Lord Byron - poésie et poèmes de Lord Byron
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Byron le poète
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De par une sensibilité étonnante et un génie irrévocable à maîtriser la rime tel Don Juan qui maniait avec grâce l’épée de la Séduction ; le nom de George Gordon Byron brille encore comme celui de l’une des figures emblématiques du romantisme anglais du XIXème siècle. Or, « qu’est-ce un nom ? Ce n’est ni une main, ni un bras, ni un visage », au-delà du nom de Lord Byron s’illustre un talent jamais égalée et une poésie qui reflète son âme d’une sensibilité singulière. Sa rime reflète ses angoisses, les tragédies qui jonchaient son parcours, ses Amours passionnées et toute la fragilité d’un être hors du commun. Portrait Lord Bryon
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
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I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
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I.
Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted, - not as now we part,
But with a hope. -
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by,
When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
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CANTO THE SECOND.
I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! - but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
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I.
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale - this lowly lay of mine.
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
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Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed -
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?
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poems
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For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter,
Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries,
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poems
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I said that like a picture by Giorgione
Venetian women were, and so they are,
Particularly seen from a balcony
(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar),
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poems
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One of those forms which flit by us, when we
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face;
And, oh! the loveliness at times we see
In momentary gliding, the soft grace,
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poems
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Love in full life and length, not love ideal,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real,
That the sweet model must have been the same;
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poems
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Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best;
And when you to Manfrini's palace go,
That picture (howsoever fine the rest)
Is loveliest to my mind of all the show;
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poems
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They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians,
Black-eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still;
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians,
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill;
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poems
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Of all the places where the Carnival
Was most facetious in the days of yore,
For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball,
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poems
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That is to say, if your religion's Roman,
And you at Rome would do as Romans do,
According to the proverb, — although no man
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poems
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And therefore humbly I would recommend
"The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend,
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poems
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And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes,
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts,
To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes,
Because they have no sauces to their stews;
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poems
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This feast is named the Carnival, which being
Interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh:"
So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing,
Through Lent they live on fish, both salt and fresh.
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poems
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But saving this, you may put on whate'er
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak.
Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair,
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke;
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poems
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You'd better walk about begirt with briars,
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on
A single stitch reflecting upon friars,
Although you swore it only was in fun;
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poems
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And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical,
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews,
And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical,
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos;
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poems
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The moment night with dusky mantle covers
The skies (and the more duskily the better),
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter;
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poems
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'T is known, at least it should be, that throughout
All countries of the Catholic persuasion,
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about,
The people take their fill of recreation,
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poésie
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Sur les collines de la Morée s'abaisse avec lenteur le soleil couchant, plus charmant à sa dernière heure. Ce n'est pas une clarté obscure, comme dans nos climats du nord ; c'est une flamme sans voile, une lumière vivante. Les rayons jaunes qu'il darde sur la mer calmée dorent la verte cime de la vague onduleuse et tremblante. Au vieux rocher d'Égine et à l'île d'Hydra, le dieu de l'allégresse envoie un sourire d'adieu ; il suspend son cours pour éclairer encore ces régions qu'il Aime, mais d'où ses autels ont disparu. L'ombre des montagnes descend rapidement et vient baiser ton golfe glorieux, Salamine indomptée ! Leurs arcs azurés, s'étendant au loin à l'horizon, se revêtent d'un pourpre plus foncé sous la chaleur de son regard ; çà et là sur leurs sommets, des teintes plus éclairées attestent son joyeux passage, et reflètent les couleurs du ciel, jusqu'à ce qu'enfin sa lumière est voilée aux regards de la terre et de l'Océan, et derrière son rocher de Delphes il s'affaisse et s'endort.
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poésie
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Arrière les fictions de vos Romans imbéciles,
ces trames de mensonges tissues par la Folie !
Donnez-moi le doux rayon d'un regard qui vient du cœur,
ou le transport que l'on éprouve au premier baiser de l'Amour.
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poésie
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Crois-tu donc que j'aie vu sans m'émouvoir tes beaux yeux baignés de larmes me supplier de rester ; que j'aie été sourd à tes soupirs qui en disaient plus que des paroles n'auraient pu en dire ?
Quelque vive que fût l'afliction qui faisait couler tes larmes, en voyant ainsi se briser nos espérances et notre Amour, crois-moi, fille adorée, ce cœur saignait d'une blessure non moins profonde que la tienne.
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poésie
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O toi que j'ai tant aimé, toi qui me seras éternellement cher, de combien d'inutiles pleurs j'ai arrosé ta tombe révérée ? Que de gémissements j'ai poussés à ton lit de mort, pendant que tu te débattais dans ta dernière agonie ! Si des larmes avaient pu retarder le tyran dans sa marche, si des gémissements avaient pu détourner sa faux impitoyable, si la jeunesse et la vertu avaient pu obtenir de lui un court délai, et la beauté lui faire oublier sa proie, à ce spectre, tu vivrais encore, charme de mes yeux, aujourd'hui gonflés de pleurs ;
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poésie
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sur la mort d'une jeune demoiselle, cousine de l'auteur, et qui lui fut bien chère
Les vents retiennent leur haleine ; le soir est calme et sombre ; aucun zéphyr n'erre dans le bocage ; et moi, je vais revoir la tombe de ma Marguerite, et répandre des Fleurs sur la cendre que j'Aime.
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