Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

НАС СЕМЕРО[24]

                          Легко радушное дитя                             Привыкшее дышать,                          Здоровьем, жизнию цветя,                             Как может смерть понять?

                          Навстречу девочка мне шла:                             Лет восемь было ей;                          Ее головку облегла                             Струя густых кудрей.

                          И дик был вид ее степной,                             И дик простой наряд,                          И радовал меня красой                             Малютки милый взгляд.

                          "Всех сколько вас, — ей молвил я, —                             И братьев, и сестер?"                          — Всего? Нас семь! — и, на меня                             Дивясь, бросает взор.

                          "А где ж они?" — Нас семь всего, —                             В ответ малютка мне. —                          Нас двое жить пошли в село                             И два на корабле.

                          И на кладбище брат с сестрой                             Лежат из семерых,                          А за кладбищем я с родной:                             Живем мы подле них.

                          "Как? Двое жить в село пошли,                             Пустились двое плыть,                          А вас все семь! Дружок, скажи,                             Как это может быть?"

                          — Нас семь, нас семь! — она тотчас                             Опять сказала мне.                          — Здесь на кладбище двое нас                             Под ивою в земле.

                          "Ты бегаешь вокруг нее,                             Ты видно, что жива;                          Но вас лишь пять, дитя мое,                             Когда под ивой два".

                          — На их гробах земля в цветах,                             И десяти шагов                          Нет от дверей родной моей                             До милых нам гробов.

                          Я часто здесь чулки вяжу,                             Платок мой здесь рублю,                          И подле их могил сижу,                             И песни им пою.

                          И если позднею порой                             Светло горит заря,                          То, взяв мой сыр и хлеб с собой,                             Здесь ужинаю я.

                          Малютка Дженни день и ночь                             Томилася, больна;                          Но Бог ей не забыл помочь —                             И спряталась она.

                          Когда ж ее мы погребли                             И расцвела земля —                          К ней на могилку мы пришли                             Резвиться, Джон и я.

                          Но только дождалась зимой                             Коньков я и саней,                          Ушел и Джон, братишка мой,                             И лег он рядом с ней.

                          "Так сколько ж вас?" — был мой ответ. —                          На небе двое, верь!                          Вас только пять". — О, барин, нет!                          Сочти — нас семь теперь.

                          "Да нет уж двух: они в земле,                          А души в небесах!"                          Но был ли прок в моих словах?                          Все девочка твердила мне:                          — О нет, нас семь, нас семь!

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

                     I heard a thousand blended notes,                     While in a grove I sate reclined,                     In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts                     Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

                     To her fair works did Nature link                     The human soul that through me ran;                     And much it grieved my heart to think                     What man has made of man.

                     Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,                     The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                     And 'tis my faith that every flower                     Enjoys the air it breathes.

                     The birds around me hopped and played,                     Their thoughts I cannot measure: —                     But the least motion which they made                     It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

                     The budding twigs spread out their fan,                     To catch the breezy air;                     And I must think, do all I can,                     That there was pleasure there.

                     If this belief from heaven be sent,                     If such be Nature's holy plan,                     Have I not reason to lament                     What man has made of man?

СТРОКИ, НАПИСАННЫЕ РАННЕЮ ВЕСНОЙ[25]

                       В прозрачной роще, в день весенний                       Я слушал многозвучный шум.                       И радость светлых размышлений                       Сменялась грустью мрачных дум.

                       Все, что природа сотворила,                       Жило в ладу с моей душой.                       Но что, — подумал я уныло, —                       Что сделал человек с собой?

                       Средь примул, полных ликованья,                       Барвинок нежный вил венок.                       От своего благоуханья                       Блаженствовал любой цветок.

                       И, наблюдая птиц круженье, —                       Хоть и не мог их мыслей знать, —                       Я верил: каждое движенье                       Для них — восторг и благодать.

                       И ветки ветра дуновенье                       Ловили веером своим.                       Я не испытывал сомненья,                       Что это было в радость им.

