Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

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]

                          Не раз я видел Люси Грей                          В задумчивой глуши,                          Где только шорохи ветвей,                          И зной, и ни души.

                          Никто ей другом быть не мог                          Среди глухих болот.                          Никто не знал, какой цветок                          В лесном краю растет.

                          В лесу встречаю я дрозда                          И зайца на лугу,                          Но милой Люси никогда                          Я встретить не смогу.

                          — Эй, Люси, где-то наша мать,                          Не сбилась бы с пути.                          Возьми фонарь, ступай встречать,                          Стемнеет — посвети.

                          — Отец, я справлюсь дотемна,                          Всего-то три часа.                          Еще едва-едва луна                          Взошла на небеса.

                          — Иди, да только не забудь,                          Мы к ночи бурю ждем. —                          И Люси смело вышла в путь                          Со старым фонарем.

                          Стройна, проворна и легка,                          Как козочка в горах,                          Она ударом башмака                          Взметала снежный прах.

                          Потом спустился полог тьмы,                          Завыло, замело.                          Взбиралась Люси на холмы,                          Но не пришла в село.

                          Напрасно звал отец-старик.                          Из темноты в ответ                          Не долетал ни плач, ни крик                          И не маячил свет.

                          А поутру с немой тоской                          Смотрели старики                          На мост, черневший над рекой,                          На ветлы у реки.

                          Отец промолвил: — От беды                          Ни ставней, ни замков. —                          И вдруг заметил он следы                          Знакомых башмаков.

                          Следы ведут на косогор,                          Отчетливо видны,                          Через проломанный забор                          И дальше вдоль стены.

                          Отец и мать спешат вперед.                          До пояса в снегу.                          Следы идут, идут — и вот                          Они на берегу.

                          На сваях ледяной нарост,                          Вода стремит свой бег.                          Следы пересекают мост…                          А дальше чистый снег.

                          Но до сих пор передают,                          Что Люси Грей жива,                          Что и теперь ее приют —                          Лесные острова.

                          Она болотом и леском                          Петляет наугад,                          Поет печальным голоском                          И не глядит назад.

THE BROTHERS

                "These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live                A profitable life: some glance along,                Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,                And they were butterflies to wheel about                Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,                Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,                Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,                Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,                Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,                Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.                But, for that moping Son of Idleness,                Why, can he tarry yonder? — In our church yard                Is neither epitaph nor monument,                Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread                And a few natural graves."                                           To Jane, his wife,                Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.                It was a July evening; and he sate                Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves                Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day,                Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone                His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,                While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,                He fed the spindle of his youngest child,                Who, in the open air, with due accord                Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,                Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field                In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,                Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,                While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent                Many a long look of wonder: and at last,                Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge                Of carded wool which the old man had piled                He laid his implements with gentle care,                Each in the other locked; and, down the path                That from his cottage to the churchyard led,                He took his way, impatient to accost                The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.                            'Twas one well known to him in former days,                A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year                Had left that calling, tempted to entrust                His expectations to the fickle winds                And perilous waters; with the mariners                A fellow-mariner; — and so had fared                Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared                Among the mountains, and he in his heart                Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.                Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard                The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds                Of caves and trees: — and, when the regular wind                Between the tropics filled the steady sail,                And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,                Lengthening invisibly its weary line                Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours                Of tiresome indolence, would often hang                Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;                And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam                Flashed round him images and hues that wrought                In union with the employment of his heart,                He, thus by feverish passion overcome,                Even with the organs of his bodily eye,                Below him, in the bosom of the deep,                Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed                On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,                And shepherds clad in the same country grey                Which he himself had worn.                                           And now, at last,                From perils manifold, with some small wealth                Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,                To his paternal home he is returned,                With a determined purpose to resume                The life he had lived there; both for the sake                Of many darling pleasures, and the love                Which to an only brother he has borne                In all his hardships, since that happy time                When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two                Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.                — They were the last of all their race: and now,                When Leonard had approached his home, his heart                Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire                Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,                He to the solitary churchyard turned;                That, as he knew in what particular spot                His family were laid, he thence might learn                If still his Brother lived, or to the file                Another grave was added. - He had found,                Another grave, — near which a full half-hour                He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew                Such a confusion in his memory,                That he began to doubt; and even to hope                That he had seen this heap of turf before, —                That it was not another grave; but one                He had forgotten. He had lost his path,                As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked                Through fields which once bad been well known to him:                And oh what joy this recollection now                Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,                And, looking round, imagined that he saw                Strange alteration wrought on every side                Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,                And everlasting hills themselves were changed.                By this the Priest, who down the field had come,                Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate                Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb                Perused him with a gay complacency.                Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,                Tis one of those who needs must leave the path                Of the world's business to go wild alone:                His arms have a perpetual holiday;                The happy man will creep about the fields,                Following his fancies by the hour, to bring                Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles                Into his face, until the setting sun                Write fool upon his forehead. - Planted thus                Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate                Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared                The good Man might have communed with himself,                But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,                Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,                And, after greetings interchanged, and given                By Leonard to the Vicar as to one                Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

                                  Leonard.

