Nor perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain-winds be free

To blow against thee: and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms.

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance -

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence - wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came

Unwearied in that service: rather say

With warmer love - oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

СТРОКИ, НАПИСАННЫЕ НА РАССТОЯНИИ НЕСКОЛЬКИХ МИЛЬ ОТ ТИНТЕРНСКОГО АББАТСТВА

ПРИ ПОВТОРНОМ ПУТЕШЕСТВИИ НА БЕРЕГА РЕКИ УАЙ

Пять лет прошло; зима, сменяя лето,

Пять раз являлась! И опять я слышу

Негромкий рокот вод, бегущих с гор,

Опять я вижу хмурые утесы -

Они в глухом, уединенном месте

Внушают мысли об уединенье

Другом, глубоком, и соединяют

Окрестности с небесной тишиной.

Опять настала мне пора прилечь

Под темной сикоморой и смотреть

На хижины, сады и огороды,

Где в это время года все плоды,

Незрелые, зеленые, сокрыты

Среди густой листвы. Опять я вижу

Живые изгороди, что ползут,

Подобно ответвленьям леса; мызы,

Плющом покрытые; и дым витой,

Что тишина вздымает меж деревьев!

И смутно брезжат мысли о бродягах,

В лесу живущих, или о пещере,

Где у огня сидит отшельник.

Долго

Не видел я ландшафт прекрасный этот,

Но для меня не стал он смутной грезой.

Нет, часто, сидя в комнате унылой

Средь городского шума, был ему я

Обязан в час тоски приятным чувством,

Живящим кровь и в сердце ощутимым,

Что проникало в ум, лишенный скверны,

Спокойным обновлением; и чувства

Отрад забытых, тех, что, может быть,

Немалое влияние окажут

На лучшее, что знает человек, -

На мелкие, невидные деянья

Любви и доброты. О, верю я:

Иным я, высшим даром им обязан,

Блаженным состояньем, при котором

Все тяготы, все тайны и загадки,

Все горькое, томительное бремя

Всего непознаваемого мира

Облегчено покоем безмятежным,

Когда благие чувства нас ведут,

Пока телесное дыханье наше

И даже крови ток у нас в сосудах

Едва ль не прекратится - тело спит,

И мы становимся живой душой,

А взором, успокоенным по воле

Гармонии и радости глубокой,

Проникнем в суть вещей.

И если в этом

Я ошибаюсь, все же - ах! - как часто

Во тьме, средь обликов многообразных

Безрадостного дня, когда все в мире

Возбуждено бесплодной суетой, -

Как часто я к тебе стремился духом,

Скиталец Уай, текущий в диких чащах,

Как часто я душой к тебе стремился.

А ныне, при мерцанье зыбких мыслей,

В неясной дымке полуузнаванья

И с некоей растерянностью грустной,

В уме картина оживает вновь:

Я тут стою, не только ощущая

Отраду в настоящем, но отрадно

Мне в миге этом видеть жизнь и пищу

Грядущих лет. Надеяться я смею,

Хоть я не тот, каким я был, когда,

Попав сюда впервые, словно лань,

Скитался по горам, по берегам

Глубоких рек, ручьев уединенных,

Куда вела природа; я скорее

Напоминал того, кто убегает

От страшного, а не того, кто ищет

Отрадное. Тогда была природа

(В дни низменных, мальчишеских утех,

Давно прошедших бешеных восторгов)

