(Aimé Martin.-BIB.UNIVERS., sec. VI, chap. IV.)
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(Lord Byron.) |
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�Adieu, adieu! my native shore |
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fades o'er the waters blue |
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the night-winds sigh-the breakers roar |
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ands shrieks the wilds seamen. |
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You sun that sets upon the sea |
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we follow in his flight; |
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farewell awhile to him and thee, |
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my native Land-Good Night! |
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�A few short hours and he will rise |
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to give the morrow birth; |
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and I shall hail the main and skies, |
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but not my mother Earth. |
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Deserted is my own good hall |
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its earth is desolate; |
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Wild weeds are gathering in the wall: |
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my dog howls at the gate. [238] |
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�Come hither, hither, my little page! |
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Why dost thou weep aud wail? |
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Or dost thou dread the billow's rage. |
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Or tremble at the gale: |
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but dash the tear drop from thine eye; |
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our ship is swift and strong: |
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our fleetest falcon scarce can fly |
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more merrily along�. |
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�Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high |
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I fear not wave norwind; |
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yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I |
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am sorrowful in mind; |
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for I have from my father gone, |
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a mother whom I love, |
30 |
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and have no friend, save these alone, |
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but thee and one above. |
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�My father blessed me fervently |
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yet did not much complain; |
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but sorely will my mother sigh |
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till I come back again�- |
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�Enough, enough, my little lad |
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such tears become thine eye; |
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if I thy guileless bosom had |
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mine own would not be dry. |
40 |
[240] |
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�Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. |
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Why dost thou look so pale? |
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Or dost thou dread a French foeman |
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or shiver at the gale?�- |
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�Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? |
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Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; |
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but thinking on an absent wife |
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will blanche a faithful cheek. |
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�My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall |
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along the bordering lake, |
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and when they on their father call, |
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what answer shall she make?-� |
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�Enough, enough, my yeoman good, |
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thy grief let none gainsay: |
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but I who am of lighter mood, |
55 |
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will laugh to flee away. |
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�For who would trust the seeming sighs |
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of wife or paramour? |
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Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes |
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we late saw streaming o'er. |
60 |
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For pleasures past I do not grieve, |
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nor perils gathering near; |
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my greatest grief is that I leave |
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no thing that claims a tear. [242] |
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�And now I'm in the world alone, |
65 |
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upon the wide, wide sea: |
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but why should I for others groan, |
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when none will sigh for me? |
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Perchance my dog will whine in vain, |
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till fed by stranger hands; |
70 |
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but long ere I come back again, |
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he'd tear me where he stands. |
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�With thee my bark I'll swiftly go |
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athwart the foaming brine; |
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nor care what land thou bear'st me to, |
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so not again to mine |
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welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! |
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And when ye fail my sight, |
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welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! |
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My native Land-Good Night!� [237] |
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(Lord Byron.) |
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��Adiós! mi natal orilla |
