I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around; I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless...
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past, When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast, Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide...
Stranger! mark this lovely scene, When the evening sets serene, And starting o'er the silent wood, The last pale sunshine streaks the flood, And the water gushing near...
So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage! Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried, Liberty! and the shores, from age to age Renowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied,...
He left us; we, the hour of parting come, To Prasidamus' hospitable home, Myself and Eucritus, together wend, With young Amynticus, our blooming friend: There, all delighted, through the summer day,...
When the famed Argo now secure had passed The crushing rocks,[1] and that terrific strait That guards the wintry Pontic, the tall ship Reached wild Bebrycia's shores; bearing like gods...
Mark, where the beetling precipice appears, The toil of the old fisher, gray with years; Mark, as to drag the laden net he strains, The labouring muscle and the swelling veins!...
Where were ye, nymphs, when Daphnis drooped with love? In fair Peneus' Tempe, or the grove Of Pindus! Nor your pastimes did ye keep, Where huge Anapus' torrent waters sweep;...
Lo! where youth and beauty lie, Cold within the tomb! As the spring's first violets die, Withered in their bloom. O'er the young and buried bride, Let the cypress wave:...
Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs, that glorious harmony;...
If I could bid thee, pleasant shade, farewell Without a sigh, amidst whose circling bowers My stripling prime was passed, and happiest hours, Dead were I to the sympathies that swell...
Yes, Pamela, this infant tree Planted in sacred earth by thee, Shall strike its root, and pleasant grow Whilst I am mouldering dust below. This churchyard turf shall still be green,...
There is but one stage more in life's long way, O widowed women! Sadly upon your path Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends, Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;...