Всем для меня. Я описать не в силах

Себя в ту пору. Грохот водопада

Меня преследовал, вершины скал,

Гора, глубокий и угрюмый лес -

Их очертанья и цвета рождали

Во мне влеченье - чувство и любовь,

Которые чуждались высших чар,

Рожденных мыслью, и не обольщались

Ничем незримым. - Та пора прошла,

И больше нет ее утех щемящих,

Ее экстазов буйных. Но об этом

Я не скорблю и не ропщу: взамен

Я знал дары иные, и обильно

Возмещены потери. Я теперь

Не так природу вижу, как порой

Бездумной юности, но часто слышу

Чуть слышную мелодию людскую

Печальную, без грубости, но в силах

Смирять и подчинять. Я ощущаю

Присутствие, палящее восторгом,

Высоких мыслей, благостное чувство

Чего-то, проникающего вглубь,

Чье обиталище - лучи заката,

И океан, и животворный воздух,

И небо синее, и ум людской -

Движение и дух, что направляет

Все мыслящее, все предметы мыслей,

И все пронизывает. Потому-то

Я до сих пор люблю леса, луга

И горы - все, что на земле зеленой

Мы видеть можем; весь могучий мир

Ушей и глаз - все, что они приметят

И полусоздадут; я рад признать

В природе, в языке врожденных чувств

Чистейших мыслей якорь, пристань сердца,

Вожатого, наставника и душу

Природы нравственной моей.

Быть может,

Не знай я этого, мой дух в упадок

Прийти бы мог; со мной ты на брегах

Реки прекрасной - ты, мой лучший друг,

Мой милый, милый друг; в твоих речах

Былой язык души моей я слышу,

Ловлю былые радости в сверканье

Твоих безумных глаз. О да! Пока

Еще в тебе я вижу, чем я был,

Сестра любимая! Творю молитву,

Уверен, что Природа не предаст

Ее любивший дух: ее веленьем

Все годы, что с тобой мы вместе, стали

Чредою радостей; она способна

Так мысль настроить нашу, так исполнить

Прекрасным и покойным, так насытить

Возвышенными думами, что ввек

Злословие, глумленье себялюбцев,

Поспешный суд, и лживые приветы,

И скука повседневной суеты

Не одолеют нас и не смутят

Веселой веры в то, что все кругом

Полно благословений. Пусть же месяц

Тебя в часы прогулки озарит,

Пусть горный ветерок тебя обвеет,

И если ты в грядущие года

Экстазы безрассудные заменишь

Спокойной, трезвой радостью, и ум

Все облики прекрасного вместит,

И в памяти твоей пребудут вечно

Гармония и сладостные звуки, -

О, если одиночество и скорбь

Познаешь ты, то как целебно будет

Тебе припомнить с нежностью меня

И увещания мои! Быть может,

Я буду там, где голос мой не слышен,

Где я увижу взор безумный твой,

Зажженный прошлой жизнью, - помня все же,

Как мы на берегу прекрасных вод

Стояли вместе; как я, с давних пор

Природы обожатель, не отрекся

От моего служенья, но пылал

Все больше - о! - все пламеннее рвеньем

Любви святейшей. Ты не позабудешь,

Что после многих странствий, многих лет

Разлуки, эти чащи и утесы

И весь зеленый край мне стал дороже...

Он сам тому причиной - но и ты!

From "Lyrical Ballads, and Other Poems"

THERE WAS A BOY

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs

And islands of Winander! - many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began

To move along the edges of the hills,

Rising or setting, would he stand alone,

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him. - And they would shout

Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call, - with quivering peals;

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause

Of silence such as baffled his best skill:

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale

Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And, through that church-yard when my way has led

On summer-evenings, I believe, that there

A long half-hour together I have stood

Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

Из "Лирических баллад и других стихотворений"

МАЛЬЧИК

Был мальчик. Вам знаком он был, утесы

И острова Винандра! Сколько раз,

По вечерам, лишь только над верхами

Холмов зажгутся искры ранних звезд

В лазури темной, он стоял, бывало,

В тени дерев, над озером блестящим.

И там, скрестивши пальцы и ладонь

Сведя с ладонью наподобье трубки,

Он подносил ее к губам и криком

Тревожил мир в лесу дремучих сов.

И на призыв его, со всех сторон,

Над водною равниной раздавался

Их дикий крик, пронзительный и резкий.

И звонкий свист, и хохот, и в горах

Гул перекатный эха - чудных звуков

Волшебный хор! Когда же, вслед за тем,

Вдруг наступала тишина, он часто

В безмолвии природы, на скалах,

Сам ощущал невольный в сердце трепет,

Заслышав где-то далеко журчанье

Ключей нагорных. Дивная картина

Тогда в восторг в нем душу приводила

Своей торжественной красой, своими

Утесами, лесами, теплым небом,

В пучине вод неясно отраженным.

