Max level clans will get a fourth bounty to complete each week. Exotic catalysts will also be making a return in season 6. Clans who reach rank five will have an increased drop chance for strike and crucible catalysts when completing those activities with clanmates.
The final keys from the Last Wish raid — Ethereal Keys — will only be able to stack up to five in Season of the Drifter. Players will no longer be able to stack up as many keys as they want and dump them for powerful gear the next time a power boost comes around. Iron Banner bounties will also expire when the new season starts. Sign up for the newsletter Patch Notes A weekly roundup of the best things from Polygon Just one more thing! Please check your email to find a confirmation email, and follow the steps to confirm your humanity.
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned, The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned, The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilom kings did make repair; But now the wild flowers round them only breathe: Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! With diadem hight foolscap, lo! And ever since that martial synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name; And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. How will posterity the deed proclaim!
To horse! But here the Babylonian whore had built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt. Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride? But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.
But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed, Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among. Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest; Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed. Oh, lovely Spain!
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great? Awake, ye sons of Spain! Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? By Heaven! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share: The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain Sophistry! Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? O Albuera, glorious field of grief! Peace to the perished! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
Inevitable hour! Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. How carols now the lusty muleteer?
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; A little moment deigneth to delay: Soon will his legions sweep through these the way; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah, Spain! No step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear? Match me, ye climes! O thou, Parnassus! What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing. Oft have I dreamed of thee! When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Of thee hereafter. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days, But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice! A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.
When Paphos fell by Time—accursed Time! The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee— The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee, And fixed her shrine within these walls of white; Though not to one dome circumscribeth she Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why?
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy saint adorers count the rosary: Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free Well do I ween the only virgin there From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away, Away, thou heedless boy! With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight!
Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the matadores around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Once more through all he bursts his thundering way— Vain rage!
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. He stops—he starts—disdaining to decline: Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears on high: The corse is piled—sweet sight for vulgar eyes; Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by. What private feuds the troubled village stain! But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, His withered sentinel, duenna sage! And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage, Have passed to darkness with the vanished age. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But viewed them not with misanthropic hate; Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song, But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, Alas! I cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang even thou must fail to soothe? It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before.
What exile from himself can flee? Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake: Oh! What is that worst? Adieu, fair Cadiz! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? When all were changing, thou alone wert true, First to be free, and last to be subdued. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Strange retribution! When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? And thou, my friend! What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest? Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most! Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here!
Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so: Patience! Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! Ancient of days! Son of the morning, rise! Come—but molest not yon defenceless urn! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps: Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.
Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light!
To hear each voice we feared to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! There, thou! Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne! Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign— The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia! Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred! But where is Harold? Little recked he of all that men regret; No loved one now in feigned lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes.
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. And oh, the little warlike world within! White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.
Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale, Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way. What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these!
The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: Such be our fate when we return to land! Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? Ah, happy years! None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; A flashing pang!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn—lo, land!
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. Sweet Florence! If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed, Still to the last it rankles, a disease, Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; Though always changing, in her aspect mild: From her bare bosom let me take my fill, Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.
Land of Albania! Dark Sappho! Could she not live who life eternal gave? Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised, Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear; Churchman and votary alike despised. Foul Superstition! Monastic Zitza! Here in the sultriest season let him rest, Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: The plain is far beneath—oh!
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. What valley echoed the response of Jove? All, all forgotten—and shall man repine That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? Cease, fool! Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, While busy preparation shook the court; Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; Within, a palace, and without a fort, Here men of every clime appear to make resort. Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play are found; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; Hark!
God is great! But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again: Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in. Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While Gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face, The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. Where is the foe that ever saw their back?
Who can so well the toil of war endure? Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: Their wrath how deadly! Vain fear! Childe Harold at a little distance stood, And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie, Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee: And as the flames along their faces gleamed, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed, While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed: Tambourgi!
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore.
I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy: Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth; Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe: Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!
Fair Greece! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long accustomed bondage uncreate? Spirit of Freedom! In all save form alone, how changed! Hereditary bondsmen!
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? Shades of the Helots! Yet mark their mirth—ere lenten days begin, That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, In motley robe to dance at masking ball, And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.
And whose more rife with merriment than thine, O Stamboul! Glanced many a light caique along the foam, Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, No thought had man or maid of rest or home, While many a languid eye and thrilling hand Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still: Oh Love! To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust: and when Can man its shattered splendour renovate, Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Such was the scene—what now remaineth here? Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste: But spare its relics—let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced!
Not for such purpose were these altars placed. For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading bays— Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please where none are left to love.
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! What is my being? How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed! But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak!
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,—not as now we part, But with a hope. Once more upon the waters! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. What am I?
WEEK 8 BETTING LINE
How to farm Ethereal Keys Key farming is simple: just beat Riven. The catch here is that players will be able to repeatedly fight the boss and get keys without waiting for the weekly reset. Whenever the Last Wish raid is available in the weekly rotator, players will be able to farm every loot source in the activity except for the hidden chests. This includes Riven herself. Apart from the small pool of loot that she drops after her Taken Heart is destroyed, players will be able to get one Ethereal Key per run.
Every Ethereal Key that drops after reaching the cap will be sent to the Postmaster, who can hold one extra five-stack, resulting in 10 storable keys in total. One key per account. Ah, ok. I take it the other keys will normally drop from the raid bosses. Are they guaranteed drops or just RNG as usual? I cleared Kalli last week, but didn't get a key. Thiel posted You need to kill her 8 times to get a key. We used to have empires ruled by emperors. There used to be kingdoms lead by kings.
Now all we got are countries. Thiel 4 years ago 10 mike posted Don't know, Riven drops one guarantee I don't know if the other bosses can even drop the key.
How many ethereal keys can you hold destiny 2 week two nfl betting lines
How To INCREASE ONE THOUSAND VOICES DROP RATE! (Farm Now)
1 comments for “How many ethereal keys can you hold destiny 2”
ascoli vs spezia betting expert nba