eath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what avails the land to them, Which they can till no longer? Few months of life has he in store, As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more His poor old ankles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And I'm afraid that you expect Some tale will be related. O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, I hope you'll kindly take it; It is no tale; but should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it. One summer-day I chanced to see This old man doing all he could About the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock totter'd in his hand So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffer'd aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd, At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavour'd. The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. - I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning. Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning. SAJMON LI Vblizi imeniya Ajvor, Sred' rajskih Kardiganskih mest ZHil staryj eger' - s davnih por Proslavlennyj okrest. No spinu krepkuyu ego V dugu sognulo vremya: Ee vos'midesyati let Otyagotilo bremya. Eshche opryaten goluboj Ego mundir bylyh vremen. No dogadat'sya mog lyuboj O tom, chto beden on. Bespechnym egerem sluzhil On chetvert' veka s lishnim. I nyne shcheki u nego Podobny spelym vishnyam. Nikto trubit', kak Sajmon Li, Vo dni minuvshie ne mog: CHetyre zamka toj zemli Budil veselyj rog. Davno uzh pust Ajvor, uvy! I gospoda v mogilah, Sobaki, loshadi mertvy - Lish' Sajmon perezhil ih. Bylye podvigi ego, Kak ubedit'sya vy mogli, Lishili glaza odnogo. O, bednyj Sajmon Li! Svoj vek vlachit on bez detej V sushchestvovan'e skudnom, S zhenoyu staroyu svoej Na vygone bezlyudnom. On ves' osunulsya, zachah, Figura sgorblena, kriva. Na toshchih, vysohshih nogah On derzhitsya edva. On smolodu ne znal truda, On ne hodil za plugom - YAvilas' k Sajmonu nuzhda S godami i nedugom. Sred' etih pastbishch i polej Vslepuyu mog nosit'sya on, Operezhaya loshadej, Vedya schastlivyj gon. On vse eshche ot laya psov Prihodit v upoen'e, Ot ih veselyh golosov, Zvuchashchih v otdalen'e. Pokrepche Sajmona byla Ego zhena, staruha Rut, I chasto na sebya brala Hozyajskij tyazhkij trud. No hot' s rabotoj razluchit' Edva li chto moglo ih, - Ne mnogo proku bylo v tom, Uvy, ot nih oboih. Bliz hizhiny, porosshej mhom, Prinadlezhal im klok zemli. Ee na pustyre gluhom Vozdelal Sajmon Li. Prishli hudye vremena: Net prezhnih urozhaev. Davno zabroshena zemlya Po slabosti hozyaev. O tom, chto dozhivaet dni, On skazhet sam navernyaka. V trudah raspuhshie stupni Bolyat u starika. CHitatel' dobryj, vizhu ya, Ty krotko zhdesh' razvyazki. No ya boyus', chto ty zhelal Kakoj-to chudnoj skazki. V voobrazhenii tvoem Istorij raznyh celyj klad. CHudesnyj vymysel vo vsem Ty obnaruzhit' rad. CHitatel', v skazku moj syuzhet Sam prevratit' poprobuj, Poskol'ku zdes' ni skazki net, Ni vydumki osoboj. Odnazhdy yasnym letnim dnem YA Sajmona uvidel - on Nad polusgnivshim starym pnem Sklonilsya, utomlen. Uzhe, kazalos', celyj vek, Otchayan'yu pokoren, Kirkoj, drozhavsheyu v rukah, Rubil on krepkij koren'. "O, milyj Sajmon, - molvil ya, - Pozvol', tebe ya pomogu!" I, oblegchen'ya ne taya, On mne otdal kirku. I uzlovatyj koren' vraz S razmahu sokrushil ya, Odnim udarom zavershiv Stol' dolgie usil'ya. Tut slez ne uderzhal starik, I blagodarnost', i vostorg S vnezapnoj siloj v tot zhe mig On iz dushi istorg. Uvy, serdechnost'yu takoj Mne redko otvechali. Ot blagodarnosti lyudskoj YA chashche byl v pechali. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT I have a boy of five years old, His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, Our quiet house all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, Our pleasant home, when spring began, A long, long year before. A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain. My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him, In very idleness. The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, And so is Liswyn farm." "My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm- "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, Or here at Liswyn farm?" "And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm." "Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why;" "I cannot tell, I do not know." "Why, this is strange," said I. "For, here are woods and green-hills warm; There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea." At this, my boy, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply; And five times did I say to him, "Why, Edward, tell me why?" His head he raised-there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain- Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane. Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And thus to me he made reply: "At Kilve there was no weather-cock, And that's the reason why." O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I leam. ISTORIYA DNYA OTCOV, ILI KAK MOZHNO VOSPITATX PRIVYCHKU KO LZHI Krasiv i stroen mal'chik moj - Emu vsego lish' pyat'. I nezhnoj lyubyashchej dushoj On angelu pod stat'. U doma nashego vdvoem My s nim gulyali v rannij chas, Beseduya o tom, o sem, Kak prinyato u nas. Mne vspominalsya dal'nij kraj, Nash domik proshloyu vesnoj. I bereg Kil'va, tochno raj, Voznik peredo mnoj. I stol'ko schast'ya ya sbereg, CHto, vozvrashchayas' mysl'yu vspyat', YA v etot den' bez boli mog Byloe vspominat'. Odetyj prosto, bez prikras, Moj mal'chik byl prigozh i mil. YA s nim, kak prezhde mnogo raz, Bespechno govoril. YAgnyat byl graciozen beg Na fone solnechnogo dnya. "Nash Lisvin, kak i Kil'vskij breg, CHudesen", - molvil ya. "Tebe milee zdeshnij dom? - Sprosil ya malysha. - Il' tot, na beregu morskom? Otvet', moya dusha! I gde ty zhit', v krayu kakom Hotel by bol'she, daj otvet: Na Kil'vskom beregu morskom Il' v Lisvine, moj svet?" Glaza on podnyal na menya, I vzglyad byl prostodush'ya poln: "U morya zhit' hotel by ya, Vblizi zelenyh voln". "No, milyj |dvard, otchego? Skazhi, moj mal'chik, pochemu?" "Ne znayu, - byl otvet ego, - I sam ya ne pojmu..." "Zachem zhe etu blagodat' Lesov i solnechnyh lugov Ty bezrassudno promenyat' Na Kil'v morskoj gotov?" No, otvedya smushchennyj vzglyad, Ne otvechal on nichego. YA povtoril pyat' raz podryad: "Skazhi mne, otchego?" Vdrug podnyal golovu malysh, I, yarkim bleskom privlechen, Uvidel na odnoj iz krysh Sverkavshij flyuger on. I mig spustya ego otvet, Stol' dolgozhdannyj, byl takov: "Vse delo v tom, chto v Kil've net Vot etih petuhov". YA stat' mudrej by ne mechtal, Kogda, moj dorogoj synok, Tomu, chto ot tebya uznal, Sam nauchit' by mog. WE ARE SEVEN - A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; - Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell. She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! - I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree." "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. "So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" NAS SEMERO Legko radushnoe ditya Privykshee dyshat', Zdorov'em, zhizniyu cvetya, Kak mozhet smert' ponyat'? Navstrechu devochka mne shla: Let vosem' bylo ej; Ee golovku oblegla Struya gustyh kudrej. I dik byl vid ee stepnoj, I dik prostoj naryad, I radoval menya krasoj Malyutki milyj vzglyad. "Vseh skol'ko vas, - ej molvil ya, - I brat'ev, i sester?" - Vsego? Nas sem'! - i, na menya Divyas', brosaet vzor. "A gde zh oni?" - Nas sem' vsego, - V otvet malyutka mne. - Nas dvoe zhit' poshli v selo I dva na korable. I na kladbishche brat s sestroj Lezhat iz semeryh, A za kladbishchem ya s rodnoj: ZHivem my podle nih. "Kak? Dvoe zhit' v selo poshli, Pustilis' dvoe plyt', A vas vse sem'! Druzhok, skazhi, Kak eto mozhet byt'?" - Nas sem', nas sem'! - ona totchas Opyat' skazala mne. - Zdes' na kladbishche dvoe nas Pod ivoyu v zemle. "Ty begaesh' vokrug nee, Ty vidno, chto zhiva; No vas lish' pyat', ditya moe, Kogda pod ivoj dva". - Na ih grobah zemlya v cvetah, I desyati shagov Net ot dverej rodnoj moej Do milyh nam grobov. YA chasto zdes' chulki vyazhu, Platok moj zdes' rublyu, I podle ih mogil sizhu, I pesni im poyu. I esli pozdneyu poroj Svetlo gorit zarya, To, vzyav moj syr i hleb s soboj, Zdes' uzhinayu ya. Malyutka Dzhenni den' i noch' Tomilasya, bol'na; No Bog ej ne zabyl pomoch' - I spryatalas' ona. Kogda zh ee my pogrebli I rascvela zemlya - K nej na mogilku my prishli Rezvit'sya, Dzhon i ya. No tol'ko dozhdalas' zimoj Kon'kov ya i sanej, Ushel i Dzhon, bratishka moj, I leg on ryadom s nej. "Tak skol'ko zh vas?" - byl moj otvet. - Na nebe dvoe, ver'! Vas tol'ko pyat'". - O, barin, net! Sochti - nas sem' teper'. "Da net uzh dvuh: oni v zemle, A dushi v nebesah!" No byl li prok v moih slovah? Vse devochka tverdila mne: - O net, nas sem', nas sem'! LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? STROKI, NAPISANNYE RANNEYU VESNOJ V prozrachnoj roshche, v den' vesennij YA slushal mnogozvuchnyj shum. I radost' svetlyh razmyshlenij Smenyalas' grust'yu mrachnyh dum. Vse, chto priroda sotvorila, ZHilo v ladu s moej dushoj. No chto, - podumal ya unylo, - CHto sdelal chelovek s soboj? Sred' primul, polnyh likovan'ya, Barvinok nezhnyj vil venok. Ot svoego blagouhan'ya Blazhenstvoval lyuboj cvetok. I, nablyudaya ptic kruzhen'e, - Hot' i ne mog ih myslej znat', - YA veril: kazhdoe dvizhen'e Dlya nih - vostorg i blagodat'. I vetki vetra dunoven'e Lovili veerom svoim. YA ne ispytyval somnen'ya, CHto eto bylo v radost' im. I kol' uverennost' moya - Ne navazhdenie pustoe, Tak chto, - s