Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

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."

УВЕЩЕВАНЬЕ И ОТВЕТ[31]

                        "Скажи мне, Вильям, почему,                        На сером камне сидя праздно,                        Воображенью своему                        Часы ты жертвуешь напрасно?

                        Читай! Нам в книгах явлен свет.                        И чтоб не быть слепым и диким,                        Учись у тех, кого уж нет,                        Исполнись духом их великим.

                        Вокруг ты смотришь, как дитя,                        Как будто, первенец творенья,                        Природой создан ты шутя,                        Без цели и предназначенья".

                        Так у озерных вод, в краю,                        Где жизнь сладка и воздух светел,                        Мне говорил мой друг Метью,                        И вот что я ему ответил:

                        "Не выбирая, видит глаз.                        Слух чуток не по приказанью.                        Не спрашивают чувства нас,                        Являясь вопреки желанью.

                        И, несомненно, силы есть,                        Что дарят знанье нам благое                        И сердцу посылают весть                        В час созерцанья и покоя.

                        И если их несметный рой                        Нас наполняет голосами,                        И все дано само собой, —                        Зачем должны искать мы сами?

                        Теперь, надеюсь, понял ты,                        Мой милый друг, что не напрасно                        Я время трачу на мечты,                        На сером камне сидя праздно".

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.

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