Читать книгу Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 14

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Not in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,

Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,

Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beamed—

To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,

Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring—

As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,

Love's image upon earth without his wing,15 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the Rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me

My years already doubly number thine;16 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,

Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,

Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,17 Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear Maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless Lily blend.

Such is thy name18 with this my verse entwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall casti On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once numbered—should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the Lyre Of him who hailed thee loveliest, as thou wast— Such is the most my Memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?j