Читать книгу Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 93

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest:

What hallows it upon this Christian shore?

Lo! it is sacred to a solemn Feast:

Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar?

Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore

Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn;

The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;

Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.