THE OCEAN FROM Childe Harold, Canto IV CLXXVIII There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, CLXXIX Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean- roll! Stops with the shore; - upon the watery plain When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, CLXXX His steps are not upon thy paths thy fields Are not a spoil for him- thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: - there let him lay. CLXXXI The armaments which thunderstrike the walls These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, CLXXXII Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. CLXXXIII Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime The image of Eternity the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. George Gordon Byron AVE MARIA FROM Don Juan, Canto III CII Ave Maria! blessèd be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft- And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. CIII Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 't is 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 doveWhat though 't is but a pictured image? — strikeThat painting is no idol, — 't is too like. CV Sweet hour of twilight! — in the solitude CVII Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things Are gathered round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. CVIII Soft hour! which makes 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 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns! - George Gordon Byron THE COLISEUM FROM Manfred, Act III The stars are forth, the moon above the tops I learned the language of another world. |