3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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СКАЧАТЬ the young beams of the excluded sun,

      Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;

      And need he had of slumber yet, for none

      Had suffer'd more—his hardships were comparative

      To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narrative.'

      Not so Haidee: she sadly toss'd and tumbled,

      And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er

      Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled,

      And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;

      And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,

      And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore

      In several oaths—Armenian, Turk, and Greek—

      They knew not what to think of such a freak.

      But up she got, and up she made them get,

      With some pretence about the sun, that makes

      Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;

      And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks

      Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet

      With mist, and every bird with him awakes,

      And night is flung off like a mourning suit

      Worn for a husband,—or some other brute.

      I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,

      I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late

      I have sat up on purpose all the night,

      Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate;

      And so all ye, who would be in the right

      In health and purse, begin your day to date

      From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore,

      Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.

      And Haidee met the morning face to face;

      Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush

      Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race

      From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush,

      Like to a torrent which a mountain's base,

      That overpowers some Alpine river's rush,

      Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread;

      Or the Red Sea—but the sea is not red.

      And down the cliff the island virgin came,

      And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew,

      While the sun smiled on her with his first flame,

      And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew,

      Taking her for a sister; just the same

      Mistake you would have made on seeing the two,

      Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair,

      Had all the advantage, too, of not being air.

      And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd

      All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw

      That like an infant Juan sweetly slept;

      And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe

      (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept

      And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw,

      Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death

      Bent with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath.

      And thus like to an angel o'er the dying

      Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there

      All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying,

      As o'er him the calm and stirless air:

      But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying,

      Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair

      Must breakfast—and betimes, lest they should ask it,

      She drew out her provision from the basket.

      She knew that the best feelings must have victual,

      And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be;

      Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little,

      And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea;

      And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle;

      I can't say that she gave them any tea,

      But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey,

      With Scio wine,—and all for love, not money.

      And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and

      The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan;

      But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand,

      And without word, a sign her finger drew on

      Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand;

      And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one,

      Because her mistress would not let her break

      That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake.

      For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek

      A purple hectic play'd like dying day

      On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak

      Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay,

      Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak;

      And his black curls were dewy with the spray,

      Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt,

      Mix'd СКАЧАТЬ