|
| John Bartlett (1820–1905). Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. 1919. |
| Page 545 |
| George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron. (1788–1824) (continued) |
| 5640 |
| Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo, The octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe! 1 |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 12. |
| 5641 |
| There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 19. |
| 5642 |
| Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 23. |
| 5643 |
| The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn’d, the loved, the lost,—too many, yet how few! |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 24. |
| 5644 |
| Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till—’t is gone, and all is gray. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 29. |
| 5645 |
| The Ariosto of the North. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 40. |
| 5646 |
| Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty. 2 |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 42. |
| 5647 |
| Fills The air around with beauty. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 49. |
| 5648 |
| Let these describe the undescribable. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 53. |
| 5649 |
| The starry Galileo with his woes. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 54. |
| 5650 |
| Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 57. |
| 5651 |
| The poetry of speech. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 58. |
| 5652 |
| The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 69. |
| 5653 |
| Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,— Not for thy faults, but mine. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 77. |
| Note 1. See Wordsworth, Quotation 93. [back] |
| Note 2. A translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja: “Italia, Italia! O tu cui feo la sorte.” [back] |
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