Текст книги "Избранная лирика"

Автор книги: Уильям Вордсворт

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

A True Story

 
                   Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
                   What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
                   That evermore his teeth they chatter,
                   Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
                   Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
                   Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
                   He has a blanket on his back,
                   And coats enough to smother nine.
 
 
                   In March, December, and in July,
                   Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
                   The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
                   His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
                   At night, at morning, and at noon,
                   Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
                   Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
                   His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
 
 
                   Young Harry was a lusty drover,
                   And who so stout of limb as he?
                   His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
                   His voice was like the voice of three.
                   Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
                   Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
                   And any man who passed her door
                   Might see how poor a hut she had.
 
 
                   All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
                   And then her three hours' work at night,
                   Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
                   It would not pay for candle-light.
                   Remote from sheltered village-green,
                   On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
                   Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
                   And hoary dews are slow to melt.
 
 
                   By the same fire to boil their pottage,
                   Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
                   Will often live in one small cottage;
                   But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
                   Twas well enough when summer came,
                   The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
                   Then at her door the canty Dame
                   Would sit, as any linnet, gay.
 
 
                   But when the ice our streams did fetter,
                   Oh then how her old bones would shake!
                   You would have said, if you had met her,
                   'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
                   Her evenings then were dull and dead:
                   Sad case it was, as you may think,
                   For very cold to go to bed;
                   And then for cold not sleep a wink.
 
 
                   О joy for her! whene'er in winter
                   The winds at night had made a rout;
                   And scattered many a lusty splinter
                   And many a rotten bough about.
                   Yet never had she, well or sick,
                   As every man who knew her says,
                   A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
                   Enough to warm her for three days.
 
 
                   Now, when the frost was past enduring,
                   And made her poor old bones to ache,
                   Could any thing be more alluring
                   Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
                   And, now and then, it must be said,
                   When her old bones were cold and chill,
                   She left her fire, or left her bed,
                   To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
 
 
                   Now Harry he had long suspected
                   This trespass of old Goody Blake;
                   And vowed that she should be detected —
                   That he on her would vengeance take.
                   And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
                   And to the fields his road would take;
                   And there, at night, in frost and snow,
                   He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
 
 
                   And once, behind a rick of barley,
                   Thus looking out did Harry stand:
                   The moon was full and shining clearly,
                   And crisp with frost the stubble land.
                   – He hears a noise-he's all awake —
                   Again? – on tip-toe down the hill
                   He softly creeps – 'tis Goody Blake;
                   She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!
 
 
                   Right glad was he when he beheld her:
                   Stick after stick did Goody pull:
                   He stood behind a bush of elder,
                   Till she had filled her apron full.
                   When with her load she turned about,
                   The by-way back again to take;
                   He started forward, with a shout,
                   And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
 
 
                   And fiercely by the arm he took her,
                   And by the arm he held her fast,
                   And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
                   And cried, «I've caught you then at last!» —
                   Then Goody, who had nothing said,
                   Her bundle from her lap let fall;
                   And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
                   To God that is the judge of all.
 
 
                   She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
                   While Harry held her by the arm —
                   "God! who art never out of hearing,
                   О may he never more be warm!"
                   The cold, cold moon above her head,
                   Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
                   Young Harry heard what she had said:
                   And icy cold he turned away.
 
 
                   He went complaining all the morrow
                   That he was cold and very chill:
                   His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
                   Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
                   That day he wore a riding-coat,
                   But not a whit the warmer he:
                   Another was on Thursday brought,
                   And ere the Sabbath he had three.
 
 
                   'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
                   And blankets were about him pinned;
                   Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter;
                   Like a loose casement in the wind.
                   And Harry's flesh it fell away;
                   And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
                   That, live as long as live he may,
                   He never will be warm again.
 
