Poésie Lord Byron

Lord Byron histoire et biographie de Lord Byron
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George Gordon Byron était le 6e baron Byron. Il est né le 22 janvier 1788 à Londres et est décédé le 19 avril 1824 à Missolonghi en Grèce à seulement 36 ans. Il figure parmi les plus célèbres poètes de la littérature anglaise du début du 19ème siècle. Aujourd’hui encore, son nom est réputé à l’échelle mondiale. L’auteur est connu pour son style assez classique et figure parmi les principaux acteurs du romantisme aux côtés de Wordsworth, Robert Southey ou encore Coleridge.

Sa carrière littéraire

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.

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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

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

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,

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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

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

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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Poèmes et textes

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter,
Which flies on wings of light-heel’d Mercuries,
Who do such things because they know no better;
And then, God knows what mischief may arise,
When love links two young people in one fetter,
Vile assignations, and adulterous beds,
Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads.

 

Poèmes

Lord Byron

Poèmes et textes

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),
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni,
They peep from out the blind, or o’er the bar;
And truth to say, they’re mostly very pretty,
And rather like to show it, more’s the pity!

 

Poèmes

Lord Byron

Poèmes et textes

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,
The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree,
In many a nameless being we retrace,
whose course, and home we knew not, nor shall know,
Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.

 

Poèmes

Lord Byron

Poèmes et textes

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;
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal,
Were ‘t not impossible, besides a shame:
The face recalls some face, as’t were with pain,
You once have seen, but ne’er will see again.

 

Poèmes

Lord Byron

Poèmes et textes

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;
It may perhaps be also to your zest,
And that’s the cause I rhyme upon it so:
‘Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife,
And self; but such a woman! love in life!

 

Poèmes

Lord Byron

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