| With all its sinful doings, I must say, |
| That Italy’s a
pleasant place to me, |
| Who love to see the sun shine every day, |
| And vines (not
nailed to walls) from tree to tree |
| Festooned, much like the back scene of a
play, |
| Or melodrame,
which people flock to see, |
| When the first act is ended by a dance |
In vineyards copied from the South of
France.
|
| I like on autumn evenings to ride out, |
| Without being
forced to bid my groom be sure |
| My cloak is round his middle strapped
about, |
| Because the
skies are not the most secure ; |
| I know too that, if stopped upon my route, |
| Where the green
alleys windingly allure, |
| Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the
way.— |
In England ’twould be dung, dust, or a
dray.
|
| I also like to dine on becaficas, |
| To see the sun
set, sure he’ll rise to-morrow, |
| Not through a misty morning twinkling weak
as |
| A drunken
man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow, |
| But with all Heaven to himself ; the day
will break as |
| Beauteous as
cloudless, nor be forced to borrow |
| That sort of farthing candlelight which
glimmers |
Where reeking London’s smoky cauldron
simmers.
|
| I love the language, that soft bastard
Latin, |
| Which melts
like kisses from a female mouth, |
| And sounds as if it should be writ on
satin, |
| With
syllables which breathe of the sweet South, |
| And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, |
| That not a
single accent seems uncouth, |
| Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting
guttural, |
Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and
sputter all.
|
| I like the women too (forgive my folly!), |
| From the rich
peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, |
| And large black eyes that flash on you a
volley |
| Of rays that say a
thousand things at once, |
| To the high Dama’s brow, more melancholy, |
| But clear, and
with a wild and liquid glance, |
| Heart on her lips, and soul within her
eyes, |
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
|
| Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! |
| Italian Beauty !
didst thou not inspire |
| Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies |
| With all we know
of Heaven, or can desire, |
| In what he had bequeathed us ?—in what
guise, |
| Though flashing
from the fervour of the lyre, |
| Would words described thy past and
present glow, |
While yet Canova can create below ?
|
| ‘England ! with all thy faults I love thee
still’, |
| I said at Calais,
and have not forgot it ; |
| I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; |
| I like the
government (but that is not it) ; |
| I like the freedom of the press and quill ; |
| I like the Habeas
Corpus (when we’ve got it) ; |
| I like a Parliamentary debate, |
Particularly when ’tis not too late ;
|
| I like the taxes, when they’re not too many
; |
| I like a seacoal
fire, when not too dear ; |
| I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; |
| Have no objection
to a pot of beer ; |
| I like the weather,—when it is not rainy, |
| That is, I like
two months of every year. |
| And so God save the Regent, Church, and
King ! |
Which means that I like all and every
thing.
|
| Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, |
| Poor’s rate,
Reform, my own, the nation’s debt, |
| Our little riots just to show we’re free
men, |
| Our trifling
bankruptcies in the Gazette, |
| Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, |
| All these I can
forgive, and those forget, |
| And greatly venerate our recent glories, |
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.
|
| Lord Byron |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Destruction of the Sennacherib ] [ Growing Old ] [ She Walks in Beauty ] [ Italy versus England ] [ The Eve of Waterloo ] [ from The Prisoner of Chillon ] [ The Isles of Greece ] [ from Don Juan ] |
