Don Juan, Cantos III, IV, and V
Thomas Davison, 1821 - 218 pages
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aught Ave Maria Baba beauty blood Bosphorus breast bright brow CANTO chain'd cheek CIII Circassian clime dance dead death deep DON JUAN doubt e'er earth eunuch face fair fame father's feelings gazed giaour gild gold grave grew grow Gulleyaz gun barrel Haidée and Juan Haidée's hand head heard heart Heaven Hellespont hour human human clay isle Juan's kiss knew lady Lambro least link'd look'd looks lover LXXIII maid marble mere christian muse ne'er never Note o'er once pair pale Parnassian passions pause Perhaps poet present Pyrrhic dance quoth renegado rhyme round Samian wine scarce seem'd seems sherbets shore show'd sigh sing sire slaves smile song sorrow stanza stood strange sung sweet tears There's things third sex thou thought tomb true turn'd twas twere waves Whate'er wish word young Φερεις
Page 47 - The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires
Page 218 - To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
Page 62 - Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.
Page 49 - Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain — in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bacchanal I You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one...
Page 52 - But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Page 46 - The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! "Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
Page 74 - ... strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it were to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary.
Page 73 - And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy...
Page 60 - tis the hour of prayer ! Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh, that face so fair ! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty Dove — What though 'tis but a pictured image strike — That painting is no idol, 'tis too like.
Page 61 - Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood...