Elegy Written In a Country Churchyard
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
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Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Тема 7. Поэзия Роберта Бернса
И УИЛЬЯМА БЛЕЙКА
Райт-Ковалева Р. Роберт Бернс. (Любое издание.)
Колесников Б. И. Роберт Бернс. Очерк жизни и творчества. М., 1967.
Зверев А. Величие Блейка // Блейк У. Стихи. М., 1982 (текст на рус. и англ. яз.).
Некрасова Е. А. Творчество Уильяма Блейка. М., 1962.
Жирмунский В. М. Уильям Блейк // Жирмунский В. М. Из истории западноевропейских литератур. Л., 1981.
Элиот Т.С. Блейк // Элиот Т. С. Избранное: Религия, культура, литература. М., 2004. С. 656–663.
ROBERT BURNS (1759–1796)
To a Mountain-Daisy, On Turning One Down With a Plough,
In April 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
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For I maun[13] crush amang the stoure[14]
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet[15]!
Wi’s[16] speckl’d breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
Thy purpling East.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting North
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the Parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs our Gardens yield,
High-shelt’ring woods and wa’s[17] maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane[18],
Adorns the histie[19] stibble[20]-field,
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!
By Love’s simplicity betray’d,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil’d is laid
Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On Life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent Lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To Mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but HEAV’N,
He, ruin’d, sink!
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine – no distant date;
Stern Ruin’d plough-share drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom!
* * *
Young Jockey was the blythest lad
In a’ our town or here awa;
Fu’ blythe he whistled at the gaud[21],
Fu’ lightly danc’d he in the ha’.
He roos’d[22] my een sae bonie blue,
He roos’d my waist sae genty sma’;
An ay my heart came to my mou[23],
When ne’er a body heard or saw.
My Jockey toils upon the plain
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Thro’ wind and weet, thro’ frost and snaw;
And o’er the lee I leuk[24] fu’ fain
When Jockey’s owsen[25] hameward ca’.
An ay the night comes round again
When in his arms he taks me a’;
An ay he vows he’ll be my ain[26]
As lang’s he has a breath to draw.
William blake (1757–1827)
The Chimney Sweeper
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry “ ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep!”
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl’d like a lamb's back, was shav’d, so I said
“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”
And so he was quiet, and that very night
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black.
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open’d the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.
The Book of Thel
1
The daughters of the Seraphim led round their sunny flocks,
All but the youngest. She in paleness sought the secret air,
To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day.
Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard,
And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew;
“O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?
Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall?
Ah! Thel is like a wat’ry bow, and like a parting cloud,
Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water,
Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant’s face,
Like the dove’s voice, like transient day, like music in the air.
Ah! gentle may I lay me down and gentle rest my head,
And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice
Of him that walketh in the garden of the evening time.”
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The Lilly of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass,
Answer'd the lovely maid and said: “I am a wat’ry weed,
And I am very small and love to dwell in lowly vales;
So weak the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head;
Yet I am visited from heaven, and he that smiles on all
Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads his hand
Saying, "Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lilly flower,
Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks;
For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna,
Till summer’s heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs
To flourish in eternal vales”. Then why should Thel complain?
Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?
She ceas’d and smil’d in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.
Thel answer’d: “O thou little virgin of the peaceful valley,
Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o’ertired;
Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments,
He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face,
Wiping his mild and meeking mouth from all contagious taints.
Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume,
Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs,
Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed.
But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun:
I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?”
“Queen of the vales,” the Lilly answer’d, “ask the tender cloud,
And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky,
And why it scatters its bright beauty thro’ the humid air.
Descend, O little cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.”
The Cloud descended, and the Lilly bow’d her modest head,
And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass.
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