Текст книги "Избранная лирика"

Автор книги: Уильям Вордсворт

 
                     There is a change – and I am poor;
                     Your love hath been, not long ago,
                     A fountain at my fond heart's door,
                     Whose only business was to flow;
                     And flow it did: not taking heed
                     Of its own bounty, or my need.
 
 
                     What happy moments did I count!
                     Blest was I then all bliss above!
                     Now, for that consecrated fount
                     Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
                     What have I? shall I dare to tell?
                     A comfortless and hidden well.
 
 
                     A well of love – it may be deep —
                     I trust it is, – and never dry:
                     What matter? if the waters sleep
                     In silence and obscurity.
                     – Such change, and at the very door
                     Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.
 

 
                        Увы, лишился я всего,
                        Богатый – обеднел я вмиг.
                        Близ двери сердца моего
                        Еще недавно бил родник
                        Твоей любви. Свежа, чиста,
                        Вода сама лилась в уста.
 
 
                        Как счастлив был в ту пору я!
                        Играя, в пламени луча
                        Кипела, искрилась струя
                        Животворящего ключа.
                        Но вот беда – ручей иссох,
                        Теперь на дне его лишь мох.
 
 
                        Родник любви, он не иссяк, —
                        Но что мне в том, когда навек
                        Вода ушла в подземный мрак
                        И тихо спит, прервав свой бег?
                        Отныне горек мой удел:
                        Я был богат, но обеднел.
 

 
                  Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
                  Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
                     Men, women, children, yea the frame
                     Of the whole spectacle the same!
                  Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
                  Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
                     That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
                     Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
                  – Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
                  Have been a traveller under open sky,
                     Much witnessing of change and cheer,
                     Yet as I left I find them here!
                  The weary Sun betook himself to rest; —
                  Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
                     Outshining like a visible God
                     The glorious path in which he trod.
                  And now, ascending, after one dark hour
                  And one night's diminution of her power,
                     Behold the mighty Moon! this way
                     She looks as if at them – but they
                  Regard not her: – oh better wrong and strife
                  (By nature transient) than this torpid life;
                     Life which the very stars reprove
                     As on their silent tasks they move!
                  Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
                  In scorn I speak not; – they are what their birth
                     And breeding suffer them to be;
                     Wild outcasts of society!
 

 
                     Мужчины, женщины и дети – весь
                     Сплоченный род, на том же месте, здесь;
                        Подмостки те же – тот же луг,
                        И тех же лицедеев круг;
                     Лишь дерзостней костер ночной горит,
                     Придав глубокий, рдяный колорит
                        Цыганам смуглым, и шатрам,
                        И жалким травяным одрам…
                     Столь много перемен, в теченье дня,
                     Под небосводом тешили меня
                        В скитаниях, – но этот люд
                        На месте прежнем, тут как тут!
                     Вот солнце утомленное зашло,
                     И Веспер, словно некий бог, светло
                        Вознесся, царственно скользя,
                        Где пролегла его стезя;
                     И после краткой тьмы, когда Луна
                     Была развенчана, опять она
                        Свершает властный свой полет,
                        Но табор к ней молитв не шлет…
                     Нет! Лучше распря, лучше боль обид
                     Неправых, чем застывший этот быт,
                        Покой, которому в укор
                        Кружится вечно звездный хор!
                     Хоть в мире все и движется, но я
                     Не опорочу косного житья
                        Цыган, – Судьба взрастила их
                        Изгоями общин людских!
 

From «THE EXCURSION»
Уединение (отрывок из поэмы "ПРОГУЛКА")

«What motive drew, that impulse, I would ask…»

 
                What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask,
                Through a long course of later ages, drove,
                The hermit to his cell in forest wide;
                Or what detained him, till his closing eyes
                Took their last farewell of the sun and stars,
                Fast anchored in the desert? – Not alone
                Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse,
                Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged
                And unavengeable, defeated pride,
                Prosperity subverted, maddening want,
                Friendship betrayed, affection unretumed,
                Love with despair, or grief in agony; —
                Not always from intolerable pangs
                He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed
                For independent happiness; craving peace,
                The central feeling of all happiness,
                Not as a refuge from distress or pain,
                A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce,
                But for its absolute self; a life of peace,
                Stability without regret or fear;
                That hath been, is, and shall be evermore! —
                Such the reward he sought; and wore out life,
                There, where on few external things his heart
                Was set, and those his own; or, if not his,
                Subsisting under nature's stedfast law.
                What other yearning was the master tie
                Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock
                Aerial, or in green secluded vale,
                One after one, collected from afar,
                An undissolving fellowship? – What but this,
                The universal instinct of repose,
                The longing for confirmed tranquillity,
                Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime:
                The life where hope and memory are as one;
                Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged
                Save by the simplest toil of human hands
                Or seasons' difference; the immortal Soul
                Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed
                To meditation in that quietness! —
 