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en el azul del mar se desvanece; |
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mugen los vientos, la paviota chilla, |
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y el inclemente mar sin cesar crece. |
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Del sol que se hunde bajo el mar... allí |
5 |
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del sol vamos en dos; |
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adiós por poco a él, y a ti, |
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O patria mía.-�Adiós! |
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Dentro de breve momento |
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radiante el sol saldrá; |
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saludaré al firmamento, |
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mas no a mi patria ya. |
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Desierto mi hogar se nota, |
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mi casa toda desierta; |
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de sus muros yerba brota; |
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mi perro aúlla en la puerta. [239] |
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�Ven acá, ven acá, paje leal! |
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�Por qué ta faz demudada? |
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�Lloras por el vendaval, |
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o por la mar agitada? |
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Tu lágrima enjuga, sí, |
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que el buque es fuerte, es velero, |
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nuestro halcón más ligero |
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apenas volará así. |
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-Crezca el mar, el viento chille: |
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ni el viento temo ni el mar; |
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mas, Sir Childe (8), no os maraville |
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que así me abrume el pesar |
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pues de mi padre me ausento, |
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de mi madre... Y que estos dos |
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yo más amigos no cuento, |
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excepto uno arriba -y vos. |
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Sin quejarse mi buen padre |
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con gran fervor me bendijo; |
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mas �cuál llorará la madre |
35 |
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hasta que regrese el hijo? |
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-Basta, paje, bien has hecho: |
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de tu amor el llanto es fruto; |
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si yo tuviera tu pecho |
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no vieras mi rostro enjuto. |
40 |
[241] |
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Ven acá, ven acá, buen montañés, |
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�tu palidez es mortal! |
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�Al enemigo francés |
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le tiemblas, o al vendaval? |
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-��Temblar por mi! �Dios clemente! |
45 |
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No seré tan débil... no. |
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Mas pienso en mi esposa ausente, |
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y el pecho se estremeció. |
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Junto habitan mis hijos y su madre |
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a la laguna, y junto a tu morada; |
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si mis hijos preguntan por su padre. |
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�Qué les dirá mi esposa? �Desdichada! |
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-Basta ya, vasallo mio, |
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cruel pesar tu pecho encierra; |
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más, ligero yo me río |
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de abandonar a Inglaterra. |
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Porque, �quién fía en el dolor o enojos |
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de un amante o mujer? |
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Nuevo galán hoy secará los ojos |
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que vi llorando ayer. |
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De mi suerte venidera |
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ni del pasado me quejo |
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mi pesar es que no dejo |
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ni una lágrima siquiera. [243] |
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Y ahora en el mundo solo me hallo, aquí |
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sobre el ancho, el ancho mar: |
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�si nadie llora por mí, |
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por quién tengo de llorar? |
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Tal vez llore mi sabueso; |
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mas sustentado por extraña mano, |
70 |
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si dentro un tiempo donde está regreso, |
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desgarraráme con furor insano. |
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Contigo �oh barca mía! voy ligero |
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cruzando el mar que aumenta su porfía... |
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Llévame donde quieras, eso quiero; |
75 |
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mas no a la patria mía. |
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�Bienvenidas las olas y los puertos! |
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�Cuando a mis ojos faltaran los dos, |
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bienvenidas las cuevas, los desiertos!- |
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�Oh patria mía! -�Adiós! |
80 |
[242] |
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(Lord Byron) |
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Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, |
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Alas! I cannot smile again: |
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yet heaven avert that ever thou |
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should weep, and haply weep in vain. [244] |
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And dost thou ask, what secret woe, |
5 |
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I bear, corroding joy and youth? |
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And will thou vainly seek to know |
