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John Bartlett (1820–1905).  Familiar Quotations, 10th ed.  1919.
 
Page 540
 
 
George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron. (1788–1824) (continued)
 
5578
    Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact, in virtue’s name, let Crabbe attest,—
Though Nature’s sternest painter, yet the best.
          English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 839.
5579
    Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart!
          Maid of Athens.
5580
    Had sigh’d to many, though he loved but one.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 5.
5581
    If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 7.
5582
    Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 9.
5583
    Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 10.
5584
    Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 11.
5585
    Adieu! adieu! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 13.
5586
    My native land, good night!
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 13.
5587
    O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 15.
5588
    In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 20.
5589
    By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 40.
5590
    Still from the fount of joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 1
          Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 82.
 
Note 1.
Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat
(In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers).—Lucretius: iv. 1133. [back]
 

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