Его ж уж нет! Бедняжка умер рано,

Лет девяти он сверстников оставил.

О, как прекрасна тихая долина,

Где он родился! Вся плющом увита,

Висит со скал над сельской школой церковь.

И если мне случится в летний вечер

Идти через кладбище, я готов

Там целый час стоять с глубокой думой

Над тихою могилой, где он спит.

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

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

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

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

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

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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

And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,

Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,

Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained

At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,

Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,

Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,

Their two books lying both on a dry stone,

Upon the hither side: and once I said,

As I remember, looking round these rocks

And hills on which we all of us were born,

That God who made the great book of the world

Would bless such piety -

Leonard.

It may be then -

Priest.

Never did worthier lads break English bread:

The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw

With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,

Could never keep those boys away from church,

Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.

Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner

Among these rocks, and every hollow place

That venturous foot could reach, to one or both

Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.

Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;

They played like two young ravens on the crags:

Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well

As many of their betters-and for Leonard!

The very night before he went away,

In my own house I put into his hand

A Bible, and I'd wager house and field

That, if he be alive, he has it yet.

Leonard.

It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be

A comfort to each other -

Priest.

That they might

Live to such end is what both old and young

In this our valley all of us have wished,

And what, for my part, I have often prayed:

But Leonard -

Leonard.

Then James still is left among you!

Priest.

'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:

They had an uncle; - he was at that time

A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:

And, but for that same uncle, to this hour

Leonard had never handled rope or shroud:

For the boy loved the life which we lead here;

And though of unripe years, a stripling only,

His soul was knit to this his native soil.

But, as I said, old Walter was too weak

To strive with such a torrent; when he died,

The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,

A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,

Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years: -

Well - all was gone, and they were destitute,

And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,

Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.

Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.

If there were one among us who had heard

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,

From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks,

And down the Enna, far as Egremont,

The day would be a joyous festival;

And those two bells of ours, which there, you see -

Hanging in the open air - but, О good Sir!

This is sad talk - they'll never sound for him -

Living or dead. - When last we heard of him

He was in slavery among the Moors

Upon the Barbary coast. - Twas not a little

That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,

Before it ended in his death, the Youth

Was sadly crossed. - Poor Leonard! when we parted,

He took me by the hand, and said to me,

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return,

To live in peace upon his father's land,

And lay his bones among us.

Leonarnd.

If that day

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;

He would himself, no doubt, be happy then

As any that should meet him -

Priest.

Happy! Sir -

Leonard.

You said his kindred all were in their graves,

And that he had one Brother -

Priest.

That is but

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth

James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;

And Leonard being always by his side

Had done so many offices about him,

That, though he was not of a timid nature,

Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy

In him was somewhat checked, and, when his Brother

Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,

The little colour that he had was soon

Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined -

Leonard.

But these are all the graves of full-grown men!

Priest.

Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;

He was the child of all the dale - he lived

Three months with one, and six months with another,

And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:

And many, many happy days were his.

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief

His absent Brother still was at his heart.

And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found

(A practice till this time unknown to him)

That often, rising from his bed at night,

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping

He sought his brother Leonard. - You are moved!

Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,

I judged you most unkindly.

Leonard.

But this Youth,

How did he die at last?

Priest.

One sweet May-morning,

(It will be twelve years since when Springs returns)

He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,

With two or three companions, whom their course

Of occupation led from height to height

Under a cloudless sun-till he, at length,

Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge

The humour of the moment, lagged behind.

You see yon precipice; - it wears the shape

Of a vast building made of many crags;

And in the midst is one particular rock

That rises like a column from the vale,

Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.

Upon its aery summit crowned with heath,

The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,

Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place

On their return, they found that he was gone.

No ill was feared; till one of them by chance

Entering, when evening was far spent, the house

Which at that time was James's home, there learned

That nobody had seen him all that day:

The morning came, and still he was unheard of:

The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook

Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon

They found him at the foot of that same rock

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after

I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies!

Leonard.

And that then is his grave! - Before his death

You say that he saw many happy years?

Priest.

Ay, that he did -

Leonard.

And all went well with him? -

Priest.