 
                   No word to any man he utters,
                   A-bed or up, to young or old;
                   But ever to himself he mutters,
                   «Poor Harry Gill is very cold.»
                   A-bed or up, by night or day;
                   His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
                   Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
                   Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
 

ГУДИ БЛЕЙК И ГАРРИ ДЖИЛЛ [20]20
  Перевод И. Меламеда


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правдивая история

 
                       Какая хворь, какая сила
                       И дни, и месяцы подряд
                       Так сотрясает Гарри Джилла,
                       Что зубы у него стучат?
                       У Гарри недостатка нет
                       В жилетах, шубах меховых.
                       И все, во что больной одет,
                       Согрело б и девятерых.
 
 
                       В апреле, в декабре, в июне,
                       В жару ли, в дождь ли, в снегопад,
                       Под солнцем или в полнолунье
                       У Гарри зубы все стучат!
                       Все то же с Гарри круглый год —
                       Твердит о нем и стар и млад:
                       Днем, утром, ночи напролет
                       У Гарри зубы все стучат!
 
 
                       Он молод был и крепко слажен
                       Для ремесла гуртовщика:
                       В его плечах косая сажень,
                       Кровь с молоком – его щека.
                       А Гуди Блейк стара была,
                       И каждый вам поведать мог,
                       В какой нужде она жила,
                       Как темный дом ее убог.
 
 
                       За пряжею худые плечи
                       Не распрямляла день и ночь.
                       Увы, случалось, и на свечи
                       Ей было накопить невмочь.
                       Стоял на хладной стороне
                       Холма ее промерзший дом.
                       И уголь был в большой цене
                       В селенье отдаленном том.
 
 
                       Нет близкой у нее подруги,
                       Делить ей не с кем кров и снедь.
                       Ей, видно, в нищенской лачуге
                       Одной придется умереть.
                       Лишь ясной солнечной порой,
                       С приходом летнего тепла,
                       Подобно птичке полевой,
                       Она бывает весела.
 
 
                       Когда ж затянет льдом потоки —
                       Ей жизнь и вовсе невтерпеж.
                       Как жжет ее мороз жестокий
                       И кости пробирает дрожь!
                       Когда так пусто и мертво
                       Ее жилище в поздний час, —
                       О, догадайтесь, каково
                       От стужи не смыкать ей глаз!
 
 
                       Ей счастье выпадало редко,
                       Когда, вокруг чиня разбой,
                       К ее избе сухие ветки
                       И щепки ветер гнал ночной.
                       Не поминала и молва,
                       Чтоб Гуди запасалась впрок.
                       И дров хватало ей едва
                       Лишь на один-другой денек.
 
 
                       Когда мороз пронзает жилы
                       И кости старые болят —
                       Плетень садовый Гарри Джилла
                       Ее притягивает взгляд.
                       И вот, очаг покинув свой,
                       Едва угаснет зимний день,
                       Она озябшею рукой
                       Нащупывает тот плетень.
 
 
                       Но о прогулках Гуди старой
                       Догадывался Гарри Джилл.
                       Он мысленно грозил ей карой,
                       Он Гуди подстеречь решил.
                       Он шел выслеживать ее
                       В поля ночные, в снег, в метель,
                       Оставив теплое жилье,
                       Покинув жаркую постель.
 
 
                       И вот однажды за скирдою
                       Таился он, мороз кляня.
                       Под яркой полною луною
                       Хрустела мерзлая стерня.
                       Вдруг шум он слышит и тотчас
                       С холма спускается, как тень:
                       Да это Гуди Блейк как раз
                       Явилась разорять плетень!
 
 
                       Был Гарри рад ее усердью,
                       Улыбкой злобною расцвел,
                       И ждал, покуда – жердь за жердью —
                       Она наполнит свой подол.
                       Когда ж пошла она без сил
                       Обратно с ношею своей —
                       Свирепо крикнул Гарри Джилл
                       И преградил дорогу ей.
 
 
                       И он схватил ее рукою,
                       Рукой тяжелой, как свинец,
                       Рукою крепкою и злою,
                       Вскричав: «Попалась, наконец!»
                       Сияла полная луна.
                       Поклажу наземь уронив,
                       Взмолилась Господу она,
                       В снегу колени преклонив.
 