                You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:                Your years make up one peaceful family;                And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come                And welcome gone, they are so like each other,                They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral                Comes to mis churchyard once in eighteen months;                And yet, some changes must take place among you:                And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,                Can trace the finger of mortality,                And see, that with our threescore years and ten                We are not all that perish. - I remember,                (For many years ago I passed this road)                There was a foot-way all along the fields                By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft!                To me it does not seem to wear the face                Which then it had!

                                  Priest.

                                    Nay, Sir, for aught I know,                That chasm is much the same —

                                  Leonard.

                                            But, surely, yonder —

                                  Priest.

                Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend                That does not play you false. - On that tall pike                (It is the loneliest place of all these hills)                There were two springs which bubbled side by side,                As if they had been made that they might be                Companions for each other: the huge crag                Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared;                The other, left behind, is flowing still.                For accidents aud changes such as these,                We want not store of them; — a water-spout                Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast                For folks that wander up and down like you,                To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff                One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm                Will come with loads of January snow,                And in one night send twenty score of sheep                To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies                By some untoward death among the rocks:                The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;                A wood is felled:-and then for our own homes!                A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,                A daughter sent to service, a web spun,                The old house-clock is decked with a new face;                And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates                To chronicle the time, we all have here                A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir,                For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side —                Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,                Commend me to these valleys!

                                  Leonard.

                                            Yet your Churchyard                Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,                To say that you are heedless of the past:                An orphan could not find his mother's grave:                Here's neither head-nor foot stone, plate of brass,                Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state                Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home                Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.

                                  Priest.

                Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!                The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread                If every English churchyard were like ours;                Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:                We have no need of names and epitaphs;                We talk about the dead by our firesides.                And then, for our immortal part! we want                No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:                The thought of death sits easy on the man                Who has been bom and dies among the mountains.

                                  Leonard.

                Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts                Possess a kind of second life: no doubt                You, Sir, could help me to the history                Of half these graves?

                                  Priest.

                                     For eight-score winters past,                With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,                Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,                If you were seated at my chimney's nook,                By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,                We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;                Yet all in the broad highway of the world.                Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, —                It looks just like the rest; and yet that man                Died broken-hearted.

                                  Leonard.

                                      'Tis a common case.                We'll take another: who is he that lies                Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?                It touches on that piece of native rock                Left in the churchyard wall.

                                  Priest.

                                              That's Walter Ewbank.                He had as white a head and fresh a cheek                As ever were produced by youth and age                Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.                Through five long generations had the heart                Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds                Of their inheritance, that single cottage —                You see it yonder! and those few green fields.                They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,                Each struggled, and each yielded as before                A little — yet a little, — and old Walter,                They left to him the family heart, and land                With other burthens than the crop it bore.                Year after year the old man still kept up                A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond,                Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,                And went into his grave before his time.                Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him                God only knows, but to the very last                He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:                His pace was never that of an old man:                I almost see him tripping down the path                With his two grandsons after him: — but you,                Unless our Landlord be your host tonight,                Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths                Even in the longest day of midsummer —

                                  Leonard.

                But those two Orphans!

                                  Priest.

                Orphans! — Such they were —                Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parents                Lay buried side by side as now they lie,                The old man was a father to the boys,                Two fathers in one father: and if tears,                Shed when he talked of them where they were not,                And hauntings from the infirmity of love,                Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,                This old Man, in the day of his old age,                Was half a mother to them. - If you weep, Sir,                To hear a stranger talking about strangers,                Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!                Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave                Which will bear looking at.

                                  Leonard.

                                            These boys — I hope                They loved this good old Man? —

                                  Priest.

                                           They did — and truly:                But that was what we almost overlooked,                They were such darlings of each other. Yes,                Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,                The only kinsman near them, and though he                Inclined to both by reason of his age,                With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;                They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,                And it all went into each other's hearts.                Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,                Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,                To hear, to meet them! — From their house the school                Is distant three short miles, and in the time                Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse&nbs