toskoyu dumal ya, - CHto sdelal chelovek s soboyu? THE THORN I "There is a Thorn - it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn, It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens is it overgrown. II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever. III "High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water-never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" VII "At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry? - O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?" IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like an infant's grave, The pond-and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door - 'tis seldom shut - And, if you see her in her hut - Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there." X "But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go? Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" "Full twenty years are past and gone Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. XI "And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went- Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest. XII "They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, And there was often seen. What could she seek? - or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father-would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear. XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; Nay-if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. XV "And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray. XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak I will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height:- A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee. XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag, -and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground. XVIII "I did not speak - I saw her face; Her face! - it was enough for me; I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!'" XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir?" "I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again. XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But instantly the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass - it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver The little Babe lies buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XXII "I cannot tell how this may be, But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" TPRN I - Ty nabredesh' na staryj Tern I oshchutish' mogil'nyj holod: Kto, kto teper' voobrazit, CHto Tern byl svezh i molod! Starik, on rostom nevelik, S dvuhgodovalogo mladenca. Ni list'ev, dazhe ni shipov - Odni uzly krivyh suchkov Venchayut otshchepenca. I, kak stoyachij kamen', mhom Otzhivshij Tern obros krugom. II Obrosshij, slovno kamen', mhom Ternovyj kust neuznavaem: S vetvej svisayut kosmy mha Unylym urozhaem, I ot kornej vzobralsya moh K vershine bednogo rasten'ya, I navalilsya na nego, I ne skryvaet svoego Upornogo stremlen'ya - Neschastnyj Tern k zemle sklonit' I v nej navek pohoronit'. III Tropoyu gornoj ty vzojdesh' Tuda, gde burya tochit kruchi, Otkuda v mirnyj dol ona Svergaetsya skvoz' tuchi. Tam ot tropy shagah v pyati Zametish' Tern sedoj i mrachnyj, I v treh shagah za nim vidna Lozhbinka, chto vsegda polna Vodoyu neprozrachnoj: Ej nipochem i suhovej, I zhadnost' solnechnyh luchej. IV No vozle dryahlogo kusta Ty vstretish' zrelishche inoe: Pokrytyj mhom prelestnyj holm V polfuta vyshinoyu. On vsemi kraskami cvetet, Kakie est' pod nebesami, I mnitsya, chto ego pokrov Spleten iz raznocvetnyh mhov Devich'imi rukami. On zeleneet, kak trostnik, I pyshet plamenem gvozdik. V O Bozhe, chto za kruzheva, Kakie zvezdy, vetvi, strely! Tam - izumrudnyj zavitok, Tam - luch zhemchuzhno-belyj. I kak vse bleshchet i zhivet! Zachem zhe ryadom Tern unylyj? CHto zh, mozhet byt', i ty najdesh', CHto etot holm chertami shozh S mladencheskoj mogiloj. No kak by ty ni rassudil, Na svete krashe net mogil. VI Ty rvesh'sya k Ternu, k ozerku, K holmu v tainstvennom cveten'e? Speshit' nel'zya, osteregis', Umer' na vremya rven'e: Tam chasto ZHenshchina sidit, I alyj plashch ee pylaet; Ona sidit mezh ozerkom I yarkim malen'kim holmom I skorbno povtoryaet: "O, gore mne! O, gore mne! O, gore, gore, gore mne!" VII Neschastnaya tuda bredet V lyuboe vremya dnya i nochi; Tam vetry duyut na nee I zvezd vzirayut ochi; Bliz Terna ZHenshchina sidit I v chas, kogda lazur' blistaet, I v chas, kogda iz l'distyh stran Nad nej pronositsya buran, - Sidit i prichitaet: "O, gore mne! O, gore mne! O, gore, gore, gore mne!" VIII - Molyu, skazhi, zachem ona Pri svete dnya, v nochnuyu poru, Skvoz' dozhd' i sneg i uragan Vzbiraetsya na goru? Zachem bliz Terna tam sidit I v chas, kogda lazur' blistaet, I v chas, kogda iz l'distyh stran