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¹Ùº§·Ð °­°¡¿¡ ¾É¾Æ ¿ì¸®´Â ¿ï¾úµµ´Ù  By the Rivers of Babylon
¿ì¸® µÑ Çì¾îÁú ¶§                             When We Two Parted
±æ ¾ø´Â ½£¿¡ ±â»ÝÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù                   There Is A Pleasure in The Pathless Woods
¾ÆÅ×³× ¾Æ°¡¾¾¿©, ¿ì¸® Çì¾îÁö±â Àü¿¡ Maid of Athens, ere we part
±×³à´Â ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô °È´Â´Ù                     Beauty
ÀÌÁ¦´Â ´õ ÀÌ»ó Çì¸ÅÁö ¸»ÀÚ               A-Roving

¹Ùº§·Ð °­°¡¿¡¼­ ¾É¾Æ¼­ ¿ì¸®´Â ¿ï¾úµµ´Ù.

                   - ¹ÙÀÌ·±


¿ì¸®´Â ¹Ùº§ÀÇ ¹°°¡¿¡ ¾É¾Æ¼­ ¿ï¾úµµ´Ù.

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¾àÅ»ÀÚÀÇ ³ë·¡¿¡ ¸ÂÃßÁö ¾Ê°Ú³ë¶ó°í.


 
By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept

             - George, Gordon, Lord Byron              
                                        

We sat down and wept by the waters

   Of Babel, and thought of the day

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,

   Made Salem's high places his prey;

And ye, oh her desolate daughters!

   Were scattered all weeping away.
                                        

While sadly we gazed on the river

   Which rolled on in freedom below,

They demanded the song; but, oh never

   That triumph the stranger shall know!

May this right hand be withered for ever,

   Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

 
On the willow that harp is suspended,

   Oh Salem!  its sound should be free;

And the hour when thy glories were

     ended

   But left me that token of thee:

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended

   With the voice of the spoiler by me!



¿ì¸® µÑ Çì¾îÁú ¶§

           -  Á¶Áö °íµç ¹ÙÀÌ·±


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When We Two Parted

     - George Gordon, Lord Byron
 

When we two parted

   In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

   To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

   Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

   Sorrow to this.


The dew of the morning

   Sunk chill on my brow--

It felt like the warning

   Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

   And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,

   And share in its shame.


They name thee before me,

   A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me--

   Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

   Who knew thee too well:--

Long, long shall I rue thee,

   Too deeply to tell.


In secret we met--

   In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

   Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

   After long years,

How should I greet thee?--

   With silence and tears.



±æ ¾ø´Â ½£¿¡ ±â»ÝÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù

     'ÇØ·²µå °øÀÚÀÇ Æí·Â' Áß¿¡¼­, ĵÅä 4, ½Ã 178

                             - ·Îµå ¹ÙÀÌ·±

 
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There Is A Pleasure in The Pathless Woods

   from Childe Harold, Canto iv, Verse 178

             - George Gordon Lord Byron
      

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
 


¾ÆÅ׳×ÀÇ ¾Æ°¡¾¾¿©, ¿ì¸® Çì¾îÁö±â Àü¿¡

                     - ¹ÙÀÌ·±


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Maid of Athens, ere we part

         - George Gordon, Lord Byron


Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give back my heart!

Or, since that has left my breast,

Keep it now, and take the rest!

Hear my vow before I go,

Zoe mou sas agapo.


By those tresses unconfined,

Wooed by each Aegean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;

By those wild eyes like the roe,

Zoe mou sas agapo.


By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers that tell

What words can never speak so well;

By love's alternate joy and woe,

Zoe mou sas agapo.


Maid of Athens! I am gone:

Think of me, sweet! when alone.

Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and soul:

Can I cease to love thee? No!

Zoe mou sas agapo.
 


±×³à´Â ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô °È´Â´Ù

                         - ¹ÙÀÌ·±


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Beauty

           - George Gordon,Lord Byron 
 

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress;

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

 
 

ÀÌÁ¦´Â ´õ ÀÌ»ó Çì¸ÅÁö ¸»ÀÚ

                   - ¹ÙÀÌ·±


ÀÌÁ¦´Â ´õ ÀÌ»ó Çì¸ÅÁö ¸»ÀÚ,

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Áö±Ýµµ ´ÞºûÀº ÈÍÇÏÁö¸¸.

Ä®À» ¾²¸é Ä®ÁýÀÌ ÇØ¾îÁö°í

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½ÉÀåµµ ¼û ½¬·Á¸é ½¬¾î¾ß Çϰí

»ç¶ûµµ ¶§·Î´Â ½¬¾î¾ß ÇÏ´Ï. 

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ÀÌÁ¦´Â ´õ ÀÌ»ó Çì¸ÅÁö ¸»ÀÚ.

¾Æ·ÃÈ÷ È帣´Â ´Þºû »çÀ̸¦......

  


A-Roving

       - George Gordon, Lord Byron 
 

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon.

 

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