Handbook for travellers in central Italy [by O. Blewitt].

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Página 412 - Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death.bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.
Página 288 - The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, And put it to the foil. But you, 0 you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best!
Página 102 - And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and of such as have cattle.
Página 412 - And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald. How profound The gulf ! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which downward, worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent...
Página 202 - In a villa overhanging the towers of Florence, on the steep slope of that lofty hill crowned by the mother city the ancient Fiesole, in gardens which Tully might have envied, with Ficino, Landino and Politian at his side, he delighted his hours of leisure with the beautiful visions of Platonic philosophy, for which the summer stillness of an Italian sky appears the most congenial accompaniment.
Página 396 - Sì poco il verde in su la cima dura, Se non è giunta dall'etadi grosse. Credette Cimabue, nella pintura, Tener lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido, SI che la fama di colui oscura.
Página 355 - Ancor li piedi nell' arena arsiccia; Ma sempre al bosco li ritieni stretti. 75 Tacendo ne venimmo là ove spiccia Fuor della selva un picciol fiumicello, Lo cui rossore ancor mi raccapriccia. Quale del Bulicame esce il ruscello, Che parton poi tra lor le peccatrici, 80 Tal per l' arena giù sen giva quello. Lo fondo suo ed ambo le pendici Fatt' eran pietra, ei margini da lato ; Perch' io m' accorsi che il passo era lici.
Página 412 - To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings, through the vale: — Look back! Lo! where it comes like an eternity, As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, Horribly beautiful!
Página 412 - The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set...
Página 422 - The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!

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