it 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." UVESHCHEVANXE I OTVET "Skazhi mne, Vil'yam, pochemu, Na serom kamne sidya prazdno, Voobrazhen'yu svoemu CHasy ty zhertvuesh' naprasno? CHitaj! Nam v knigah yavlen svet. I chtob ne byt' slepym i dikim, Uchis' u teh, kogo uzh net, Ispolnis' duhom ih velikim. Vokrug ty smotrish', kak ditya, Kak budto, pervenec tvoren'ya, Prirodoj sozdan ty shutya, Bez celi i prednaznachen'ya". Tak u ozernyh vod, v krayu, Gde zhizn' sladka i vozduh svetel, Mne govoril moj drug Met'yu, I vot chto ya emu otvetil: "Ne vybiraya, vidit glaz. Sluh chutok ne po prikazan'yu. Ne sprashivayut chuvstva nas, YAvlyayas' vopreki zhelan'yu. I, nesomnenno, sily est', CHto daryat znan'e nam blagoe I serdcu posylayut vest' V chas sozercan'ya i pokoya. I esli ih nesmetnyj roj Nas napolnyaet golosami, I vse dano samo soboj, - Zachem dolzhny iskat' my sami? Teper', nadeyus', ponyal ty, Moj milyj drug, chto ne naprasno YA vremya trachu na mechty, Na serom kamne sidya prazdno". THE TABLES TURNED, AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless - Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:- We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. VSP NAOBOROT Vechernyaya scena, posvyashchennaya toj zhe teme Vstan'! Otorvis' ot knig, moj drug! K chemu besplodnoe tomlen'e? Vzglyani vnimatel'nej vokrug, Ne to tebya sostarit chten'e! Vot solnce nad gromadoj gor Vosled poludennomu znoyu Zelenyj zalilo prostor Vechernej nezhnoj zheltiznoyu. Kak sladko ivolga poet! Speshi vnimat' ej! pen'e pticy Mne bol'she mudrosti daet, CHem eti skuchnye stranicy. Poslushat' propoved' drozda Stupaj v zelenuyu obitel'! Tam prosvetish'sya bez truda: Priroda - luchshij tvoj uchitel'. Bogatstvo chudnoe svoe Ona daruet nam s lyubov'yu. I v otkroveniyah ee Vesel'e dyshit i zdorov'e. Tebe o sushchnosti dobra I chelovech'em naznachen'e Rasskazhut veshnie vetra, A ne mudrenye uchen'ya. Ved' nash bezzhiznennyj yazyk, Nash razum v suete naprasnoj Prirody iskazhayut lik, Raz®yav na chasti mir prekrasnyj. Iskusstv ne nado i nauk. V stremlen'e k podlinnomu znan'yu Ty serdce nauchi, moj drug, Vnimaniyu i poniman'yu. OLD MAN TRAVELLING ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY A Sketch The little hedgerow birds, That peck along the roads, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression: every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. - He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. I asked him whither he was bound, and what The object of his journey; he replied "Sir! I am going many miles to take A last leave of my son, a mariner, Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth, And there is dying in a hospital." STRANSTVUYUSHCHIJ STARIK POKOJ I UMIRANIE zarisovka Ne vozbuzhdaya lyubopytstva ptic, Oblyubovavshih pridorozhnyj kust, On vse idet - lico ego, shagi, Pohodka vyrazhayut lish' odno: I v sgorblennoj figure, i v glazah Taitsya ne stradanie, no mysl'; On tak uporno priuchal sebya K besstrast'yu, chto pri vzglyade na nego Ne pomnish' ob usil'yah; on iz teh, Kogo dolgoterpen'e privelo K stol' krotkomu smiren'yu, chto emu Terpet' uzhe ne trudno. I pokoj Ego tak sovershenen, chto yunec, Zaviduya, glyadit emu vosled. Na moj vopros, kuda on derzhit put', S kakoyu cel'yu? - on otvetil tak: "Idu ya v Felmut k synu svoemu. On ranen byl v srazhenii morskom. Sejchas v bol'nice umiraet on, I ya hochu uspet' prostit'sya s nim". THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place with afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work Heame's _Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean_. In the high northern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the northern lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem. I Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars, they were among my dreams; In rustling conflict through the skies, I heard, I saw the flashes drive, And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive; Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! II My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain: All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie! Alone, I cannot fear to die. III Alas! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh, how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, Dear friends, when ye were gone away. IV My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange working did I see; - As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me: And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. V My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. O wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send; Too soon, my friends, ye went away; For I had many things to say. VI I'll follow you across the snow; Ye travel heavily and slow; In spite of all my weary pain I'll look upon your tents again. - My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood: The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I; Then wherefore should I fear to die? VII Young as I am, my course is run, I shall not see another sun; I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken Child, if I For once could have thee close to me. With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be; But thou, dear Babe, art far away, Nor shall I see another day. ZHALOBA POKINUTOJ INDIANKI Na severe, esli indeec, istoshchennyj dorogoj, ne v silah sledovat' za svoim plemenem, tovarishchi nakryvayut ego olen'imi shkurami i, snabdiv vodoj, pishchej i, esli vozmozhno, toplivom, ostavlyayut odnogo. Emu govoryat, kakim putem oni namereny sledovat', i esli on slishkom slab, chtoby ih dognat', - on osuzhden na odinokuyu smert' v pustyne, razve chto, po schast'yu, na nego nabredet drugoe plemya. ZHenshchiny naravne s muzhchinami, esli ne chashche, podvergayutsya etoj uchasti. Smotri po etomu povodu interesnejshij trud Hirna "Puteshestvie ot Gudzonova zaliva k Ledovitomu okeanu". V severnyh shirotah, soobshchaet tot zhe pisatel', kogda severnoe siyanie menyaet svoe polozhenie v nebe, ono izdaet suhoj tresk, o kotorom i upominaetsya v etoj poeme. I Uzhel' mne videt' utro snova? YA umeret' davno gotova, Net, ya ne splyu i ne vo sne YA vizhu vspyshki v vyshine, Siyan'yu severnomu vnemlyu, YA slyshu tresk ego ognej, - Prishla pora pokinut' zemlyu, Prishla pora rasstat'sya s nej. Uzhel' mne videt' utro snova? YA umeret' davno gotova. II Koster pogas. I ya pogasnu. K chemu zhe plakat' ponaprasnu? Zola pokrylas' korkoj l'da, Potuh ogon' moj navsegda. YA vspominayu, kak, byvalo, O krove, pishche i ogne I ya prosila, ya mechtala, - Teper' k chemu vse eto mne? S ognem pogasnut vse zhelan'ya, - YA vstrechu smert' bez sodrogan'ya. III Byt' mozhet, den'-drugoj za vami, Druz'ya, nevernymi shagami Smogla b eshche tashchit'sya ya... K chemu vy slushali menya! YA tak zhaleyu, chto molila Menya ostavit' umirat', Ko mne opyat' vernulis' sily, Mogla b ya v put' idti opyat'. No vy dorogoyu dalekoj Uzhe ushli ot odinokoj. IV Moe ditya! Tebya, kachaya, Neset otnyne mat' chuzhaya, Ty ot rodnyh otorvan ruk. V tvoih glazah skvozil ispug, Byt' mozhet, gnev muzhchiny rannij, Ty ne hotel pokinut' mat', Rvanulsya ty zapryach' ej sani, CHtob vmeste put' s nej prodolzhat'. No tak bespomoshchno ruchonki Ty protyanul na plach moj gromkij. V Ty moya radost', moj malyutka, Zdes' umirat' odnoj tak zhutko, Zato ty zhiv - i ne zhalej O bednoj materi tvoej. Slova kogda by uletali S poryvom vetra vam vosled - YA umerla by bez pechali, ZHdala b uslyshat' vash otvet. Hochu skazat' eshche tak mnogo, No vy ushli svoej dorogoj. VI Tyazhel vash put' skvoz' mrak moroznyj, I vas nagnat' eshche ne pozdno I na shatry vzglyanut' hot' raz, Uvidet' ih v predsmertnyj chas. Pogas koster vo mgle holodnoj, Voda zamerzla, net ognya. Segodnya noch'yu volk golodnyj Unes vsyu pishchu ot menya. Odna, odna v pustyne snezhnoj, Odna so smert'yu neizbezhnoj. VII Krov' zastyvaet v moih zhilah, YA shevel'nut' rukoj ne v silah, ZHizn' prozhita, i dlya menya Naveki skrylsya otblesk dnya. Ditya moe, kogda b mogla ya Prizhat' tebya k grudi svoej, YA b umerla, blagoslovlyaya Konec svoih nedolgih dnej. No ty ne slyshish', ty daleko, YA umirayu odinoko. LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798 Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. - Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: - that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, - Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft - In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart - How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thoughts With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led; more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. - I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. - That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often-times The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, - both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance - If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence - wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love - oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! STROKI, NAPISANNYE NA RASSTOYANII NESKOLXKIH MILX OT TINTERNSKOGO ABBATSTVA PRI POVTORNOM PUTESHESTVII NA BEREGA REKI UAJ Pyat' let proshlo; zima, smenyaya leto, Pyat' raz yavlyalas'! I opyat' ya slyshu Negromkij rokot vod, begushchih s gor, Opyat' ya vizhu hmurye utesy - Oni v gluhom, uedinennom meste Vnushayut mysli ob uedinen'e Drugom, glubokom, i soedinyayut Okrestnosti s nebesnoj tishinoj. Opyat' nastala mne pora prilech' Pod temnoj sikomoroj i smotret' Na hizhiny, sady i ogorody, Gde v eto vremya goda vse plody, Nezrelye, zelenye, sokryty Sredi gustoj listvy. Opyat' ya vizhu ZHivye izgorodi, chto polzut, Podobno otvetvlen'yam lesa; myzy, Plyushchom pokrytye; i dym vitoj, CHto tishina vzdymaet mezh derev'ev! I smutno brezzhat mysli o brodyagah, V lesu zhivushchih, ili o peshchere, Gde u ognya sidit otshel'nik. Dolgo Ne videl ya landshaft prekrasnyj etot, No dlya menya ne stal on smutnoj grezoj. Net, chasto, sidya v komnate unyloj Sred' gorodskogo shuma, byl emu ya Obyazan v chas toski priyatnym chuvstvom, ZHivyashchim krov' i v serdce oshchutimym, CHto pronikalo v um, lishennyj skverny, Spokojnym obnovleniem; i chuvstva Otrad zabytyh, teh, chto, mozhet byt', Nemaloe vliyanie okazhut Na luchshee, chto znaet chelovek, - Na melkie, nevidnye deyan'ya Lyubvi i dobroty. O, veryu ya: Inym ya, vysshim darom im obyazan, Blazhennym sostoyan'em, pri kotorom Vse tyagoty, vse tajny i zagadki, Vse gor'koe, tomitel'noe bremya Vsego nepoznavaemogo mira Oblegcheno pokoem bezmyatezhnym, Kogda blagie chuvstva nas vedut, Poka telesnoe dyhan'e nashe I dazhe krovi tok u nas v sosudah Edva l' ne prekratitsya - telo spit, I my stanovimsya zhivoj dushoj, A vzorom, uspokoennym po vole Garmonii i radosti glubokoj, Proniknem v sut' veshchej. I esli v etom YA oshibayus', vse zhe - ah! - kak chasto Vo t'me, sred' oblikov mnogoobraznyh Bezradostnogo dnya, kogda vse v mire Vozbuzhdeno besplodnoj suetoj, - Kak chasto ya k tebe stremilsya duhom, Skitalec Uaj, tekushchij v dikih chashchah, Kak chasto ya dushoj k tebe stremilsya. A nyne, pri mercan'e zybkih myslej, V neyasnoj dymke poluuznavan'ya I s nekoej rasteryannost'yu grustnoj, V ume kartina ozhivaet vnov': YA tut stoyu, ne tol'ko oshchushchaya Otradu v nastoyashchem, no otradno Mne v mige etom videt' zhizn' i pishchu Gryadushchih let. Nadeyat'sya ya smeyu, Hot' ya ne tot, kakim ya byl, kogda, Popav syuda vpervye, slovno lan', Skitalsya po goram, po beregam Glubokih rek, ruch'ev uedinennyh, Kuda vela priroda; ya skoree Napominal togo, kto ubegaet Ot strashnogo, a ne togo, kto ishchet Otradnoe. Togda byla priroda (V dni nizmennyh, mal'chisheskih uteh, Davno proshedshih beshenyh vostorgov) Vsem dlya menya. YA opisat' ne v silah Sebya v tu poru. Grohot vodopada Menya presledoval, vershiny skal, Gora, glubokij i ugryumyj les - Ih ochertan'ya i cveta rozhdali Vo mne vlechen'e - chuvstvo i lyubov', Kotorye chuzhdalis' vysshih char, Rozhdennyh mysl'yu, i ne obol'shchalis' Nichem nezrimym. - Ta pora proshla, I bol'she net ee uteh shchemyashchih, Ee ekstazov bujnyh. No ob etom YA ne skorblyu i ne ropshchu: vzamen YA znal dary inye, i obil'no Vozmeshcheny poteri. YA teper' Ne tak prirodu vizhu, kak poroj Bezdumnoj yunosti, no chasto slyshu CHut' slyshnuyu melodiyu lyudskuyu Pechal'nuyu, bez grubosti, no v silah Smiryat' i podchinyat'. YA oshchushchayu Prisutstvie, palyashchee vostorgom, Vysokih myslej, blagostnoe chuvstvo CHego-to, pronikayushchego