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a pang ev'n thou must fail to soothe? |
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It is not love, it is not hate, |
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nor low ambition's honours lost, |
10 |
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that bids me loathe my present state, |
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and fly from all I prized the most: |
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It is that weariness which springs |
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from all I meet, or hear, or see: |
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to me no pleasure beauty brings, |
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thine eyes have not a charm for me. |
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It is that settled, ceaseless gloom |
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the fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; |
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that will not look beyond the tomb, |
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but cannot hope for rest before. |
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What exile from himself can flee? |
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To Zones, though more aud more remote, |
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still, still pursues where'er I be, |
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the blight of life -the demon, Thought. |
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Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem, |
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and taste of all that I forsake; [246] |
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Oh! may they still of transport dream, |
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and ne'er, at least, like me awake! |
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Through many a clime't tis mine to go |
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with many a retrospection curst; |
30 |
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and all my solace is to know, |
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whate'er betides, I've known the worst. |
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What is that worst? Nay, do not ask- |
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In pity from the search forbear, |
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Smile on -nor venture to unmask |
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man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. [243] |
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(Lord Byron.) |
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No, no sonrías viendo mi pesar: |
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no podría pagarte esta sonrisa; |
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pero no llores, no, el cielo te avisa, |
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que tal vez fuera vano tu llorar. [245] |
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Preguntarásme qué pesar secreto |
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mi juventud corroe y mi alegría, |
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y en vano buscarás con ojo inquieto, |
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como endulzar esa tristeza mía. |
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No es desprecio, no amor, no, por mi fe, |
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ni honor perdido de ambición rastrera, |
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lo que me trae así de esta manera, |
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y hace que hoy odie lo que mas amé. |
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Es cansancio, es la tristeza |
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de cuanto encuentro, veo, u oigo �ah!... sí: |
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ningún placer me causa la belleza, |
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tu ojo no tiene encanto para mí. |
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Es la sentada, es la incesante suerte |
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del fabuloso hebreo, del errante; |
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mirar no puede mas allá de muerte, |
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y aquí no goza paz ni un solo instante. |
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�Quién puede huir de sí? �qué desterrado? |
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�Siempre ay! me sigue con malvado intento, |
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aun en el país más apartado, |
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el diablo de la vida: -el pensamiento. |
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Gozan algunos de un placer risueño, |
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gozan en eso que abandono yo: [247] |
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�que se prolongue su dichoso sueño! |
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Cual yo, del sueño no despierten, no. |
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Mi suerte es ir con afanoso anhelo, |
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de malditos recuerdos perseguido |
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aquí y allá... mas quédame el consuelo, |
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que lo peor de todo he conocido. |
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-�Qué es lo peor? (9) -Sonríe, y no te asombre... |
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olvida tu pregunta, �Dios eterno!... |
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No mires nunca el, corazón del hombre, |
35 |
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vieras que allí encerrado está el infierno.- [246] |
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It is the hour when from the boughs |
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the nightingale's high note is heard; |
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it is the hour when lovers' vows |
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Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; |
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and gentle winds, and waters near, |
5 |
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make music to the lonely ear. |
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Each flower the dews have lightly wet, |
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and in the sky the stars are met, |
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and on the wave is deeper blue, |
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and on the leaf a browner hue, |
10 |
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and in the heaven that clear obscure, |
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so softly dark, and darkly pure, |
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which follows the decline of day, |
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as twilight melts beneath the moon away. [254] |
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II |
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But it is not to list to the waterfall |
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that Parisina leaves her hall, |
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and it is not to gaze on the heavenly light |
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that the lady walks in the shadow of night; |
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and if she sits in Este's bower, |
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't is not for the sake of its full-blown flower- |
20 |
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she listens- but not for the nightingale - |
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though her ear expects as soft a tale. |
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There glides a step through the foliage thick, |
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and her cheek grows pale -and her heart beats quiet. |
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There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, |
25 |
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and her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: |
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a moment more -and they shall meet- |
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't is past -her lover's at her feet. |
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III |
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And what unto them is the world beside, |
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with all its change of time and tide? |
30 |
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Its living things -its earth and sky- |
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are nothing to their mind and eye. |
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And heedless as the dead are they [256] |
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of aught around, above, beneath; |
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as if all else had pass'd away, |
35 |
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they only for each other breathe; |
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their very sighs are full of joy |
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so deep, that did it not decay, |
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that happy madness would destroy |
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the hearts which feel its fiery sway: |
35 |
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of guilt, of peril, do they deem |
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in that tumultuous tender dream? |
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Who that have felt that passion's power, |
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or paused or fear'd in such an hour? |
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Or thought bow brief such moments last? |
40 |
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But yet -they are already past! |
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Alas! we must awake before |
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we know such vision comes no more. |
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IV |
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With many a lingering took they leave |
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the spot of guilty gladness past; |
45 |
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and though they hope, and vow, they grieve, |
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as if that parting were the last. |
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The frequent sigh -the long embrace- [258] |
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the lip that there would cling for ever, |
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while gleams on Parisina's face |
50 |
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the heaven she fears will not forgive her. |
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As if each calmly conscious star |
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beheld her frailty from afar- |
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the frequent sigh, the long embrace, |
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yet binds them to their trysting-place. |
55 |
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But it must come, and they must part |
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in fearful heaviness of heart, |
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with all the deep and shunddering chill |
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which follows fast the deeds of ill. |
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V |
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And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, |
60 |
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to covet there another's bride; |
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but she must lay her conscious head |
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a husband's trusting heart beside. |
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But fever'd in her sleep she seems, |
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and red bet cheek with troubled dreams, |
65 |
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and mutters she in her unrest |
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a name she dare not breathe by day |
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and clasp her Lord unto the brast |
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which pants for one one away: |
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and he to that embrace awakes, |
70 |
[260] |
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and, happy in the thought, mistakes |
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that dreaming sigh, and warm caress, |
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for such as he was wont to bless; |
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and could in very fondness weep |
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o'er her who loves him even in sleep. |
75 |
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VI |
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He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, |
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And listened to each broken word: |
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he bears -Why doth Prince Azo start, |
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as if the Archangel's voice he heard! |
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and well he may.- |
80 |
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And whose that name? 't is Hugo's -his- |
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in sooth he had not deem'd of this!- |
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'T is Hugo's, -he, the child of one |
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he loved- his own all-evil son.- |
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VII |
