Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

ЖАЛОБА ПОКИНУТОЙ ИНДИАНКИ[34]

На севере, если индеец, истощенный дорогой, не в силах следовать за своим племенем, товарищи накрывают его оленьими шкурами и, снабдив водой, пищей и, если возможно, топливом, оставляют одного. Ему говорят, каким путем они намерены следовать, и если он слишком слаб, чтобы их догнать, — он осужден на одинокую смерть в пустыне, разве что, по счастью, на него набредет другое племя. Женщины наравне с мужчинами, если не чаще, подвергаются этой участи. Смотри по этому поводу интереснейший труд Хирна "Путешествие от Гудзонова залива к Ледовитому океану". В северных широтах, сообщает тот же писатель, когда северное сияние меняет свое положение в небе, оно издает сухой треск, о котором и упоминается в этой поэме.

      I

                        Ужель мне видеть утро снова?                        Я умереть давно готова,                        Нет, я не сплю и не во сне                        Я вижу вспышки в вышине,                        Сиянью северному внемлю,                        Я слышу треск его огней, —                        Пришла пора покинуть землю,                        Пришла пора расстаться с ней.                        Ужель мне видеть утро снова?                        Я умереть давно готова.

      II

                        Костер погас. И я погасну.                        К чему же плакать понапрасну?                        Зола покрылась коркой льда,                        Потух огонь мой навсегда.                        Я вспоминаю, как, бывало,                        О крове, пище и огне                        И я просила, я мечтала, —                        Теперь к чему все это мне?                        С огнем погаснут все желанья, —                        Я встречу смерть без содроганья.

      III

                        Быть может, день-другой за вами,                        Друзья, неверными шагами                        Смогла б еще тащиться я…                        К чему вы слушали меня!                        Я так жалею, что молила                        Меня оставить умирать,                        Ко мне опять вернулись силы,                        Могла б я в путь идти опять.                        Но вы дорогою далекой                        Уже ушли от одинокой.

      IV

                        Мое дитя! Тебя, качая,                        Несет отныне мать чужая,                        Ты от родных оторван рук.                        В твоих глазах сквозил испуг,                        Быть может, гнев мужчины ранний,                        Ты не хотел покинуть мать,                        Рванулся ты запрячь ей сани,                        Чтоб вместе путь с ней продолжать.                        Но так беспомощно ручонки                        Ты протянул на плач мой громкий.

      V

                        Ты моя радость, мой малютка,                        Здесь умирать одной так жутко,                        Зато ты жив — и не жалей                        О бедной матери твоей.                        Слова когда бы улетали                        С порывом ветра вам вослед —                        Я умерла бы без печали,                        Ждала б услышать ваш ответ.                        Хочу сказать еще так много,                        Но вы ушли своей дорогой.

      VI

                        Тяжел ваш путь сквозь мрак морозный,                        И вас нагнать еще не поздно                        И на шатры взглянуть хоть раз,                        Увидеть их в предсмертный час.                        Погас костер во мгле холодной,                        Вода замерзла, нет огня.                        Сегодня ночью волк голодный                        Унес всю пищу от меня.                        Одна, одна в пустыне снежной,                        Одна со смертью неизбежной.

      VII

                        Кровь застывает в моих жилах,                        Я шевельнуть рукой не в силах,                        Жизнь прожита, и для меня                        Навеки скрылся отблеск дня.                        Дитя мое, когда б могла я                        Прижать тебя к груди своей,                        Я б умерла, благословляя                        Конец своих недолгих дней.                        Но ты не слышишь, ты далеко,                        Я умираю одиноко.

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR

            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!

СТРОКИ, НАПИСАННЫЕ НА РАССТОЯНИИ НЕСКОЛЬКИХ МИЛЬ ОТ ТИНТЕРНСКОГО АББАТСТВА ПРИ ПОВТОРНОМ ПУТЕШЕСТВИИ НА БЕРЕГА РЕКИ УАЙ[35]