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Amazon Inspire Digital Educational Resources. Amazon Rapids Fun stories for kids on the go. And yet he seems not overcome, Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. And still,—and pale—and silently Did Parisina wait her doom;[] How changed since last her speaking eye Glanced gladness round the glittering room, Where high-born men were proud to wait— Where Beauty watched to imitate Her gentle voice—her lovely mien— And gather from her air and gait The graces of its Queen: Then,—had her eye in sorrow wept, A thousand warriors forth had leapt, A thousand swords had sheathless shone, And made her quarrel all their own.

Can she command, or these obey? All silent and unheeding now, With downcast eyes and knitting brow, And folded arms, and freezing air, And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, Her knights, her dames, her court—is there: And he—the chosen one, whose lance Had yet been couched before her glance, Who—were his arm a moment free— Had died or gained her liberty; The minion of his father's bride,— He, too, is fettered by her side; Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim Less for her own despair than him Those lids—o'er which the violet vein Wandering, leaves a tender stain, Shining through the smoothest white That e'er did softest kiss invite— Now seemed with hot and livid glow To press, not shade, the orbs below; Which glance so heavily, and fill, As tear on tear grows gathering still[rb][] XI.

And he for her had also wept, But for the eyes that on him gazed: His sorrow, if he felt it, slept; Stern and erect his brow was raised. Whate'er the grief his soul avowed, He would not shrink before the crowd; But yet he dared not look on her; Remembrance of the hours that were— His guilt—his love—his present state— His father's wrath, all good men's hate— His earthly, his eternal fate— And hers,—oh, hers! Else had his rising heart betrayed Remorse for all the wreck it made. My life must linger on alone; Well,—let that pass,—there breathes not one Who would not do as I have done: Those ties are broken—not by me; Let that too pass;—the doom's prepared!

Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, And then—thy crime's reward! Before its evening stars are met, Learn if thou there canst be forgiven: Its mercy may absolve thee yet. But here, upon the earth beneath, There is no spot where thou and I Together for an hour could breathe: I will not see thee die— But thou, frail thing! I cannot speak the rest: Her broken heart—my severed head— Shall witness for thee from the dead How trusty and how tender were Thy youthful love—paternal care.

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I had a sword—and have a breast That should have won as haught[] a crest As ever waved along the line Of all these sovereign sires of thine. Not always knightly spurs are worn The brightest by the better born; And mine have lanced my courser's flank Before proud chiefs of princely rank, When charging to the cheering cry Of 'Este and of Victory!


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From thee this tamelessness of heart— From thee—nay, wherefore dost thou start? See what thy guilty love hath done! Repaid thee with too like a son! I am no bastard in my soul, For that, like thine, abhorred control; And for my breath, that hasty boon Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, I valued it no more than thou, When rose thy casque above thy brow, And we, all side by side, have striven, And o'er the dead our coursers driven: The past is nothing—and at last The future can but be the past;[] Yet would I that I then had died: For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, And made thy own my destined bride, I feel thou art my father still: And harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 'Tis not unjust, although from thee.

The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3

Begot in sin, to die in shame, My life begun and ends the same: As erred the sire, so erred the son, And thou must punish both in one. My crime seems worst to human view, But God must judge between us too! He ceased—and stood with folded arms, On which the circling fetters sounded; And not an ear but felt as wounded, Of all the chiefs that there were ranked, When those dull chains in meeting clanked: Till Parisina's fatal charms[] Again attracted every eye— Would she thus hear him doomed to die!

She stood, I said, all pale and still, The living cause of Hugo's ill: Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, Not once had turned to either side— Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, But round their orbs of deepest blue The circling white dilated grew— And there with glassy gaze she stood As ice were in her curdled blood; But every now and then a tear[] So large and slowly gathered slid From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, It was a thing to see, not hear!

To speak she thought—the imperfect note Was choked within her swelling throat, Yet seemed in that low hollow groan Her whole heart gushing in the tone. It ceased—again she thought to speak, Then burst her voice in one long shriek, And to the earth she fell like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown, More like a thing that ne'er had life,— A monument of Azo's wife,— Than her, that living guilty thing, Whose every passion was a sting, Which urged to guilt, but could not bear That guilt's detection and despair.

