Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям - Страница 61

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ИЗМЕНЧИВОСТЬ[97]

                      Восходит ввысь мелодией могучей                       Распад вселенский и на спад идет                       Неспешной чередой ужасных нот,                       Гармонией скрежещущих созвучий;                          Кто слышит их, — тот презирает случай,                          Бежит нечистых выгод и хлопот.                          Бессмертна правда; но она живет                          В обличьях дня, в их смене неминучей.                       Так иней, выбеливший утром луг,                       Растает; так седая башня вдруг                       От возгласа случайного качнется                          И, словно слепленная из песка,                          Обрушится, — когда ее коснется                          Невидимая Времени рука.

INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE

                 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,                  With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned —                  Albeit labouring for a scanty band                  Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense                  And glorious Work of fine intelligence!                  Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore                  Of nicely-calculated less or more;                  So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense                  These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof                  Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,                  Where light and shade repose, where music dwells                  Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die;                  Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof                  That they were born for immortality.

В КАПЕЛЛЕ КОРОЛЕВСКОГО КОЛЛЕДЖА В КЕМБРИДЖЕ[98]

                   Не упрекай святых за мотовство,                    Ни зодчего, что создал небывалый                    Великолепный храм — для горстки малой                    Ученых прихожан, — вложив в него                       Все, без остатка — мысль и мастерство!                       Будь щедрым; чужд взыскательным высотам                       Труд, отягченный мелочным расчетом;                       Так думал он, вознесший волшебство                    Резных колонн и арок невесомых,                    Где радуги дрожат в цветных проемах,                    Где в полумраке музыка парит,                       Блуждая в сотах каменного свода, —                       Как мысли, коих сладость и свобода                       Нам о бессмертье духа говорит.

From "THE POETICAL WORKS"

Из книги "ПОЭТИЧЕСКИЕ ПРОИЗВЕДЕНИЯ"

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR

      I                      Smile of the Moon! — for so I name                      That silent greeting from above;                      A gentle flash of light that came                      From her whom drooping captives love;                      Or art thou of still higher birth?                      Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,                      My torpor to reprove!       II                      Bright boon of pitying Heaven! — alas,                      I may not trust thy placid cheer!                      Pondering that Time to-night will pass                      The threshold of another year;                      For years to me are sad and dull;                      My very moments are too full                      Of hopelessness and fear.       III                      And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,                      That struck perchance the farthest cone                      Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem                      To visit me, and me alone;                      Me, unapproached by any friend,                      Save those who to my sorrows lend                      Tears due unto their own.       IV                      To-night the church-tower bells will ring                      Through these wild realms a festive peal;                      To the new year a welcoming;                      A tuneful offering for the weal                      Of happy millions lulled in sleep;                      While I am forced to watch and weep,                      By wounds that may not heal.       V                      Born all too high, by wedlock raised                      Still higher — to be cast thus low!                      Would that mine eyes had never gazed                      On aught of more ambitious show                      Than the sweet flowerets of the fields                      — It is my royal state that yields                      This bitterness of woe.       VI                      Yet how? — for I, if there be truth                      In the world's voice, was passing fair;                      And beauty, for confiding youth,                      Those shocks of passion can prepare                      That kill the bloom before its time;                      And blanch, without the owner's crime,                      The most resplendent hair.       VII                      Unblest distinction! showered on me                      To bind a lingering life in chains:                      All that could quit my grasp, or flee,                      Is gone; — but not the subtle stains                      Fixed in the spirit; for even here                      Can I be proud that jealous fear,                      Of what I was remains.       VIII                      A Woman rules my prison's key;                      A sister Queen, against the bent                      Of law and holiest sympathy,                      Detains me, doubtful of the event;                      Great God, who feel'st for my distress,                      My thoughts are all that I possess,                      О keep them innocent!       IX                      Farewell desire of human aid,                      Which abject mortals vainly court!                      By friends deceived, by foes betrayed,                      Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport;                      Nought but the world-redeeming Cross                      Is able to supply my loss,                      My burthen to support.       X                      Hark! the death-note of the year                      Sounded by the castle-clock!                      From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear                      Stole forth, unsettled by the shock;                      But oft the woods renewed their green,                      Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen                      Reposed upon the block!