Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям - Страница 23

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LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING

                    How richly glows the water's breast                     Before us, tinged with evening hues,                     While, facing thus the crimson west,                     The boat her silent course pursues!                     And see how dark the backward stream!                     A little moment past so smiling!                     And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,                     Some other loiterers beguiling.                     Such views the youthful Bard allure;                     But, heedless of the following gloom,                     He deems their colours shall endure                     Till peace go with him to the tomb.                     — And let him nurse his fond deceit,                     And what if he must die in sorrow!                     Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,                     Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?                     Glide gently, thus for ever glide,                     О Thames! that other bards may see                     As lovely visions by thy side                     As now, fair river! come to me.                     О glide, fair stream! for ever so,                     Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,                     Till all our minds for ever flow                     As thy deep waters now are flowing.                     Vain thought! — Yet be as now thou art,                     That in thy waters may be seen                     The image of a poet's heart,                     How bright, how solemn, how serene!                     Such as did once the Poet bless,                     Who murmuring here a later ditty,                     Could find no refuge from distress                     But in the milder grief of pity.                     Now let us, as we float along,                     For _him_ suspend the dashing oar;                     And pray that never child of song                     May know that Poet's sorrows more.                     How calm! how still! the only sound,                     The dripping of the oar suspended!                     — The evening darkness gathers round                     By virtue's holiest Powers attended.

СТИХИ, НАПИСАННЫЕ ВЕЧЕРОМ У ТЕМЗЫ ВБЛИЗИ РИЧМОНДА[30]

                      Как ярок отблеск встречных волн                       В час летних сумерек, пока                       На алый запад тихий челн                       Стремит вечерняя река!                       А позади растаял свет —                       Улыбка краткого мгновенья!                       И ловит движущийся вслед                       Обманчивое отраженье.                       Так юный думает певец,                       Что красок этих вечен пир,                       Пока в могиле, наконец,                       С ним не исчезнет этот мир.                       Хоть и умрет в печали он —                       Пусть грезой тешится дотоле!                       Кто ж не лелеял сладкий сон                       В преддверье горечи и боли?                       Струись же до скончанья лет,                       О Темза, в блеске нежных волн,                       Чтоб здесь мечтал другой поэт,                       Как я, видений чудных полн!                       Теки, прекрасная река,                       Покуда тем же плавным ходом                       И души наши на века                       Не уплывут, подобно водам.                       Нет, будь такою до конца,                       Как ты сейчас явилась мне,                       Затем что светлый дух певца                       В твоей сияет глубине!                       Сей дух благословил того,                       Кто, сам нуждаясь в утешенье,                       Оплакал брата своего                       Последней песней сожаленья.                       О Память, помолись со мной,                       Челна остановивши бег,                       Чтоб этой скорби ледяной                       Другой поэт не знал вовек!                       Какая тишь! Лишь капель звук,                       С весла упавших! Мир в объятье                       Вечерней тьмы, и все вокруг                       Как в снизошедшей благодати.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

                   "Why, William, on that old grey stone,                    Thus for the length of half a day,                    Why, William, sit you thus alone,                    And dream your time away?                    "Where are your books? — that light bequeathed                    To Beings else forlorn and blind!                    Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed                    From dead men to their kind.                    "You look round on your Mother Earth,                    As if she for no purpose bore you;                    As if you were her first-born birth,                    And none had lived before you!"                    One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,                    When life was sweet, I knew not why,                    To me my good friend Matthew spake,                    And thus I made reply:                    "The eye — it cannot choose but see;                    We cannot bid the ear be still;                    Our bodies feel, where'er they be,                    Against or with our will.                    "Nor less I deem that there are Powers                    Which of themselves our minds impress;                    That we can feed this mind of ours                    In a wise passiveness.                    "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum                    Of things for ever speaking,                    That nothing of itself will come,                    But we must still be seeking?                    "- Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,                    Conversing as I may,                    I sit upon this old grey stone,                    And dream my time away."