But yet she lived—and all too soon Recovered from that death-like swoon— But scarce to reason—every sense Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense; And each frail fibre of her brain As bowstrings, when relaxed by rain, The erring arrow launch aside Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide— The past a blank, the future black, With glimpses of a dreary track, Like lightning on the desert path, When midnight storms are mustering wrath. She feared—she felt that something ill Lay on her soul, so deep and chill; That there was sin and shame she knew, That some one was to die—but who?

Could this be still the earth beneath, The sky above, and men around; Or were they fiends who now so frowned On one, before whose eyes each eye Till then had smiled in sympathy? All was confused and undefined To her all-jarred and wandering mind; A chaos of wild hopes and fears: The Convent bells are ringing, But mournfully and slow; In the grey square turret swinging, With a deep sound, to and fro. Heavily to the heart they go!

For a departed being's soul[rc] The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll: With the block before and the guards around; And the headsman with his bare arm ready, That the blow may be both swift and steady, Feels if the axe be sharp and true Since he set its edge anew: It is a lovely hour as yet Before the summer sun shall set, Which rose upon that heavy day, And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; And his evening beams are shed Full on Hugo's fated head, As his last confession pouring To the monk, his doom deploring In penitential holiness, He bends to hear his accents bless With absolution such as may Wipe our mortal stains away.

That high sun on his head did glisten As he there did bow and listen, And the rings of chestnut hair Curled half down his neck so bare; But brighter still the beam was thrown Upon the axe which near him shone With a clear and ghastly glitter—— Oh! Even the stern stood chilled with awe: Dark the crime, and just the law— Yet they shuddered as they saw. The parting prayers are said and over Of that false son, and daring lover! His beads and sins are all recounted,[rd] His hours to their last minute mounted; His mantling cloak before was stripped, His bright brown locks must now be clipped; 'Tis done—all closely are they shorn; The vest which till this moment worn— The scarf which Parisina gave— Must not adorn him to the grave.

Even that must now be thrown aside, And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied; But no—that last indignity Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. All feelings seemingly subdued, In deep disdain were half renewed, When headsman's hands prepared to bind Those eyes which would not brook such blind, As if they dared not look on death. He died, as erring man should die, Without display, without parade;[] Meekly had he bowed and prayed, As not disdaining priestly aid, Nor desperate of all hope on high.

And while before the Prior kneeling, His heart was weaned from earthly feeling; His wrathful Sire—his Paramour— What were they in such an hour? First published, Conversations of Lord Byron , , p.

The works of Lord Byron : letters and journals. Vol. 3

First published, Childe Harold , Seventh Edition. Translation of a Romaic Love Song. Stanzas ["Thou art not false," etc. On being asked what was the "Origin of Love. On the Quotation , "And my true faith," etc.

The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 3 by George Gordon Byron

Stanzas ["Remember him," etc. Impromptu, in Reply to a Friend. To Genevra ["Thine eyes' blue tenderness," etc. To Genevra ["Thy cheek is pale with thought," etc. First published, Corsair , Second Edition. From the Portuguese ["Tu mi chamas"]. Introduction to The Giaour. Bibliographical Note on The Giaour. Introduction to The Bride of Abydos. Note to the MSS.

The Bride of Abydos. Note to The Bride of Abydos. Introduction to The Corsair. Bibliographical Note on The Corsair. Introduction to the Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte. Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte.

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Introduction to the Hebrew Melodies. She walks in Beauty.

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept. If that High World. My Soul is Dark. I saw thee weep. Thy Days are done. Song of Saul before his Last Battle. When Coldness wraps this Suffering Clay. Sun of the Sleepless! Were my Bosom as False as thou deem'st it to be.

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Herod's Lament for Mariamne. On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus. By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept. The Destruction of Sennacherib. A Spirit passed before me. First published, Corsair Second Edition, When we Two parted. Stanzas for Music ["I speak not, I trace not," etc. First published, Fugitive Pieces , Address intended to be recited at the Caledonian Meeting. First published, Letters and Journals , , i. First published, Morning Chronicle , October 7, Stanzas for Music ["There's not a joy," etc.


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On the Death of the Duke of Dorset. First published, Works , Paris, , p. Stanzas for Music ["Bright be the place of thy soul"]. Examiner , June 4, First published, Examiner , July 30, From the French ["Must thou go, my glorious Chief?