Читать книгу Don Juan (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 591

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,

And Vesper bell's that rose the boughs along;

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng

Which learned from this example not to fly

From a true lover,—shadowed my mind's eye.225