The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry. George Gordon Byron

Чтение книги онлайн.

      In Nottingham county there lives at Swan Green,1

      As curst an old Lady as ever was seen;

      And when she does die, which I hope will be soon,

      She firmly believes she will go to the Moon!

      John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,

      A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;

      He carried so much and he carried so fast,

      He could carry no more – so was carried at last;

      For the liquor he drank being too much for one,

      He could not carry off; – so he's now carri-on.

      O thou! who rollest in yon azure field,

      Round as the orb of my forefather's shield,

      Whence are thy beams? From what eternal store

      Dost thou, O Sun! thy vast effulgence pour?

      In awful grandeur, when thou movest on high,

      The stars start back and hide them in the sky;

      The pale Moon sickens in thy brightening blaze,

      And in the western wave avoids thy gaze.

      Alone thou shinest forth – for who can rise

      Companion of thy splendour in the skies!

      The mountain oaks are seen to fall away —

      Mountains themselves by length of years decay —

      With ebbs and flows is the rough Ocean tost;

      In heaven the Moon is for a season lost,

      But thou, amidst the fullness of thy joy,

      The same art ever, blazing in the sky!

      When tempests wrap the world from pole to pole,

      When vivid lightnings flash and thunders roll,

      Thou far above their utmost fury borne,

      Look'st forth in beauty, laughing them to scorn.

      But vainly now on me thy beauties blaze —

      Ossian no longer can enraptured gaze!

      Whether at morn, in lucid lustre gay,

      On eastern clouds thy yellow tresses play,

      Or else at eve, in radiant glory drest,

      Thou tremblest at the portals of the west,

      I see no more! But thou mayest fail at length,

      Like Ossian lose thy beauty and thy strength,

      Like him – but for a season – in thy sphere

      To shine with splendour, then to disappear!

      Thy years shall have an end, and thou no more

      Bright through the world enlivening radiance pour,

      But sleep within thy clouds, and fail to rise,

      Heedless when Morning calls thee to the skies!

      Then now exult, O Sun! and gaily shine,

      While Youth and Strength and Beauty all are thine.

      For Age is dark, unlovely, as the light

      Shed by the Moon when clouds deform the night,

      Glimmering uncertain as they hurry past.

      Loud o'er the plain is heard the northern blast,

      Mists shroud the hills, and 'neath the growing gloom,

      The weary traveller shrinks and sighs for home.

      Huzza! Hodgson3, we are going,

      Our embargo's off at last;

      Favourable breezes blowing

      Bend the canvas o'er the mast.

      From aloft the signal's streaming,

      Hark! the farewell gun is fired;

      Women screeching, tars blaspheming,

      Tell us that our time's expired.

      Here's a rascal

      Come to task all,

      Prying from the Custom-house;

      Trunks unpacking

      Cases cracking,

      Not a corner for a mouse

      Scapes unsearched amid the racket,

      Ere we sail on board the Packet.

      Now our boatmen quit their mooring,

      And all hands must ply the oar;

      Baggage from the quay is lowering,

      We're impatient, push from shore.

      "Have a care! that case holds liquor —

      Stop the boat – I'm sick – oh Lord!"

      "Sick, Ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker,

      Ere you've been an hour on board."

      Thus are screaming

      Men and women,

      Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;

      Here entangling,

      All are wrangling,

      Stuck together close as wax. —

      Such the general noise and racket,

      Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

      Now we've reached her, lo! the Captain,

      Gallant Kidd,4 commands the crew;

      Passengers their berths are clapt in,

      Some to grumble, some to spew.

      "Hey day! call you that a cabin?

      Why't is hardly three feet square!

      Not enough to stow СКАЧАТЬ