Читать книгу Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 63

Hark!—heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?

Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote,

Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath

Tyrants and Tyrants' slaves?—the fires of Death,

The Bale-fires flash on high:—from rock to rock!bx Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,61 Red Battle stamps his foot, and Nations feel the shock.