Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

THE SOLITARY REAPER

                      Behold her, single in the field,                      Yon solitary Highland Lass!                      Reaping and singing by herself;                      Stop here, or gently pass!                      Alone she cuts and binds the grain,                      And sings a melancholy strain;                      О listen! for the Vale profound                      Is overflowing with the sound.

                      No Nightingale did ever chaunt                      More welcome notes to weary bands                      Of travellers in some shady haunt,                      Among Arabian sands:                      A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard                      In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,                      Breaking the silence of the seas                      Among the farthest Hebrides.

                      Will no one tell me what she sings? —                      Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow                      For old, unhappy, far-off things,                      And battles long ago:                      Or is it some more humble lay,                      Familiar matter of to-day?                      Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,                      That has been, and may be again?                      Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang                      As if her song could have no ending;                      I saw her singing at her work,                      And o'er the sickle bending; —                      I listened, motionless and still;                      And, as I mounted up the hill                      The music in my heart I bore,                      Long after it was heard no more.

ОДИНОКАЯ ЖНИЦА[67]

                       Ты слышишь голос там, во ржи,                       Шотландской девушки простой,                       Но, чтобы песню не спугнуть,                       Ты на виду не стой.                       И жнет, и вяжет — все одна,                       И песня долгая грустна,                       И в тишине звучит напев,                       Глухой долиной завладев.                       Так аравийский соловей                       В тени оазиса поет,                       И об усталости своей                       Не помнит пешеход.                       Так возвещает о весне                       Кукушки оклик, нежный зов                       В пустынной дальней стороне                       Гебридских островов.

                       О чем же девушка поет,                       Все заунывней и грустней?                       О черных днях былых невзгод,                       О битвах прежних дней,                       Старинной песней хороня                       Невзгоды нынешнего дня.                       А может, боль былых утрат                       Пришла непрошеной назад?                       Но песне не было конца,                       И жница молодая                          Все пела, пела, над серпом                          Спины не разгибая.                       Я молча слушал, а потом                       Нашел тропинку за холмом.                       Все дальше в горы я спешу                       И в сердце песню уношу.

TO THE CUCKOO

                     O blithe New-comer! I have heard,                     I hear thee and rejoice.                     O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,                     Or but a wandering Voice?

                     While I am lying on the grass                     Thy twofold shout I hear,                     From hill to hill it seems to pass,                     At once far off, and near.

                     Though babbling only to the Vale,                     Of sunshine and of flowers,                     Thou bringest unto me a tale                     Of visionary hours.

                     Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!                     Even yet thou art to me                     No bird, but an invisible thing,                     A voice, a mystery;

                     The same whom in my school-boy days                     I listened to; that Cry                     Which made me look a thousand ways                     In bush, and tree, and sky.

                     To seek thee did I often rove                     Through woods and on the green;                     And thou wert still a hope, a love;                     Still longed for, never seen.

                     And I can listen to thee yet;                     Can lie upon the plain                     And listen, till I do beget                     That golden time again.

                     О blessed Bird! the earth we pace                     Again appears to be                     An unsubstantial, faery place;                     That is fit home for Thee!

КУКУШКА[68]

                       С восторгом слышу голос твой,                          Кукушка, гость весны!                       О, кто ты? — птица, иль пустой                          Лишь голос с вышины?

                       Я слышу твой двухзвучный стон,                          Здесь лежа на траве;                       Вблизи, вдали — повсюду он                          В воздушной синеве.

                       Долинам весть приносит он                          О солнце, о цветах,                       А мне — волшебный сладкий сон                          О прошлых чудных днях.

                       Пленяй, как некогда, мне слух!                          Доныне, гость долин,                       Ты мне не птица; нет, ты дух,                          Загадка, звук один, —

                       Тот звук, который в прежни дни,                          Как школьник, я искал,                       Везде, и в небе, и в тени                          Дерев, и в недрах скал.

                       Бывало, целый день везде                          В лесах, лугах брожу;                       Ищу повсюду, но нигде                          Тебя не нахожу.

                       Так и теперь я слушать рад                          Твой крик в лесной тени.                       Я жду: не придут ли назад                          Давно минувши дни.

                       И снова кажется мне мир                          Каким-то царством снов,                       Куда принесся, как на пир,                          Ты, вешний гость лесов!

"She was a Phantom of delight…"

                   She was a Phantom of delight                   When first she gleamed upon my sight;                   A lovely Apparition, sent                   To be a moment's ornament;                   Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;                   Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;                   But all things else about her drawn                   From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;                   A dancing Shape, an Image gay,                   To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

                   I saw her upon nearer view,                   A Spirit, yet a Woman too!                   Her household motions light and free,                   And steps of virgin-liberty;                   A countenance in which did meet                   Sweet records, promises as sweet;                   A Creature not too bright or good                   For human nature's daily food;                   For transient sorrows, simple wiles,                   Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

                   And now I see with eye serene                   The very pulse of the machine;                   A Being breathing thoughtful breath,                   A Traveller between life and death;                   The reason firm, the temperate will,                   Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;                   A perfect Woman, nobly planned,                   To warn, to comfort, and command;                   And yet a Spirit still, and bright                   With something of angelic light.

"Созданьем зыбкой красоты…"[69]