 
                       Упав на снег, взмолилась Гуди
                       И руки к небу подняла:
                       "Пускай он вечно мерзнуть будет!
                       Господь, лиши его тепла!"
                       Такой была ее мольба.
                       Ее услышал Гарри Джилл —
                       И в тот же миг от пят до лба
                       Озноб всего его пронзил.
 
 
                       Всю ночь трясло его, и утром
                       Его пронизывала дрожь.
                       Лицом унылым, взором мутным
                       Стал на себя он не похож.
                       Спастись от стужи не помог
                       Ему извозчичий тулуп.
                       И в двух согреться он не мог,
                       И в трех был холоден, как труп.
 
 
                       Кафтаны, одеяла, шубы —
                       Все бесполезно с этих пор.
                       Стучат, стучат у Гарри зубы,
                       Как на ветру оконный створ.
                       Зимой и летом, в зной и в снег
                       Они стучат, стучат, стучат!
                       Он не согреется вовек! —
                       Твердит о нем и стар и млад.
 
 
                       Он говорить ни с кем не хочет.
                       В сиянье дня, в ночную тьму
                       Он только жалобно бормочет,
                       Что очень холодно ему.
                       Необычайный сей рассказ
                       Я вам правдиво изложил.
                       Да будут в памяти у вас
                       И Гуди Блейк, и Гарри Джилл!
 

LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE AND SENT
BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED

 
                     It is the first mild day of March:
                     Each minute sweeter than before
                     The redbreast sings from the tall larch
                     That stands beside our door.
 
 
                     There is a blessing in the air,
                     Which seems a sense of joy to yield
                     To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
                     And grass in the green field.
 
 
                     My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
                     Now that our morning meal is done,
                     Make haste, your morning task resign;
                     Come forth and feel the sun.
 
 
                     Edward will come with you; – and, pray,
                     Put on with speed your woodland dress;
                     And bring no book: for this one day
                     We'll give to idleness.
 
 
                     No joyless forms shall regulate
                     Our living calendar:
                     We from to-day, my Friend, will date
                     The opening of the year.
 
 
                     Love, now a universal birth,
                     From heart to heart is stealing,
                     From earth to man, from man to earth:
                     – It is the hour of feeling.
 
 
                     One moment now may give us more
                     Than years of toiling reason:
                     Our minds shall drink at every pore
                     The spirit of the season.
 
 
                     Some silent laws our hearts will make,
                     Which they shall long obey:
                     We for the year to come may take
                     Our temper from to-day.
 
 
                     And from the blessed power that rolls
                     About, below, above,
                     We'll frame the measure of our souls:
                     They shall be tuned to love.
 
 
                     Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
                     With speed put on your woodland dress;
                     And bring no book: for this one day
                     We'll give to idleness.
 

СТИХИ, НАПИСАННЫЕ НЕПОДАЛЕКУ ОТ ДОМА И ПЕРЕДАННЫЕ МОИМ МАЛЬЧИКОМ ТОЙ, К КОМУ ОБРАЩЕНЫ [21]21
  Перевод И. Меламеда


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                       Весенним первым теплым днем
                       Миг новый прежнего прелестней.
                       На дереве у входа в дом
                       Малиновка заводит песню.
 
 
                       Блаженством воздух напоен
                       И вся ожившая округа:
                       От голых гор и голых крон
                       До зеленеющего луга.
 
 
                       Покончив с завтраком, сестра,
                       Мое желание исполни:
                       На солнце выбеги с утра
                       И о делах своих не помни.
 
 
                       Простое платьице надень
                       И не бери с собою чтенье.
                       Я так хочу, чтоб в этот день
                       Мы вдоволь насладились ленью.
 
 
                       Условностей привычный гнет
                       С себя мы сбросим, и сегодня
                       Мы новых дней начнем отсчет,
                       Как после даты новогодней.
 
 
                       Всему цветение суля,
                       От сердца к сердцу льнет украдкой
                       Любовь, – и влажная земля
                       Пронизана истомой сладкой.
 
