« AnteriorContinuar »
The dying chords are strung anew,
songs of bliss and siglis of flame.
[Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ.
A hapless infant here I roam,
My breast was never pity's foe,
FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS
[Μηδαμο και πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.]
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
My voice shall raise no impious strain
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by thy side,
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around,
HARROW, Dec. 1, 1804.
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Departing for a distant shore.
And joy will mingle with our tears ;
The shelter of our infant years;
Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
We lingering look a last farewell,
O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play ;
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
It dared to give your slumbering eyes : ["My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as Exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Æschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master), but coully. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subsiile into poesy." -- Byron Diary.]
See still the little painted bark,
In which I row'd you o’er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past—our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone :
Without thee what will they avail?
The anguish of a last embrace ?
You bid a long adieu to peace.
For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu !
TO M. S. G.
WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.
Whene'er I dream of that
For that,—would banish its repose.
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
I would not force a painful tear.
Hast seen my ardent Aame too well;
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know : With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine, Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to save,
I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair,
And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shalt thou be to love.
THINK'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay; And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say ?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown • Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb’d with deep sorrow is thine own.