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He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, |
85 |
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but sheath'd it ere the point was bare.- [262] |
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However unworthy now to breathe, |
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he could not slay a thing so fair- |
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At least not smiling -sleeping- there - |
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Nay more:- he did not wake her then, |
90 |
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but gazed upon her with a glance |
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which, had she roused her from her trance, |
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had frozen her sense to sleep again- |
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and o'er his brow the burning lamp |
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gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. |
95 |
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She spake no more -but still she slumber'd- |
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while, in his thought, her days are number'd. |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
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XII |
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And Azo spoke: �But yesterday |
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I gloried in a wife and son; |
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that dream this morning pass'd away; |
100 |
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ere day declines, I shall have none. [264] |
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My life must linger on alone; |
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well, -let that pass,- there breathes not one |
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who would not do as I have done: |
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those ties are broken -not by me; |
105 |
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let that too pass; -the doom's prepared! |
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Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, |
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and then -thy crime's reward! |
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Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, |
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before its evening stars tire met- |
110 |
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learn if thou there canst he forgiven; |
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its mercy may absolve thee yet. |
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But here, upon the earth beneath, |
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there is no spot where thou and I |
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together, for an hour, could breathe: |
115 |
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farewell! I will not see thee die- |
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But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head- |
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Away! I cannot speak the rest: |
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Go! woman of the wanton breast; |
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Not I, but thou his blood dost shed: |
120 |
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Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, |
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And joy thee in the life I give.� |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [266] |
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XV |
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The Convent bells are ringing, |
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but mournfully and slow; |
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in the gray square turret swinging, |
125 |
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with a deep sound, to and fro. |
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Heavily to the heart they go! |
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Hark! the hymn is singing- |
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The song for the dead below, |
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or the living who shortly shall be so! |
130 |
[253] |
I |
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Es la hora en que resuena |
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entre la enramada amena |
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el cantar del ruiseñor, |
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y en que más dulce nos suena |
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cualquier palabra de amor. |
5 |
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En que el suspiro del viento, |
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y del arroyo el murmullo, |
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forman al oído atento |
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leve y deleitable arrullo |
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y armonioso concento. |
10 |
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En que brillan los astros débilmente, |
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y en que brilla en las flores el rocío, |
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y es más azul el onda que inclemente |
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rompe y se estrella en el peñasco frío, |
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que en medio de la mar alza su frente. |
15 |
[255] |
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En que el color parece más oscuro |
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de las hojas del árbol, y se aduna |
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el resplandor tan dulcemente puro |
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del sol que está en su ocaso, y de la luna, |
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que su curso siguiendo va seguro. |
20 |
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II |
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Si deja Parisina su palacio, |
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no es para oír el límpido arroyuelo; |
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no es para ver la leve luz del cielo, |
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ni los astros que pueblan el espacio. |
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Si en el jardín se sienta en un momento, |
25 |
|
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no es para contemplar la gaya flor: |
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|
escucha, mas no escucha el ruiseñor, |
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no; que anhela escuchar más dulce acento. |
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Sobre las hojas óyese pausado |
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un rumor de pisadas: crece, crece: |
30 |
|
|
la hermosa Parisina palidece, |