 
                       Мгновенье может больше дать,
                       Чем полстолетья рассуждений.
                       Мы каждой клеткой благодать
                       Впитаем в этот день весенний.
 
 
                       Укладу новому храня
                       В сердцах своих повиновенье,
                       Весь год из нынешнего дня
                       Мы будем черпать вдохновенье.
 
 
                       И сила этого вокруг
                       Распространенного блаженства
                       Поможет нам с тобой, мой друг,
                       Достичь любви и совершенства.
 
 
                       Так поскорее же надень
                       Простое платьице и чтенья
                       В путь не бери – ведь в этот день
                       Мы будем наслаждаться ленью.
 

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED

 
                     In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
                     Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
                     An old man dwells, a little man,
                     I've heard he once was tall.
                     Of years he has upon his back,
                     No doubt, a burthen weighty;
                     He says he is three score and ten,
                     But others say he's eighty.
 
 
                     A long blue liver-coat has he,
                     That's fair behind, and fair before;
                     Yet, meet him where you will, you see
                     At once that he is poor.
                     Full five and twenty years he lived
                     A running huntsman merry;
                     And, though he has but one eye left,
                     His cheek is like a cherry.
 
 
                     No man like him the horn could sound,
                     And no man was so full of glee;
                     To say the least, four counties round
                     Had heard of Simon Lee;
                     His master's dead, and no one now
                     Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
                     Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
                     He is the sole survivor.
 
 
                     His hunting feats have him bereft
                     Of his right eye, as you may see:
                     And then, what limbs those feats have left
                     To poor old Simon Lee!
                     He has no son, he has no child,
                     His wife, an aged woman,
                     Lives with him, near the waterfall,
                     Upon the village common.
 
 
                     And he is lean and he is sick,
                     His little body's half awry
                     His ancles they are swoln and thick
                     His legs are thin and dry.
                     When he was young he little knew
                     Of husbandry or tillage;
                     And now he's forced to work, though weak,
                     – The weakest in the village.
 
 
                     He all the country could outrun,
                     Could leave both man and horse behind;
                     And often, ere the race was done,
                     He reeled and was stone-blind.
                     And still there's something in the world
                     At which his heart rejoices;
                     For when the chiming hounds are out,
                     He dearly loves their voices!
 
 
                     Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
                     And does what Simon cannot do;
                     For she, not over stout of limb,
                     Is stouter of the two.
                     And though you with your utmost skill
                     From labour could not wean them,
                     Alas! 'tis very little, all
                     Which they can do between them.
 
 
                     Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
                     Not twenty paces from the door,
                     A scrap of land they have, but they
                     Are poorest of the poor.
                     This scrap of land he from the heath
                     Enclosed when he was stronger;
                     But what avails the land to them,
                     Which they can till no longer?
 
 
                     Few months of life has he in store,
                     As he to you will tell,
                     For still, the more he works, the more
                     His poor old ankles swell.
                     My gentle reader, I perceive
                     How patiently you've waited,
                     And I'm afraid that you expect
                     Some tale will be related.
 
 
                     О reader! had you in your mind
                     Such stores as silent thought can bring,
                     O gentle reader! you would find
                     A tale in every thing.
                     What more I have to say is short,
                     I hope you'll kindly take it;
                     It is no tale; but should you think,
                     Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
 
 
                     One summer-day I chanced to see
                     This old man doing all he could
                     About the root of an old tree,
                     A stump of rotten wood.
                     The mattock totter'd in his hand
                     So vain was his endeavour
                     That at the root of the old tree
                     He might have worked for ever.
 
 
                     "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
                     Give me your tool," to him I said;
                     And at the word right gladly he
                     Received my proffer'd aid.
                     I struck, and with a single blow
                     The tangled root I sever'd,
                     At which the poor old man so long
                     And vainly had endeavour'd.
 
 
                     The tears into his eyes were brought,
                     And thanks and praises seemed to run
                     So fast out of his heart, I thought
                     They never would have done.
                     – I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
                     With coldness still returning.
                     Alas! the gratitude of men
                     Has oftener left me mourning.