«Я говорю: Какое побужденье…» [76]76
  Перевод К. Бальмонта


[Закрыть]

 
                     Я говорю: Какое побужденье,
                     Какой толчок в теченье долгах лет
                     Отшельника манил в лесную чащу
                     К его безмолвной келье? Что его
                     В пустыне укрепляться заставляло,
                     Как бы бросать там навсегда свой якорь,
                     Пока он не смежит свои глаза,
                     В последний раз послав свой взгляд прощальный
                     На солнце и на звезды? – О, не только
                     Страх пред мечом грозящим, угрызенья,
                     Обиды, не поправленные роком,
                     И оскорблений боль неотомщенных,
                     Таких, что отомстить за них нельзя,
                     Растоптанная гордость, перемена
                     В благополучьи, ужас нищеты,
                     Что ум на край безумия приводит,
                     Обманутая дружба, боль влеченья,
                     В другом не пробудившего взаимность,
                     С отчаянием слитая любовь
                     Иль мука, что дошла до агонии; —
                     Он не всегда бежал от нестерпимых,
                     Невыносимых пыток; но нередко,
                     Влекомый безмятежным наслажденьем,
                     Он счастия искал, свободы, мира;
                     Затем что в нашем счастьи – ощущение
                     Центральное есть мир.
                     Ему хотелось видеть постоянство,
                     Что было, есть и будет бесконечно,
                     Себе такой награды он искал.
                     И что другое было твердой скрепой
                     Для братства, что воздвигло монастырь,
                     Высоко на скале, – приют воздушный, —
                     Или в уединения долины, —
                     Что привлекло их всех из дальних мест,
                     Содружеством их сливши неразрывным? —
                     Инстинкт успокоения всемирный,
                     Желанье подтвержденного покоя,
                     Внутри и вне; возвышенность, смиренность;
                     Жизнь, где воспоминанье и надежда
                     Слились в одно и где земля спокойна,
                     Где лик ее меняется едва
                     Работой рук для нужд неприхотливых
                     Иль силою круговращенья года,
                     Где царствует бессмертная Душа,
                     В согласии с своим законом ясным,
                     И небо для услады созерцанья
                     Открыто в невозбранной тишине.
 

From «POEMS» (1815)
Из сборника "СТИХОТВОРЕНИЯ" (1815)

A NIGHT-PIECE

 
                  At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
                  Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
                  His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
                  Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split
                  Asunder, – and above his head he sees
                  The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
                  There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
                  Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
                  And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
                  Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
                  Yet vanish not! – the wind is in the tree,
                  But they are silent; – still they roll along
                  Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
                  Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
                  Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
                  At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
                  Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
                  Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
                  Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
 

НОЧЬ [77]77
  Перевод А. Ибрагимова


[Закрыть]

 
                                Ночное небо
                      Покрыто тонкой тканью облаков;
                      Неявственно, сквозь эту пелену,
                      Просвечивает белый круг луны.
                      Ни дерево, ни башня, ни скала
                      Земли не притеняют в этот час.
                      Но вот внезапно хлынуло сиянье,
                      Притягивая путника, который
                      Задумчиво бредет своей дорогой.
                      И видит он, глаза подъемля к небу,
                      В разрыве облаков – царицу ночи:
                      Во всем ее торжественном величье
                      Она плывет в провале темно-синем
                      В сопровожденье ярких, колких звезд:
                      Стремительно они несутся прочь,
                      Из глаз не исчезая; веет ветер,
                      Но тихо все, ни шороха в листве…
                      Провал средь исполинских облаков
                      Все глубже, все бездонней. Наконец
                      Видение скрывается, и ум,
                      Еще восторга полный, постепенно
                      Объемлемый покоем, размышляет
                      Об этом пышном празднестве природы.
 

