Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT

                   I have a boy of five years old,                   His face is fair and fresh to see;                   His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,                   And dearly he loves me.

                   One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,                   Our quiet house all full in view,                   And held such intermitted talk                   As we are wont to do.

                   My thoughts on former pleasures ran;                   I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,                   Our pleasant home, when spring began,                   A long, long year before.

                   A day it was when I could bear                   To think, and think, and think again;                   With so much happiness to spare,                   I could not feel a pain.

                   My boy was by my side, so slim                   And graceful in his rustic dress!                   And oftentimes I talked to him,                   In very idleness.

                   The young lambs ran a pretty race;                   The morning sun shone bright and warm;                   "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,                   And so is Liswyn farm."

                   "My little boy, which like you more,"                   I said and took him by the arm —                   "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,                   Or here at Liswyn farm?"

                   "And tell me, had you rather be,"                   I said and held him by the arm,                   "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,                   Or here at Liswyn farm?"

                   In careless mood he looked at me,                   While still I held him by the arm,                   And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be                   Than here at Liswyn farm."

                   "Now, little Edward, say why so;                   My little Edward, tell me why;"                   "I cannot tell, I do not know."                   "Why, this is strange," said I.

                   "For, here are woods and green-hills warm;                   There surely must some reason be                   Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm                   For Kilve by the green sea."

                   At this, my boy, so fair and slim,                   Hung down his head, nor made reply;                   And five times did I say to him,                   "Why, Edward, tell me why?"

                   His head he raised-there was in sight,                   It caught his eye, he saw it plain —                   Upon the house-top, glittering bright,                   A broad and gilded vane.

                   Then did the boy his tongue unlock,                   And thus to me he made reply:                   "At Kilve there was no weather-cock,                   And that's the reason why."

                   О dearest, dearest boy! my heart                   For better lore would seldom yearn,                   Could I but teach the hundredth part                   Of what from thee I leam.

ИСТОРИЯ ДНЯ ОТЦОВ, ИЛИ КАК МОЖНО ВОСПИТАТЬ ПРИВЫЧКУ КО ЛЖИ[23]

                       Красив и строен мальчик мой —                       Ему всего лишь пять.                       И нежной любящей душой                       Он ангелу под стать.

                       У дома нашего вдвоем                       Мы с ним гуляли в ранний час,                       Беседуя о том, о сем,                       Как принято у нас.

                       Мне вспоминался дальний край,                       Наш домик прошлою весной.                       И берег Кильва, точно рай,                       Возник передо мной.

                       И столько счастья я сберег,                       Что, возвращаясь мыслью вспять,                       Я в этот день без боли мог                       Былое вспоминать.

                       Одетый просто, без прикрас,                       Мой мальчик был пригож и мил.                       Я с ним, как прежде много раз,                       Беспечно говорил.

                       Ягнят был грациозен бег                       На фоне солнечного дня.                       "Наш Лисвин, как и Кильвский брег,                       Чудесен", — молвил я.

                       "Тебе милее здешний дом? —                       Спросил я малыша. —                       Иль тот, на берегу морском?                       Ответь, моя душа!

                       И где ты жить, в краю каком                       Хотел бы больше, дай ответ:                       На Кильвском берегу морском                       Иль в Лисвине, мой свет?"

                       Глаза он поднял на меня,                       И взгляд был простодушья полн:                       "У моря жить хотел бы я,                       Вблизи зеленых волн".

                       "Но, милый Эдвард, отчего?                       Скажи, мой мальчик, почему?"                       "Не знаю, — был ответ его, —                       И сам я не пойму…"

                       "Зачем же эту благодать                       Лесов и солнечных лугов                       Ты безрассудно променять                       На Кильв морской готов?"

                       Но, отведя смущенный взгляд,                       Не отвечал он ничего.                       Я повторил пять раз подряд:                       "Скажи мне, отчего?"

                       Вдруг поднял голову малыш,                       И, ярким блеском привлечен,                       Увидел на одной из крыш                       Сверкавший флюгер он.

                       И миг спустя его ответ,                       Столь долгожданный, был таков:                       "Все дело в том, что в Кильве нет                       Вот этих петухов".

                       Я стать мудрей бы не мечтал,                       Когда, мой дорогой сынок,                       Тому, что от тебя узнал,                       Сам научить бы мог.

WE ARE SEVEN

                     — A simple Child,                        That lightly draws its breath,                     And feels its life in every limb,                        What should it know of death?

                     I met a little cottage Girl:                        She was eight years old, she said;                     Her hair was thick with many a curl                        That clustered round her head.

                     She had a rustic, woodland air,                        And she was wildly clad:                     Her eyes were fair, and very fair;                        — Her beauty made me glad.

                     "Sisters and brothers, little Maid,                        How many may you be?"                     "How many? Seven in all," she said                        And wondering looked at me.

                     "And where are they? I pray you tell.                        She answered, "Seven are we;                     And two of us at Conway dwell,                        And two are gone to sea.

                     "Two of us in the church-yard lie,                        My sister and my brother;                     And, in the church-yard cottage, I                        Dwell near them with my mother."

                     "You say that two at Conway dwell,                        And two are gone to sea,                     Yet ye are seven! — I pray you tell,                        Sweet Maid, how this may be."

                     Then did the little Maid reply,                        "Seven boys and girls are we;                     Two of us in the church-yard lie,                        Beneath the church-yard tree."

                     "You run about, my little Maid,                        Your limbs they are alive;                     If two are in the church-yard laid,                        Then ye are only five."

                     "Their graves are green, they may be seen,"                        The little Maid replied,                     "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,                        And they are side by side.

                     "My stockings there I often knit,                        My kerchief there I hem;                     And there upon the ground I sit,                        And sing a song to them.

                     "And often after sunset, Sir,                        When it is light and fair,                     I take my little porringer,                        And eat my supper there.

                     "The first that died was sister Jane;                        In bed she moaning lay,                     Till God released her of her pain;                        And then she went away.

                     "So in the church-yard she was laid;                        And, when the grass was dry,                     Together round her grave we played,                        My brother John and I.

                     "And when the ground was white with snow,                        And I could run and slide,                     My brother John was forced to go,                        And he lies by her side."

                     "How many are you, then," said I,                     "If they two are in heaven?"                     Quick was the little Maid's reply,                     "O Master! we are seven."

                     "But they are dead; those two are dead!                     Their spirits are in heaven!"                     Twas throwing words away; for still                     The little Maid would have her will,                     And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

НАС СЕМЕРО[24]