Читать книгу Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 64

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,

His blood-red tresses deepening in the Sun,

With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,

And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon

Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent Nations meet,

To shed before his Shrine the blood he deems most sweet.