Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography). Lord Byron. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Lord Byron
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sport that oft invites

       The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain.

       Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights

       In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.

       What private feuds the troubled village stain!

       Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,

       Enough, alas! in humble homes remain,

       To meditate 'gainst friend the secret blow,

      LXXXI.

      But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,

      LXXXII.

      Oh! many a time and oft, had Harold loved,

       Or dreamed he loved, since Rapture is a dream;

       But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,

       For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream;

       And lately had he learned with truth to deem

       Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:

       How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,

      LXXXIII.

      Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,

       Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;

       Not that Philosophy on such a mind

       E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:

      LXXXIV.

      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?

       Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:

       Yet once he struggled 'gainst the Demon's sway,

       And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,

       Poured forth his unpremeditated lay,

       To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

      1.

      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.

      2.

      And dost thou ask what secret woe

       I bear, corroding Joy and Youth?

       And wilt thou vainly seek to know

       A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe?

      3.

      It is not love, it is not hate,

       Nor low Ambition's honours lost,

       That bids me loathe my present state,

       And fly from all I prized the most:

      4.

      It is that weariness which springs

       From all I meet, or hear, or see:

       To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

       Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

      5.

      It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

       The fabled Hebrew Wanderer bore;

       That will not look beyond the tomb,

       But cannot hope for rest before.

      6.

      7.

      Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

       And taste of all that I forsake;

       Oh! may they still of transport dream,

       And ne'er—at least like me—awake!

      8.

      Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

       With many a retrospection curst;

       And all my solace is to know,

       Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

      9.

      What is that worst? Nay do not ask—

       In pity from the search forbear:

       Smile on—nor venture to unmask

       Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.

      Jan. 25. 1810.—[MS.]

      LXXXV.

      Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

       Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

       When all were changing thou alone wert true,

      LXXXVI.