Lord Byron

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meni se vise svidja na engleskom, znam je celu napamet (inace, napisana je na staroengleskom)


WHEN WE TWO PARTED


When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow -
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me -
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: -
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met -
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears.

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"When we two parted" :sigh:

.................


from "Childe Harold"

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."

...

..............................


Prometheus

"Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus'd thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine-and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself-and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory."

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THE EVE OF WATERLOO

by: Lord Byron (1788-1824)

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before;
Arm! arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips -- "The foe! they come! they come!"


SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

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Da, mi necemo lutati vise
u kasnoj noci ti i ja,
i zalud srce ljubavlju dise
i mesecina jos uvek sja.

Jer dusa krece vec iz grudi
uz mac sto hrli sad u boj;
za predahom mi srce zudi,
i ljubav trazi kraj vec svoj.

I zalud noc sva voljenjem dise
i zalud njoj ce uskoro kraj,
nas dvoje nece lutati vise
uz mesecine blistav sjaj.

----------- Dopuna 01 Nov 2005 1042

Kad rastasmo se tada
uz muk i suza breme,
a bol nam srca savlada,
na vrlo dugo vreme,
bled, hladan, obraz ti posta,
ko led sam celov tvoj;
a meni tek tuga osta
kroz ceo život moj.
Tog jutra rosu ledenu
sred svog osetih čela
ko hladnu strepnju jednu
što obuze me cela.
Ti skrši zavete svoje;
sad mnogom pripadaš, znam;
kad ime spomenu tvoje
i mene samog je sram.
O tebi priča svud bruji,
za me posmrtno zvono;
kroz srce jeza mi struji
što te ljubljaše oni?
Ti nikome od tih ljudi
ne beše tako znana;
bol osta sred mojih grudi
i večno živa rana.
Mi sastasmo se tajno;
sad tajno pamtim, smerno,
što srce ti nehajno
već presta biti verno.
A sretnem li te kada
kroz mnoga leta duga,
moj pozdrav biće tada
sav pusta, nema, tuga.

Dopuna: 08 Nov 2005 23:35

Ona ide u svetlu lepote,
Ko noc blaga u zvezdanom sjaju.
Sve sto ima na svetu krasote:
Svetlog, tamnog - njene oci daju,
Sve neznosti, i divote s njima,
Sto dan blistav ne moze da ima.

Ni zrak manje, niti vise sama
sen u valu crnih joj vitica
Ili u skladu loknica, ili prama
Sto se spusta preko njenog lica,
Preko cela, gde cedne, spokojne
Misli - svoga mesta su dostojne.

Na tom licu koje ozarava
srecni osmeh vecite vedrine;
gde dobrotom svakog ocarava
Mirni odsjaj vecite vrline,
Na tom se divnom licu cita
Ljubav - mira nevina, vecita.

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Stendhal, from Oeuvres Completes v. 35 (Memories of Lord Byron) (1829)

One evening in the autumn of 1816, I entered M. de Breme's box after an excursion on Lake Como; and I discovered something solemn and subdued about the company there. Everyone was silent, and I was listening to the music, when M. de Breme said to me, indicating the man beside me:

"Monsieur Beyle, this is Lord Byron." He then introduced Lord Byron to me in the same way. I saw a young man whose eyes reflected pride, with an added quality of generosity; he was not at all large. Then I remembered Lara. And on second glance I no longer saw Lord Byron as he actually was, but as I imaged the author of Lara ought to be. As the conversation was flagging, M. de Breme sought to get me to speak; but it was impossible: I was filled with timidity and tenderness...

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Kad je na leta mnoga...

Kad je na leta mnoga trebalo,placuc nemo i srca slomljenoga,
da se rastanemo,
bledilo tvojih obraza i tvojih usana led jasno mi,jasno predskaza
nesrecnih godina sled!
Jutarnja rosa sto pade ledena na me sa granja nagovestaj mi dade
danasnjih osecanja.
Prekrsi sve sto rece,slavna si sad-al cime?Stid me zbog tebe pece
kada ti spominju ime.
Ja cujem,kad pomenu tebe,mrtvacka zvona,i lako stresem se,srce zazebe:
zasto te voleh onako?
I ne slute za nas dvoje oni sto tebe su znali:dugo ce,dugo moje
srce za tobom da zali.
U potaji smo se sreli,u cutnji sad jadujem dane:sto srce ti zaborav preli?
Sto duh tvoj da me obmane?
Ako se ikad ja i ti na svetu jos sretnemo,kako cu pozdraviti tebe?
-Placuci nemo.