Джордж Гордон Байрон (George Gordon Byron)

To Caroline (Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?)

1.

Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
⁠   Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
   ⁠But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.


2.

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,
⁠   I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
⁠   Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this—


3.

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
⁠   Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning.
⁠   With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

4.

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
⁠   Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
⁠   Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

5.

Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
⁠   Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
⁠   In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.

6.

Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me,
⁠   Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
⁠   Perhaps they will leave unmolested—the dead. 

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