vglub', CH'e obitalishche - luchi zakata, I okean, i zhivotvornyj vozduh, I nebo sinee, i um lyudskoj - Dvizhenie i duh, chto napravlyaet Vse myslyashchee, vse predmety myslej, I vse pronizyvaet. Potomu-to YA do sih por lyublyu lesa, luga I gory - vse, chto na zemle zelenoj My videt' mozhem; ves' moguchij mir Ushej i glaz - vse, chto oni primetyat I polusozdadut; ya rad priznat' V prirode, v yazyke vrozhdennyh chuvstv CHistejshih myslej yakor', pristan' serdca, Vozhatogo, nastavnika i dushu Prirody nravstvennoj moej. Byt' mozhet, Ne znaj ya etogo, moj duh v upadok Prijti by mog; so mnoj ty na bregah Reki prekrasnoj - ty, moj luchshij drug, Moj milyj, milyj drug; v tvoih rechah Byloj yazyk dushi moej ya slyshu, Lovlyu bylye radosti v sverkan'e Tvoih bezumnyh glaz. O da! Poka Eshche v tebe ya vizhu, chem ya byl, Sestra lyubimaya! Tvoryu molitvu, Uveren, chto Priroda ne predast Ee lyubivshij duh: ee velen'em Vse gody, chto s toboj my vmeste, stali CHredoyu radostej; ona sposobna Tak mysl' nastroit' nashu, tak ispolnit' Prekrasnym i pokojnym, tak nasytit' Vozvyshennymi dumami, chto vvek Zloslovie, glumlen'e sebyalyubcev, Pospeshnyj sud, i lzhivye privety, I skuka povsednevnoj suety Ne odoleyut nas i ne smutyat Veseloj very v to, chto vse krugom Polno blagoslovenij. Pust' zhe mesyac Tebya v chasy progulki ozarit, Pust' gornyj veterok tebya obveet, I esli ty v gryadushchie goda |kstazy bezrassudnye zamenish' Spokojnoj, trezvoj radost'yu, i um Vse obliki prekrasnogo vmestit, I v pamyati tvoej prebudut vechno Garmoniya i sladostnye zvuki, - O, esli odinochestvo i skorb' Poznaesh' ty, to kak celebno budet Tebe pripomnit' s nezhnost'yu menya I uveshchaniya moi! Byt' mozhet, YA budu tam, gde golos moj ne slyshen, Gde ya uvizhu vzor bezumnyj tvoj, Zazhzhennyj proshloj zhizn'yu, - pomnya vse zhe, Kak my na beregu prekrasnyh vod Stoyali vmeste; kak ya, s davnih por Prirody obozhatel', ne otreksya Ot moego sluzhen'ya, no pylal Vse bol'she - o! - vse plamennee rven'em Lyubvi svyatejshej. Ty ne pozabudesh', CHto posle mnogih stranstvij, mnogih let Razluki, eti chashchi i utesy I ves' zelenyj kraj mne stal dorozhe... On sam tomu prichinoj - no i ty! From "Lyrical Ballads, and Other Poems" THERE WAS A BOY There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! - many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. - And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, - with quivering peals; And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill: Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school; And, through that church-yard when my way has led On summer-evenings, I believe, that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies! Iz "Liricheskih ballad i drugih stihotvorenij" MALXCHIK Byl mal'chik. Vam znakom on byl, utesy I ostrova Vinandra! Skol'ko raz, Po vecheram, lish' tol'ko nad verhami Holmov zazhgutsya iskry rannih zvezd V lazuri temnoj, on stoyal, byvalo, V teni derev, nad ozerom blestyashchim. I tam, skrestivshi pal'cy i ladon' Svedya s ladon'yu napodob'e trubki, On podnosil ee k gubam i krikom Trevozhil mir v lesu dremuchih sov. I na prizyv ego, so vseh storon, Nad vodnoyu ravninoj razdavalsya Ih dikij krik, pronzitel'nyj i rezkij. I zvonkij svist, i hohot, i v gorah Gul perekatnyj eha - chudnyh zvukov Volshebnyj hor! Kogda zhe, vsled za tem, Vdrug nastupala tishina, on chasto V bezmolvii prirody, na skalah, Sam oshchushchal nevol'nyj v serdce trepet, Zaslyshav gde-to daleko zhurchan'e Klyuchej nagornyh. Divnaya kartina Togda v vostorg v nem dushu privodila Svoej torzhestvennoj krasoj, svoimi Utesami, lesami, teplym nebom, V puchine vod neyasno otrazhennym. Ego zh uzh net! Bednyazhka umer rano, Let devyati on sverstnikov ostavil. O, kak prekrasna tihaya dolina, Gde on rodilsya! Vsya plyushchom uvita, Visit so skal nad sel'skoj shkoloj cerkov'. I esli mne sluchitsya v letnij vecher Idti cherez kladbishche, ya gotov Tam celyj chas stoyat' s glubokoj dumoj Nad tihoyu mogiloj, gde on spit. LUCY I Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening-moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so clear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on; hoof after hoof