Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

LUCY

      I

                      Strange fits of passion have I known:                         And I will dare to tell,                      But in the Lover's ear alone,                         What once to me befell.

                      When she I loved looked every day                         Fresh as a rose in June,                      I to her cottage bent my way,                         Beneath an evening-moon.

                      Upon the moon I fixed my eye,                         All over the wide lea;                      With quickening pace my horse drew nigh                         Those paths so clear to me.

                      And now we reached the orchard-plot;                         And, as we climbed the hill,                      The sinking moon to Lucy's cot                         Came near, and nearer still.

                      In one of those sweet dreams I slept,                         Kind Nature's gentlest boon!                      And all the while my eyes I kept                         On the descending moon.

                      My horse moved on; hoof after hoof                         He raised, and never stopped:                      When down behind the cottage roof,                         At once, the bright moon dropped.

                      What fond and wayward thoughts will slide                         Into a Lover's head!                      "O mercy!" to myself I cried,                         "If Lucy should be dead!"

      II

                      She dwelt among the untrodden ways                      Beside the springs of Dove,                      A Maid whom there were none to praise                      And very few to love:

                      A violet by a mossy stone                      Half hidden from the eye!                      — Fair as a star, when only one                      Is shining in the sky.

                      She lived unknown, and few could know                      When Lucy ceased to be;                      But she is in her grave, and, oh,                      The difference to me!

      III

                      I travelled among unknown men,                      In lands beyond the sea;                      Nor, England! did I know till then                      What love I bore to thee.

                      Tis past, that melancholy dream!                      Nor will I quit thy shore                      A second time; for still I seem                      To love thee more and more.

                      Among thy mountains did I feel                      The joy of my desire;                      And she I cherished turned her wheel                      Beside an English fire.

                      Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed                      The bowers where Lucy played;                      And thine too is the last green field                      That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

      V

                      A slumber did my spirit seal;                      I had no human fears:                      She seemed a thing that could not feel                      The touch of earthly years.

                      No motion has she now, no force;                      She neither hears nor sees;                      Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,                      With rocks, and stones, and trees.

ЛЮСИ

      I [37]

                       Какие тайны знает страсть!                          Но только тем из вас,                       Кто сам любви изведал власть,                          Доверю свой рассказ.

                       Когда, как роза вешних дней,                          Любовь моя цвела,                       Я на свиданье мчался к ней,                          Со мной луна плыла.

                       Луну я взглядом провожал                          По светлым небесам.                       А конь мой весело бежал —                          Он знал дорогу сам.

                       Вот наконец фруктовый сад,                          Взбегающий на склон.                       Знакомый крыши гладкий скат                          Луною озарен.

                       Охвачен сладкой властью сна,                          Не слышал я копыт                       И только видел, что луна                          На хижине стоит,

                       Копыто за копытом, конь                          По склону вверх ступал.                       Но вдруг луны погас огонь,                          За крышею пропал.

                       Тоска мне сердце облегла,                          Чуть только свет погас.                       "Что, если Люси умерла?" —                          Сказал я в первый раз.

      II[38]

                       Среди нехоженых дорог,                       Где ключ студеный бил,                       Ее узнать никто не мог                       И мало кто любил.

                       Фиалка пряталась в лесах,                       Под камнем чуть видна.                       Звезда мерцала в небесах                       Одна, всегда одна.

                       Не опечалит никого,                       Что Люси больше нет,                       Но Люси нет — и оттого                       Так изменился свет.

      III[39]

                       К чужим, в далекие края                       Заброшенный судьбой,                       Не знал я, родина моя,                       Как связан я с тобой.

                       Теперь очнулся я от сна                       И не покину вновь                       Тебя, родная сторона —                       Последняя любовь.

                       В твоих горах ютился дом.                       Там девушка жила.                       Перед родимым очагом                       Твой лен она пряла.

                       Твой день ласкал, твой мрак скрывал                       Ее зеленый сад.                       И по твоим холмам блуждал                       Ее прощальный взгляд.

      V

                       Забывшись, думал я во сне,                       Что у бегущих лет                       Над той, кто всех дороже мне,                       Отныне власти нет.

                       Ей в колыбели гробовой                       Вовеки суждено                       С горами, морем и травой                       Вращаться заодно.

LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE

                      Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:                      And, when I crossed the wild,                      I chanced to see at break of day                      The solitary child.

                      No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;                      She dwelt on a wide moor,                      — The sweetest thing that ever grew                      Beside a human door!

                      You yet may spy the fawn at play,                      The hare upon the green;                      But the sweet face of Lucy Gray                      Will never more be seen.

                      "To-night will be a stormy night —                      You to the town must go;                      And take a lantern, Child, to light                      Your mother through the snow."

                      "That, Father! will I gladly do:                      'Tis scarcely afternoon —                      The minster-clock has just struck two,                      And yonder is the moon!"

                      At this the Father raised his hook,                      And snapped a faggot-band;                      He plied his work;-and Lucy took                      The lantern in her hand.

                      Not blither is the mountain roe:                      With many a wanton stroke                      Her feet disperse the powdery snow,                      That rises up like smoke.

                      The storm came on before its time:                      She wandered up and down;                      And many a hill did Lucy climb:                      But never reached the town.

                      The wretched parents all that night                      Went shouting far and wide;                      But there was neither sound nor sight                      To serve them for a guide.

                      At day-break on a hill they stood                      That overlooked the moor;                      And thence they saw the bridge of wood,                      A furlong from their door.

                      They wept-and, turning homeward, cried,                      "In heaven we all shall meet;"                      — When in the snow the mother spied                      The print of Lucy's feet.

                      Then downwards from the steep hill's edge                      They tracked the footmarks small;                      And through the broken hawthorn hedge,                      And by the long stone-wall;

                      And then an open field they crossed:                      The marks were still the same;                      They tracked them on, nor ever lost;                      And to the bridge they came.

                      They followed from the snowy bank                      Those footmarks, one by one,                      Into the middle of the plank;                      And further there were none!

                      — Yet some maintain that to this day                      She is a living child;                      That you may see sweet Lucy Gray                      Upon the lonesome wild.

                      O'er rough and smooth she trips along,                      And never looks behind;                      And sings a solitary song                      That whistles in the wind.

ЛЮСИ ГРЕЙ[40]