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING
THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH

 
                Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
                Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
                And giv'st to forms and images a breath
                And everlasting motion! not in vain
                By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
                Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
                The passions that build up our human soul;
                Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;
                But with high objects, with enduring things
                With life and nature; purifying thus
                The elements of feeling and of thought,
                And sanctifying by such discipline
                Both pain and fear, – until we recognise
                A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
                   Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
                With stinted kindness. In November days,
                When vapours rolling down the valleys made
                A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
                At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
                When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
                Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went
                In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
                Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
                And by the waters, all the summer long.
                And in the frosty season, when the sun
                Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
                The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,
                I heeded not the summons: happy time
                It was indeed for all of us; for me
                It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
                The village-clock tolled six – I wheeled about,
                Proud and exulting like an untired horse
                That cares not for his home. – All shod with steel
                We hissed along the polished ice, in games
                Confederate, imitative of the chase
                And woodland pleasures, – the resounding horn,
                The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.
                So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
                And not a voice was idle: with the din
                Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
                The leafless trees and every icy crag
                Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
                Into the tumult sent an alien sound
                Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,
                Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
                The orange sky of evening died away.
                   Not seldom from the uproar I retired
                Into a silent bay, or sportively
                Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
                To cut across the reflex of a star;
                Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
                Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
                When we had given our bodies to the wind,
                And all the shadowy banks on either side
                Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
                The rapid line of motion, then at once
                Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
                Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
                Wheeled by me – even as if the earth had rolled
                With visible motion her diurnal round!
                Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
                Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
                Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
 

ВЛИЯНИЕ ПРИРОДЫ НА РАЗВИТИЕ ВООБРАЖЕНИЯ В ДЕТСТВЕ И РАННЕЙ ЮНОСТИ [78]78
  Перевод М. Фроловского


[Закрыть]

 
                    О ты, великий Дух предвечной мысли,
                    Единая душа и мудрость мира,
                    Ты образам даешь дыханье жизни
                    И вечное движенье. Нет, недаром,
                    Когда встречал еще я утро жизни,
                    И днем и в свете звезд в душе моей
                    Все чувства, в ней живущие, сплетались
                    Не с суетным стремлением к тому,
                    Что создано рукою человека,
                    А с вечными порывами к Природе
                    И к жизни. Очищалась мысль моя
                    Священной скорбью и священным страхом,
                    И я учился постигать величье
                    Биенья человеческого сердца.
 
 
                    Мне этих откровений благодать
                    Уделена была рукою щедрой,
                    Я ощущал присутствие ее
                    И в ноябре, когда туман тяжелый
                    Окутывал унылую долину
                    Покровом мрачным; и в полдневный час
                    В глуши лесов, и тихой летней ночью,
                    Когда один домой я возвращался
                    Вдоль озера среди холмов угрюмых;
                    Я чувствовал ее и днем в полях,
                    И в час ночной у озера, и летом,
                    И в зимний день, когда садилось солнце
                    И далеко блестели окна хижин
                    Сквозь сумерки морозные, когда
                    Меня домой и не дозваться было.
                    Счастливая для всех для нас пора!
                    Как наслаждался я тогда! Бывало,
                    На колокольне сельской ясно, звонко
                    Бьет шесть часов, – а мне и дела нет,
                    И я, как дикий конь, гордясь свободой,
                    Бегу от дому прочь. Одев коньки,
                    Мы шумною толпой несемся по льду,
                    Изображая целую охоту,
                    И звук рогов, и лай собачьей своры,
                    И загнанного зайца. Дружным хором
                    Звучат в морозном мраке голоса,
                    Вдоль по обрывам отдаются гулко,
                    Звенящие им вторят отголоски
                    Оледеневших скал, деревьев голых,
                    И лишь с холмов далеких чуждым звуком
                    Врывается в наш общий гам и шум
                    Печальный отклик эха. Мы не слышим
                    Его до той поры, пока над нами
                    Не вспыхнут звезды и закат багряный
                    Не скроется на западе совсем.
 
 
                    Но часто я из этой суматохи
                    Вдруг ускользал в залив уединенный
                    И, оглядевшись, долго с любопытством
                    Следил, как вдаль по ледяной равнине
                    Мелькает яркий отблеск звезд далеких
                    Среди ватаги, мчащейся к нему.
                    Или когда наперегонки с ветром
                    Летели мы, и нам неслись навстречу
                    Окутанные мраком берега, —
                    Откинувшись на каблуки, внезапно
                    Я круто останавливал свой бег
                    И озирался; скалы продолжали
                    Бежать навстречу, будто для меня
                    Вдруг видимым земли вращенье стало,
                    И я глядел им вслед, как постепенно
                    Они свое движенье замедляли
                    И снова все недвижным становилось,
                    Как в летний день безветренное море.
 

