History of Rome

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Whittaker & Company, 1838 - 539 oldal
 

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59. oldal - He heard it, but he heeded not - his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother - he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday All this rush'd with his blood - Shall he expire And unavenged?
169. oldal - The brave man is not he who feels no fear, . For that were stupid and irrational, But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues, And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
310. oldal - Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world ; Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ! Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote, To cast into my teeth.
303. oldal - But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world : now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.
528. oldal - Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till, like a sea of glory, It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransomed nature The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign.
339. oldal - O sun ! thy uprise shall I see no more ; Fortune and Antony part here ; even here Do we shake hands. All come to this ? The hearts That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets On blossoming Caesar ; and this pine is bark'd, That overtopp'd them all.
1. oldal - Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress...
59. oldal - I see before me the gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him ; he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
480. oldal - A crown ! What is it ? It is to bear the miseries of a people ! To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents, And sink beneath a load of splendid care ! To have your best success...

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