Byron Lord Byron. Complete Works. Illustrated

Hours of Idleness, Childe Harold'S Pilgrimage, Don Juan, Hebrew Melodies, Stanzas for Music and others
1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-0-88003-802-7
Verlag: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 4088 Seiten

One of the leading figures of the Romantic movement, Byron is regarded as one of the greatest English poets. He remains widely read and influential. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage; many of his shorter lyrics in Hebrew Melodies also became popular. Byron is considered to be the first modern-style celebrity. His image as the personification of the Byronic hero fascinated the public. The figure of the Byronic hero pervades much of his work, and Byron himself is considered to epitomise many of the characteristics of this literary figure. The use of a Byronic hero by many authors and artists of the Romantic movement show Byron's influence during the 19th century and beyond, including the Brontë sisters. His philosophy was more durably influential in continental Europe than in England;  Friedrich Nietzsche admired him, and the Byronic hero was echoed in Nietzsche's Übermensch, or superman. Contents: The Poetry Collections HOURS OF IDLENESS CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE HEBREW MELODIES STANZAS FOR MUSIC OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807-1824 DOMESTIC PIECES, 1816 SATIRES TALES THE GIAOUR THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS THE CORSAIR LARA THE SIEGE OF CORINTH PARISINA THE PRISONER OF CHILLON MAZEPPA THE ISLAND THE LAMENT OF TASSO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI FRANCESCA OF RIMINI BEPPO MINOR POEMS DRAMAS MANFRED MARINO FALIERO SARDANAPALUS THE TWO FOSCARI CAIN: A MYSTERY HEAVEN AND EARTH WERNER THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED DON JUAN   The Short Story   The Letters 

George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron FRS (22 January 1788 - 19 April 1824), simply known as Lord Byron, was an English poet and peer. One of the leading figures of the Romantic movement, Byron is regarded as one of the greatest English poets

Autoren/Hrsg.

Byron, Lord

Leseproben

OSCAR OF ALVA A TALE How sweetly shines through azure skies, The lamp of heaven on Lora’s shore; Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise, And hear the din of arms no more! But often has yon rolling moon On Alva’s casques of silver play’d; And view’d at midnight’s silent noon, Her chief’s in gleaming mail array’d: And on the crimson’d rocks beneath, Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow, Pale in the scatter’d runks of death, She saw the gasping warrior low; While many an eye which ne’er again Could mark the rising orb of day, T’urn’d feebly from the gory plain, Beheld in death her fading ray. Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, They blest her dear propitious light; But now she glimmer’d from above, A sad, funereal torch of night. Faded is Alva’s noble race, And gray her towers are seen afar; No more her heroes urge the chase, Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva’s clan? Why grows the moss on Alva’s stone? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone. And when that gale is fierce and high, A sound is heard in yonder hall; It rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o’er the mould’ring wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; But there no more his banners rise, No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar’s birth, When Angus hail’d his eldest born The vassals round their chieftain’s hearth Crowd to applaud the happy morn. They feast upon the mountain deer, The pibroch raised its piercing note; To gladden more their highland cheer, The strains in martial numbers float: And they who heard the war-notes wild Hoped that one day the pibroch’s strain Should play belore the hero’s child While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is qulckly past, And Angus hails another son; His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva’s dusky hills of wind, The boys in childhood chased the roe, And left their hounds in speed behind. But ere their years of youth are o’er, They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wheel the bright claymore And send the whistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar’s hair, Wildly it stream’d along the gale; But Allan’s locks were bright and fair, And pensive seem’d his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own’d a hero’s soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn’d control, And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear Was shiver’d oft beneath their steel; And Oscar’s bosom scorn’d to fear, But Oscar’s bosom knew to feel; While Allan’s soul belied his form, Unworthy with such charms to dwell: Keen as the lightning of the storm, On foe, his deadly vengeance fell. From high Southannon’s distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame; With Kenneth’s lands to form her dower, Glenalvon’s blue-eyed daughter came; And Oscar claim’d the beauteous bride, And Angus on his Oscar srniled: It soothed the father’s feudal pride Thus to obtain Glenalvon’s child. Hark to the pibroch’s pleasing note! Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong. See how the heroes’ blood-red plumes Assembled wave in Alva’s hall; Each youth his varied plaid assumes, Attending on thir chieftain’s call. It is not war their aid demands, The pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands, Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar? sure ‘tis late: Is this a bridegroom’s ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. At length young Allan join’d the bride; ‘Why comes not Oscar?’ Angus said: Is he not here?’ the youth replied; ‘With me he roved not o’er the glade: ‘Perchance, forgetful of the day, ‘Tis his to chase the bounding roe; Or ocean’s waves prolong his stay; Yet Oscar’s bark is seldom slow.’ ‘Oh, no!’ the anguish’d Sire rejoin’d, ‘Nor chase nor wave, my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind? Would aught to her impede his way? ‘Oh, search, ye chiefs! oh, search around! Allan, with these through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.’ All is confusion — through the vale The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, It rises on the murmuring gale, Till night expands her dusky wings; It breaks the stillness of the night, But echoes through her shades in vain; It sounds through morning’s misty light, But Oscar comes not o’er the plain. Three days,three sleepless nights, the Chief For Oscar search’d each mountaln cave: Then hope is lost; in boundless grief, His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. ‘Oscar! my son! thou God of heaven, Restore the prop of sinking age! Or if that hope no more is given, Yield his assassin to my rage. ‘Yes, on some desert rocky shore My Oscar’s whiten’d bones must lie; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die! ‘Yet he may live, — away, despalr! Be calm, my soul! he yet may live; T’arraign my fate, my voice forbear! O God! my impious prayer forgive. ‘What, if he live for me no more, I sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva’s age is o’er: Alas! can pangs like these be just?’ Thus did the hapless parent mourn, Till Time, which soothes severest woe, Had bade serenity return And made the tear-drop cease to flow. For still some latent hope survived That Oscar might once more appear; His hope now droop’d and now revived, Till Time had told a tedious year. Days roll’d along, the orb of light Again had run his destined race; No Oscar bless’d his father’s sight, And sorrow left a fainter trace. For youthful Allan still remain’d, And now his father’s only joy: And Mora’s heart was quickly gain’d, For beauty crown’d the fair-hair’d boy. She thought that Oscar low was laid, And Allan’s face was wondrous fair; If Oscar lived, some other maid Had clairn’d his faithless bosom’s care. And Angus said, if one year more In fruitless hope was pass’d away, His fondest scruples should be o’er, And he would name their nuptial day. Slow roll’d the moons, but blest at last Arrived the dearly destined morn The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lovers’ cheeks adorn! Hark to the pibroch’s pleasing note! Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong. Again the clan, in festive crowd, Throng through the gate of Alva’s hall; The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, And all their former joy recall. But who is he, whose darken’d brow Glooms in the midst of general mirth? Before his eyes’ far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o’er the hearth. Dark is the robe which wraps his form, And tall his plume of gory red; His voice is like the rising storm, But light and trackless is his tread. ‘Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, The bridegroom’s health is deeply quaff’d; With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, And all combine to hail the draught. Sudden the stranger-chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush’d; And Angus’ cheek with wonder glows, And Mora’s tender bosom blush’d ‘Old rnan!’he cried,’this pledge is done; Thou saw’st...