LAODAMIA

 
                "With sacrifice before the rising mom
                Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
                And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
                Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
                Celestial pity I again implore; —
                Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"
 
 
                So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
                With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
                While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
                Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands;
                Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
                And she expects the issue in repose.
 
 
                О terror! what hath she perceived? – О joy!
                What doth she look on? – whom doth she behold?
                Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
                His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
                It is – if sense deceive her not – 'tis He!
                And a God leads him, winged Mercury!
 
 
                Mild Hermes spake – and touched her with his wand
                That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
                Laodamia! that at Jove's command
                Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:
                He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
                Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"
 
 
                Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp;
                Again that consummation she essayed;
                But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
                As often as that eager grasp was made.
                The Phantom parts – but parts to re-unite,
                And re-assume his place before her sight.
 
 
                "Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
                Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
                This is our palace, – yonder is thy throne;
                Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
                Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
                This precious boon; and blest a sad abode."
 
 
                "Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave
                His gifts imperfect: – Spectre though I be,
                I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
                But in reward of thy fidelity.
                And something also did my worth obtain;
                For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
 
 
                "Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
                That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
                Should die; but me the threat could not withhold:
                A generous cause a victim did demand;
                And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
                A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain."
 
 
                "Supreme of Heroes-bravest, noblest, best!
                Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
                Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
                By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
                Thou found'st – and I forgive thee – here thou art —
                A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
 
 
                "But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
                Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
                And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
                Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave:
                Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
                As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
 
 
                "No Spectre greets me, – no vain Shadow this;
                Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!
                Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
                To me, this day, a second time thy bride!"
                Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcae threw
                Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
 
 
                "This visage tells thee that my doom is past:
                Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
                Of sense were able to return as fast
                And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
                Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains:
                Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains.
 
 
                "Be taught, О faithful Consort, to control
                Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve
                The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
                A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
                Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
                When I depart, for brief is my sojourn – "
 
 
                "Ah, wherefore? – Did not Hercules by force
                Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb
                Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
                Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?
                Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,
                And Aeson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
 
 
                "The Gods to us are merciful – and they
                Yet further may relent: for mightier far
                Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
                Of magic potent over sun and star,
                Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
                And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.
 
 
                "But if thou goest, I follow – " «Peace!» he said, —
                She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;
                The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;
                In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared
                Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
                Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
 
 
                He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
                In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
                No fears to beat away – no strife to heal —
                The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
                Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
                Revived, with finer harmony pursued;
 
 
                Of all that is most beauteous – imaged there
                In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
                An ampler ether, a diviner air,
                And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
                Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
                Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
 
 
                Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned
                That privilege by virtue. – «Ill,» said he,
                "The end of man's existence I discerned,
                Who from ignoble games and revelry
                Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
                While tears were thy best pastime, day and night;
 
 
                "And while my youthful peers before my eyes
                (Each hero following his peculiar bent)
                Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
                By martial sports, – or, seated in the tent,
                Chieftains andjcings in council were detained;
                What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
 
 
                "The wished-for wind was given: – I then revolved
                The oracle, upon the silent sea;
                And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
                That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
                The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, —
                Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
 
 
                "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
                When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife!
                On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
                And on the joys we shared in mortal life, —
                The paths which we had trod – these fountains, flowers
                My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
 
 
                "But should suspense permit the Foe to cry,
                'Behold they tremble! – haughty their array,
                Yet of their number no one dares to die?'
                In soul I swept the indignity away:
                Old frailties then recurred: – but lofty thought,
                In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
 
 
                "And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
                In reason, in self-government too slow;
                I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
                Our blest re-union in the shades below.
                The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
                Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
 
 
                "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend —
                Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
                Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
                For this the passion to excess was driven —
                That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
                The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." —
 
 
                Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears!
                Round the dear Shade she would have clung – 'tis vain:
                The hours are past – too brief had they been years;
                And him no mortal effort can detain:
                Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,
                He through the portal takes his silent way,
                And oh the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay.
                Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,
 
 
                She perished; and, as for a wilful crime,
                By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved,
                Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
                Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers
                Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
 
 
                – Yet tears to human suffering are due;
                And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
                Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
                As fondly he believes. – Upon the side
 
 
                Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
                A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
                From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
                And ever, when such stature they had gained
                That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
                The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
                A constant interchange of growth and blight!