George Gordon Byron: Всі вірші поета

Всі вірші Оригінали Переклади

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 5 › »

The Tear

'O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater

Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.'~GRAY

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,

When Truth, in a glance, should appear,

The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,

But the test of affection's a Tear:

by George Gordon Byron

And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?

And wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again:

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--

I would not give that bosom pain.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast;

And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

by George Gordon Byron

Solitude

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold

by George Gordon Byron

Stanzas For Music: There Be None Of Beauty's Daughters

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like Thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charméd ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

by George Gordon Byron

Love's Last Adieu

The roses of love glad the garden of life,

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,

Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,

In vain do we vow for an age to be true;

The chance of an hour may command us to part,

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu!

by George Gordon Byron

Dear Doctor, I have Read your Play

Dear Doctor, I have read your play,

Which is a good one in its way,

Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,

And drenches handkerchief s like towels

With tears that, in a flux of grief,

Afford hysterical relief

To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,

Which your catastrophe convulses.

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Third

Hail, Muse! et cetera.--We left Juan sleeping,

Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,

And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,

Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The First

I want a hero: an uncommon want,

When every year and month sends forth a new one,

Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,

The age discovers he is not the true one;

Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,

I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan-

We all have seen him, in the pantomime,

Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

by George Gordon Byron

Manfred: A Dramatic Poem Act I

Act I.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MANFRED

CHAMOIS HUNTER

ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE

MANUEL

HERMAN

by George Gordon Byron

Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

by George Gordon Byron

The Prisoner Of Chillon

Sonnet on Chillon

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,

For there in thy habitation is the heart -

The heart which love of thee alone can bind;

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd -

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

by George Gordon Byron

Maid Of Athens, Ere We Part

Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh give me back my heart!

Or, since that has left my breast,

Keep it now, and take the rest!

Hear my vow before I go,

Zoë mou, sas agapo!

By those tresses unconfined,

Wood by each Ægean wind;

by George Gordon Byron