                       И коль уверенность моя —                       Не наваждение пустое,                       Так что, — с тоскою думал я, —                       Что сделал человек с собою?

THE THORN

      I

                    "There is a Thorn — it looks so old,                    In truth, you'd find it hard to say                    How it could ever have been young,                    It looks so old and grey.                    Not higher than a two years' child                    It stands erect, this aged Thorn;                    No leaves it has, no prickly points;                    It is a mass of knotted joints,                    A wretched thing forlorn,                    It stands erect, and like a stone                    With lichens is it overgrown.

      II

                    "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,                    With lichens to the very top,                    And hung with heavy tufts of moss,                    A melancholy crop:                    Up from the earth these mosses creep,                    And this poor Thorn they clasp it round                    So close, you'd say that they are bent                    With plain and manifest intent                    To drag it to the ground;                    And all have joined in one endeavour                    To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

      III

                    "High on a mountain's highest ridge,                    Where oft the stormy winter gale                    Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds                    It sweeps from vale to vale;                    Not five yards from the mountain path,                    This Thorn you on your left espy;                    And to the left, three yards beyond,                    You see a little muddy pond                    Of water-never dry                    Though but of compass small, and bare                    To thirsty suns and parching air.

      IV

                    "And, close beside this aged Thorn,                    There is a fresh and lovely sight,                    A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,                    Just half a foot in height.                    All lovely colours there you see,                    All colours that were ever seen;                    And mossy network too is there,                    As if by hand of lady fair                    The work had woven been;                    And cups, the darlings of the eye,                    So deep is their vermilion dye.

      V

                    "Ah me! what lovely tints are there                    Of olive green and scarlet bright,                    In spikes, in branches, and in stars,                    Green, red, and pearly white!                    This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,                    Which close beside the Thorn you see,                    So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,                    Is like an infant's grave in size,                    As like as like can be:                    But never, never any where,                    An infant's grave was half so fair.

      VI

                    "Now would you see this aged Thorn,                    This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,                    You must take care and choose your time                    The mountain when to cross.                    For oft there sits between the heap                    So like an infant's grave in size,                    And that same pond of which I spoke,                    A Woman in a scarlet cloak,                    And to herself she cries,                    'Oh misery! oh misery!                    Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

      VII

                    "At all times of the day and night                    This wretched Woman thither goes;                    And she is known to every star,                    And every wind that blows;                    And there, beside the Thorn, she sits                    When the blue daylight's in the skies,                    And when the whirlwind's on the hill,                    Or frosty air is keen and still,                    And to herself she cries,                    'Oh misery! oh misery!                    Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

      VIII

                    "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,                    In rain, in tempest, and in snow,                    Thus to the dreary mountain-top                    Does this poor Woman go?                    And why sits she beside the Thorn                    When the blue daylight's in the sky                    Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,                    Or frosty air is keen and still,                    And wherefore does she cry? —                    О wherefore? wherefore? tell me why                    Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

      IX

                    "I cannot tell; I wish I could;                    For the true reason no one knows:                    But would you gladly view the spot,                    The spot to which she goes;                    The hillock like an infant's grave,                    The pond-and Thorn, so old and grey;                    Pass by her door — 'tis seldom shut —                    And, if you see her in her hut —                    Then to the spot away!                    I never heard of such as dare                    Approach the spot when she is there."

      X

                    "But wherefore to the mountain-top                    Can this unhappy Woman go?                    Whatever star is in the skies,                    Whatever wind may blow?"                    "Full twenty years are past and gone                    Since she (her name is Martha Ray)                    Gave with a maiden's true good-will                    Her company to Stephen Hill;                    And she was blithe and gay,                    While friends and kindred all approved                    Of him whom tenderly she loved.

      XI

                    "And they had fixed the wedding day,                    The morning that must wed them both;                    But Stephen to another Maid                    Had sworn another oath;                    And, with this other Maid, to church                    Unthinking Stephen went —                    Poor Martha! on that woeful day                    A pang of pitiless dismay                    Into her soul was sent;                    A fire was kindled in her breast,                    Which might not burn itself to rest.