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y su pecho palpítale agitado. |
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Entre las ramas una voz resuena, |
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Parisina sonrojase: después, |
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un instante pasó, vedla serena: |
35 |
|
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se encontraron, su amante está a sus pies. |
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III |
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�Qué es para ellos el mundo y sus mudanzas? |
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El cielo, los vivientes, cuanto encierra [257] |
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de más bello la tierra, |
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ni ocupa sus miradas ni sus mentes. |
40 |
|
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A cuanto les rodea indiferentes, |
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cual los que yacen en la tumba helada, |
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está para ello, cuanto les rodea |
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|
reducido a la nada. |
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Uno por otro �míseros! suspiran: |
45 |
|
|
suspirar tan profundo, tan ardiente, |
|
|
que a no calmarse la feliz locura |
|
|
con que entrambos deliran, |
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|
el alma aniquilara que la siente. |
|
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�En culpa quien pensó ni en riesgo alguno, |
50 |
|
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en aquel sueño tierno y tumultuoso |
|
|
de magia seductora? |
|
|
�Quién su influjo sintiendo poderoso |
|
|
salvo escapó de tan difícil hora? |
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|
�Quién pensó en lo fugaz de aquel instante? |
55 |
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Con todo, ya pasó. |
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�Ah! que estos sueños para el fiel amante |
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|
volver no pueden, no! |
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IV |
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De aquel sitio de culpa y de placeres |
|
|
aléjanse con lúgubres miradas: |
60 |
|
|
la esperanza conservan lisonjera |
|
|
que da vida a la vida; |
|
|
y se estremecen, cual si aquella fuera [259] |
|
|
su postrer despedida; |
|
|
los abrazos prolónganse y suspiros: |
65 |
|
|
dividiránse en breve. |
|
|
En tanto Parisina |
|
|
su demudado rostro al suelo inclina: |
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|
ni aun el cielo a contemplarse atreve |
|
|
que en su duelo infinito |
70 |
|
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en el cielo su fallo mira escrito; |
|
|
y si a las puras trémulas estrellas |
|
|
alza la vista, en ellas |
|
|
ve un testimonio fiel de su delito. |
|
|
Se separan, y deben separarse, |
75 |
|
|
devorados de aquel remordimiento, |
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|
de aquel horror profundo, incomprensible, |
|
|
que sigue al vicio con porfiado intento. |
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V |
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|
|
Hugo codicia en su intranquilo lecho |
|
|
a una mujer de singular belleza, |
80 |
|
|
y ella entre tanto apoya la cabeza |
|
|
de su confiado esposo sobre el pecho. |
|
|
Y es su sueño febril, y su semblante |
|
|
se contrae y se enciende: luego acierta |
|
|
a pronunciar un nombre, en un instante, |
85 |
|
|
que no osaría proferir despierta. |
|
|
Y al soñoliento estrecha contra el seno |
|
|
que no late por él, y al dulce abrazo, [261] |
|
|
desvelándose plácido y sereno, |
|
|
se apellida feliz el príncipe Azo. |
90 |
|
|
Los abrazos, suspiros y caricias |
|
|
por suyos reputó. �Cuán halagüeño |
|
|
porvenir columbraba de delicias! |
|
|
��Aun me adora! exclamaba �aun en el sueño!� |
|
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VI |
|
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|
|
Y contra el amoroso corazón |
95 |
|
|
quiere estrecharla, y presta oído atento |
|
|
a sus suspiros... al menor acento... |
|
|
Ya escucha... �Qué fatal revelación! |
|
|
Oyó el príncipe de Azo, que asombrado, |
|
|
como una estatua quédase de hielo, |
100 |
|
|
pálido su semblante y demudado, |
|
|
sus ojos fijos, fijos en el suelo. |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
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|
La palabra que hirióle como un dardo, |
|
|
�Cuál es? -Es Hugo, es Hugo, �suerte acerba! |
|
|
Es el hijo de Blanca, a quien conserva |
105 |
|
|
en su mansión: es Hugo, sí... el bastardo. |
|
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|
|
VII |
|
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|
|
Para lavar la abominable injuria |
|
|
de una mujer infame y criminal |
|
|
hasta la punta desnudo el puñal |
|
|
mas volvióle a envainar con viva furia. |
110 |
[263] |
|
Morir merece; pero... es tan hermosa, |
|
|
�Oh! no se atreve a asesinarla, no, |
|
|
|
|
|
mientras sonríe, en tanto que reposa. |
|
|
�Qué mas? �Qué mas? Ni aun la despertó. |
|
|
Mas clavó en ella tan feroz mirada, |
115 |
|
|
que a despertarse, en su profundo horror |
|
|
con la sangre en las venas, fría, helada, |
|
|
caído hubiera en eternal sopor. |
|
|
Y a la luz de una lámpara que ardía |
|
|
con claridad dudosa, intermitente, |
120 |
|
|
el sudor se observaba que corría |
|
|
inundando del Príncipe la frente. |
|
|
Y ella cesó de hablar... siguió dormida; |
|
|
y en tanto en su interior el príncipe Azo |
|
|
inflexible, resuelto, fija el plazo, |
125 |
|
|
que ha de acabar tan vergonzosa vida. |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
|
|
|
XII |
|
|
|
|
|
El Príncipe empero -�Tuve hasta ayer |
|
|
un hijo y una esposa: hoy empero |
|
|
este sueño pasó tan lisonjero, |
|
|
que la mitad formaba de mi ser. |
130 |
[265] |
|
Al caer de la tarde, desvalido |
|
|
quedaré en este mundo: no me importa; |
|
|
no soy, vive Dios, no, no, quien corta |
|
|
los vínculos que a ellos me han unido. |
|
|
Está bien, Hugo: decidí tu suerte; |
135 |
|
|
te aguarda el confesor con diligencia: |
|
|
del alto cielo implora la clemencia, |
|
|
y a recibir preparate la muerte. |
|
|
Tal vez la gracia alcanzarás de Dios, |
|
|
que yo te niego; porque en adelante |
140 |
|
|
no hay en el mundo un sitio do un instante |
|
|
juntos podamos respirar los dos. |
|
|
Adiós... yo no veré la muerte tuya, |
|
|
mas tú verás rodar su vil cabeza; |
|
|
y si �torpe mujer! por tu entereza... |
145 |
|
|
(No puedo más; es bien que aquí concluya...) |
|
|
Al presenciar tan hórrido espectáculo, |
|
|
no mueres de dolor... (ya mas no puedo) |
|
|
no hallo en que vivas el menor obstáculo, |
|
|
goza de vida... yo te la concedo. |
150 |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [267] |
|
|
|
|
XV |
|
|
|
|
|
Del convento suenan ya |
|
|
las campanas... Lento va |
|
|
su triste, lúgubre son, |
|
|
oscilando aquí y allá, |
|
|
lento, lento al corazón. |
155 |
|
|
�Ay! suena el himno profundo, |
|
|
que tanto al alma interesa, |
|
|
por los que han dejado el mundo, |
|
|
o bien por el moribundo |
|
|
que en breve estará en la huesa. |
160 |
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
|