3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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СКАЧАТЬ longest, not the twenty-first of June,

      Sees half the business in a wicked way

      On which three single hours of moonshine smile—

      And then she looks so modest all the while.

      There is a dangerous silence in that hour,

      A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul

      To open all itself, without the power

      Of calling wholly back its self-control;

      The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,

      Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,

      Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws

      A loving languor, which is not repose.

      And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced

      And half retiring from the glowing arm,

      Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;

      Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,

      Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist;

      But then the situation had its charm,

      And then—God knows what next—I can't go on;

      I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.

      O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,

      With your confounded fantasies, to more

      Immoral conduct by the fancied sway

      Your system feigns o'er the controulless core

      Of human hearts, than all the long array

      Of poets and romancers:—You 're a bore,

      A charlatan, a coxcomb—and have been,

      At best, no better than a go-between.

      And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs,

      Until too late for useful conversation;

      The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,

      I wish indeed they had not had occasion,

      But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

      Not that remorse did not oppose temptation;

      A little still she strove, and much repented

      And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'—consented.

      'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward

      To those who could invent him a new pleasure:

      Methinks the requisition 's rather hard,

      And must have cost his majesty a treasure:

      For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard,

      Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);

      I care not for new pleasures, as the old

      Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.

      O Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing,

      Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt:

      I make a resolution every spring

      Of reformation, ere the year run out,

      But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,

      Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout:

      I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed,

      And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd.

      Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take—

      Start not! still chaster reader—she 'll be nice hence—

      Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;

      This liberty is a poetic licence,

      Which some irregularity may make

      In the design, and as I have a high sense

      Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit

      To beg his pardon when I err a bit.

      This licence is to hope the reader will

      Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day,

      Without whose epoch my poetic skill

      For want of facts would all be thrown away),

      But keeping Julia and Don Juan still

      In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'll say

      'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure

      About the day—the era 's more obscure.

      We 'll talk of that anon.—'T is sweet to hear

      At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep

      The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

      By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep;

      'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;

      'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep

      From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high

      The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

      'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

      Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;

      'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark

      Our coming, and look brighter when we come;

      'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

      Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum

      Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,

      The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

      Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

      In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,

      Purple СКАЧАТЬ