Джордж Гордон БайронAWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!

1.

Away, away, ye notes of Woe!
⁠Be silent, thou once soothing Strain,
Or I must flee from hence—for, oh!
⁠I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days—
⁠But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
⁠On what I am—on what I was.

2.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
⁠Is hushed, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat
⁠A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
⁠ dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was Harmony
⁠Is worse than discord to my heart!

3.

'Tis silent all!—but on my ear
⁠The well remembered Echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,
⁠A voice that now might well be still:
Yet oft my doubting Soul 'twill shake;
⁠Ev'n Slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till Consciousness will vainly wake
⁠To listen, though the dream be flown.

4.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
⁠Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A Star that trembled o'er the deep,
⁠Then turned from earth its tender beam.
But he who through Life's dreary way
⁠Must pass, when Heaven is veiled in wrath,
Will long lament the vanished ray
⁠That scattered gladness o'er his path.

December 8, 1811.
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]