Уильям Вордсворт - Избранная лирика

                      Не хмурься, критик, не отринь сонета!
                      Он ключ, которым сердце открывал
                      Свое Шекспир; Петрарка врачевал
                      Печаль, когда звенела лютня эта;

                      У Тассо часто флейтой он взывал;
                      Им скорбь Камоэнса была согрета;
                      Он в кипарисовый венок поэта,
                      Которым Дант чело короновал,

                      Вплетен, как мирт; он, как светляк бессонный,
                      Вел Спенсера на трудный перевал,
                      Из царства фей, дорогой потаенной;
                      Трубой в руках у Мильтона он стал,

                      Чье медногласье душу возвышало;
                      Увы, труба звучала слишком мало!

             How art thou named? In search of what strange land,
             From what huge height, descending? Can such force
             Of waters issue from a British source,
             Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band
             Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand
             Desperate as thine? Or come the incessant shocks
             From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocks.
             Of Viamala? There I seem to stand,
             As in life's morn; permitted to behold,
             From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods,
             In pomp that fades not; everlasting snows;
             And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose;
             Such power possess the family of floods
             Over the minds of Poets, young or old!

                    Поутру рано или в час, когда
                    Закат горит последним блеском света
                    И в сумрак вечера вся даль одета,
                       Взгляни, поэт задумчивый, тогда
                    На водопад, где бурная вода,
                       Как в логе лев, бушует. Нет предмета
                       Ужаснее! Дух страшный водомета
                       В венце из камня, кудри, борода
                    Струят потоки — воссидит над урной,
                       Скрывая днем свой облик. Он струит
                       По бархату лугов поток лазурный
                    Или, встречая на пути гранит
                       Обрушенный, обломки гор, гремит
                       И пенится чрез них волною бурной.

                There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
                But were an apt confessional for One
                Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
                That Life is but a tale of morning grass
                Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
                That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
                Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
                Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
                Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
                If from a golden perch of aspen spray
                (October's workmanship to rival May)
                The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
                That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
                Lulling the year, wih all its cares, to rest!

                    Тут горы встали в грозном торжестве,
                    Тут храм для всех, достигших перевала,
                    Чье место — в прошлом, осень миновала,
                    И жизнь подобна вянущей траве,
                       Еще недавно свежей. О, как мало,
                       В искусственности наших модных зал,
                       Мы ценим счастье жить средь гор и скал,
                       Среди озер, чью гладь не оскверняло
                    Ничье дыханье. Трижды счастлив тот,
                    Пред кем осина дрогнет золотая
                    (В художествах октябрь — соперник мая).
                       И гостья красногрудая вспорхнет,
                       Задумчивую песню напевая,
                       Баюкая состарившийся год.

                 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
                 Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews,
                 Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;
                 Look up a second time, and, one by one,
                 You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
                 And wonder how they could elude the sight!
                 The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
                 Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
                 But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers:
                 Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone
                 The time's and season's influence disown;
                 Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
                 In drowsy sequence — how unlike the sound
                 That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
                 On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
                 The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
                 Had closed his door before the day was done,
                 And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
                 And joins his little children in their sleep.
                 The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade,
                 Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
                 The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth
                 With burring note, which Industry and Sloth
                 Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
                 A stream is heard — I see it not, but know
                 By its soft music whence the waters flow:
                 Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;
                 One boat there was, but it will touch the shore
                 With the next dipping of its slackened oar;
                 Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,
                 Might give to serious thought a moment's sway,
                 As a last token of man's toilsome day!

                    Так нехотя с дневным теплом и светом
                    Вечерний воздух расстается летом.
                    Взгляни на небо — звезд и не видать,
                    Взгляни еще — чуть начали мерцать,
                    И их огни, невидимые сразу,
                    Уже заметны пристальному глазу.
                    Веселый щебет птичьих голосов
                    Слабей, слабей и смолк; среди цветов
                    Их сумерек прозрачный скрыл покров.
                    На колокольне сельской осторожно
                    Часы пробили девять. Как тревожно
                    У очага внимали мы зимой
                    Их жутким звукам в тишине ночной.
                    Теперь они звучат так мирно, ясно,
                    Боясь смущать природу понапрасну.
                    Еще светло, и запад не потух —
                    К себе ушел и запер дверь пастух,
                    С ним вместе рано спать легли и дети —
                    Ему вставать придется на рассвете.
                    Вот нетопырь мелькнул в листве густой;
                    Через дорогу легкий козодой
                    Туда, сюда метнулся раз, другой —
                    И меж ветвей небрежно, но умело
                    Погнался вдруг за бабочкою белой.
                    Давно замолк прохладный стук копыт,
                    Невидимо вблизи река журчит,
                    Последний раз всплеснули весла четко,
                    У берега пристала где-то лодка.
                    И этот звук, чуть слышный в тишине,
                    Так внятно мысль подсказывает мне
                    О трудовом окончившемся дне.

                    Among the dwellings framed by birds
                       In field or forest with nice care,
                    Is none that with the Jittle Wren's
                       In snugness may compare.

                    No door the tenement requires,
                       And seldom needs a laboured roof:
                    Yet is it to the fiercest sun
                       Impervious, and storm-proof.

                    So warm, so beautiful withal,
                       In perfect fitness for its aim,
                    That to the Kind by special grace;
                       Their instinct surely came.

                    And when for their abodes they seek
                       An opportune recess,
                    The hermit has no finer eye
                       For shadowy quietness.

                    These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
                       A canopy in some still nook;
                    Others are pent-housed by a brae
                       That overhangs a brook.

                    There to the brooding bird her mate
                       Warbles by fits his low clear song;
                    And by the busy streamlet both
                       Are sung to all day long.

                    Or in sequestered lanes they build,
                       Where, till the flitting bird's return,
                    Her eggs within the nest repose,
                       Like relics in an urn.

                    But still, where general choice is good,
                       There is a better and a best;
                    And, among fairest objects, some
                       Are fairer than the rest;

                    This, one of those small builders proved
                       In a green covert, where, from out
                    The forehead of a pollard oak,
                       The leafy antlers sprout;

                    For She who planned the mossy lodge,
                       Mistrusting her evasive skill,
                    Had to a Primrose looked for aid
                       Her wishes to fulfil.

                    High on the trunk's projecting brow,
                       And fixed an infant's span above
                    The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest
                       The prettiest of the grove!

                    The treasure proudly did I show
                       To some whose minds without disdain
                    Can turn to little things; but once
                       Looked up for it in vain:

                    'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey,
                       Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
                    Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
                       Indignant at the wrong.

                    Just three days after, passing by
                       In clearer light the moss-built cell
                    I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
                       And felt that all was well.

                    The Primrose for a veil had spread
                      The largest of her upright leaves;
                    And thus, for purposes benign,
                       A simple flower deceives.

                    Concealed from friends who might disturb
                      Thy quiet with no ill intent,
                    Secure from evil eyes and hands
                       On barbarous plunder bent,

                    Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young
                       Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
                    When withered is the guardian Flower,
                       And empty thy late home,

                    Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
                       Amid the unviolated grove
                    Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft
                       In foresight, or in love.