Читать книгу Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 84

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;

Match me, ye harems of the land! where now

I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;ct Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters—deign to know, There your wise Prophet's Paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.