      XII

                    "They say, full six months after this,                    While yet the summer leaves were green,                    She to the mountain-top would go,                    And there was often seen.                    What could she seek? — or wish to hide?                    Her state to any eye was plain;                    She was with child, and she was mad;                    Yet often was she sober sad                    From her exceeding pain.                    О guilty Father-would that death                    Had saved him from that breach of faith!

      XIII

                    "Sad case for such a brain to hold                    Communion with a stirring child!                    Sad case, as you may think, for one                    Who had a brain so wild!                    Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,                    And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen                    Held that the unborn infant wrought                    About its mother's heart, and brought                    Her senses back again:                    And, when at last her time drew near,                    Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

      XIV

                    "More know I not, I wish I did,                    And it should all be told to you;                    For what became of this poor child                    No mortal ever knew;                    Nay-if a child to her was born                    No earthly tongue could ever tell;                    And if 'twas born alive or dead,                    Far less could this with proof be said;                    But some remember well,                    That Martha Ray about this time                    Would up the mountain often climb.

      XV

                    "And all that winter, when at night                    The wind blew from the mountain-peak,                    Twas worth your while, though in the dark,                    The churchyard path to seek:                    For many a time and oft were heard                    Cries coming from the mountain head:                    Some plainly living voices were;                    And others, I've heard many swear,                    Were voices of the dead:                    I cannot think, whate'er they say,                    They had to do with Martha Ray.

      XVI

                    "But that she goes to this old Thorn,                    The Thorn which I described to you,                    And there sits in a scarlet cloak                    I will be sworn is true.                    For one day with my telescope,                    To view the ocean wide and bright,                    When to this country first I came,                    Ere I had heard of Martha's name,                    I climbed the mountain's height: —                    A storm came on, and I could see                    No object higher than my knee.

      XVII

                    "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:                    No screen, no fence could I discover;                    And then the wind! in sooth, it was                    A wind full ten times over.                    I looked around, I thought I saw                    A jutting crag, — and off I ran,                    Head-foremost, through the driving rain,                    The shelter of the crag to gain;                    And, as I am a man,                    Instead of jutting crag, I found                    A Woman seated on the ground.

      XVIII

                    "I did not speak — I saw her face;                    Her face! — it was enough for me;                    I turned about and heard her cry,                    'Oh misery! oh misery!'                    And there she sits, until the moon                    Through half the clear blue sky will go;                    And, when the little breezes make                    The waters of the pond to shake,                    As all the country know,                    She shudders, and you hear her cry,                    'Oh misery! oh misery!'"

      XIX

                    "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond?                    And what the hill of moss to her?                    And what the creeping breeze that comes                    The little pond to stir?"                    "I cannot tell; but some will say                    She hanged her baby on the tree;                    Some say she drowned it in the pond,                    Which is a little step beyond:                    But all and each agree,                    The little Babe was buried there,                    Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

      XX

                    "I've heard, the moss is spotted red                    With drops of that poor infant's blood;                    But kill a new-born infant thus,                    I do not think she could!                    Some say, if to the pond you go,                    And fix on it a steady view,                    The shadow of a babe you trace,                    A baby and a baby's face,                    And that it looks at you;                    Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain                    The baby looks at you again.

      XXI

                    "And some had sworn an oath that she                    Should be to public justice brought;                    And for the little infant's bones                    With spades they would have sought.                    But instantly the hill of moss                    Before their eyes began to stir!                    And, for full fifty yards around,                    The grass — it shook upon the ground!                    Yet all do still aver                    The little Babe lies buried there,                    Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

      XXII

                    "I cannot tell how this may be,                    But plain it is the Thorn is bound                    With heavy tufts of moss that strive                    To drag it to the ground;                    And this I know, full many a time,                    When she was on the mountain high,                    By day, and in the silent night,                    When all the stars shone clear and bright,                    That I have heard her cry,                    'Oh misery! oh misery!                    Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

ТЕРН[26]