And trust not to each other.
Pàgina 27 - Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood ! Unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of Beauty be. If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ? The land of honourable death Is here. Up, to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out (less often sought than found) A soldier's grave, for thee the best ! Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest ! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Pàgina 34 - God has granted grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch, and force the way; And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
Pàgina 26 - The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.
Pàgina 49 - As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, And they have only taught him what we know — That knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
Pàgina 50 - My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight— thou shin'st not on my heart.
Pàgina 27 - If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here: — up to the Field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldiers grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy Rest.