If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes.

Leonard.

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy? -

Priest.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time

Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless

His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,

He talked about him with a cheerful love.

Leonard.

He could not come to an unhallowed end!

Priest.

Nay, God forbid! - You recollect I mentioned

A habit which disquietude and grief

Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured

That, as the day was warm, he had lain down

On the soft heath, - and, waiting for his comrades,

He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep

He to the margin of the precipice

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:

And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth ,

Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think,

His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock

It had been caught mid-way; and there for years

It hung; - and mouldered there.

The Priest here ended -

The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt

A gushing from his heart, that took away

The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;

And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, -

And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"

The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,

He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating

That Leonard would partake his homely fare:

The other thanked him with an earnest voice;

But added, that, the evening being calm,

He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove

That overhung the road: he there stopped short

And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed

All that the Priest had said: his early years

Were with him: - his long absence, cherished hopes,

And thoughts which had been his an hour before,

All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,

This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed

A place in which he could not bear to live:

So he relinquished all his purposes.

He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,

That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,

Reminding him of what had passed between them;

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,

That it was from the weakness of his heart

He had not dared to tell him who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now

A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.

БРАТЬЯ

"Туристам этим, Господи прости,

Должно быть, хорошо живется: бродят

Без дела день-деньской - и горя мало,

Как будто и земли под ними нет,

А только воздух, и они порхают,

Как мотыльки, все лето. На скале

С карандашом и книжкой на коленях

Усядутся и что-то строчат, строчат.

За это время можно было б смело

Пройти миль десять или у соседа

На поле выжать целый добрый акр.

А этот вот ленивец, что он ищет?

Чего ему еще там нужно? Право,

У нас на кладбище нет монументов,

Нет надписей надгробных, - только дерн

Да бедные могилы".

Так заметил

Своей жене священник в Эннерделе.

Был летний вечер, у крыльца спокойно

На каменной приступке он сидел

И занят был работой мирной. Тут же

Сидела и его жена на камне

И шерсть чесала, он же подавал

Сквозь зубья двух гребней блестящих пряжу

На прялку младшей дочери своей,

Которая работала с ним рядом,

И колесо под ловкими руками,

Послушное ее ступне проворной,

Вертелось мерно. Много раз подряд

С недоуменьем взгляд бросал священник

Туда, где за стеною, мхом поросшей,

Виднелась церковь. Наконец он встал,

Заботливо сложил все инструменты

На кучу белоснежной мягкой шерсти,

Им заготовленной, и по тропинке,

Ведущей к церкви от крыльца, пошел,

Чтоб расспросить, что нужно незнакомцу,

Который все не уходил оттуда.

Тому давно он знал его отлично,

То был пастух. В шестнадцать лет покинул

Он край родной, чтоб вверить воле ветра

Свою судьбу. Назвали моряки

Его товарищем, и с ними двадцать лет

Скитался он, но все ж недаром вырос

Он здесь, в горах. По-прежнему остался

На море бурном пастухом в душе.

Да! Леонарду чуялись невольно

Сквозь скрип снастей родные отголоски

Деревьев, водопадов. В те часы,

Когда все тот же непрестанный ветер

Под тропиками целые недели

С одним и тем же вечным постоянством

Им раздувал надежный крепкий парус

И долгий путь в безбрежном океане

Еще длинней казался, - часто он

В безделии томительном и скучном

Глядел подолгу за борт корабля;

Бежали мимо волны голубые,

И с брызгами и пеной гребней белых

Знакомые картины проплывали,

В душе рождалось страстное желанье,

И в глубине морской он ясно видел

Гор очертанья, видел он стада

Овец пасущихся, холмы, деревья

И пастухов в одежде домотканой,

Которую носил и он.

Теперь,

Покинув жизнь опасную на море

И кое-как скопив немного денег

В далекой Индии, к родным местам

Вернулся он, чтоб снова, как в те годы,

Зажить в тиши. Ведь здесь остался брат,

С которым он и в зной, и в непогоду

Когда-то пас стада среди холмов

Всегда вдвоем и о котором часто

Он вспоминал в скитаниях своих.

Другой родни они не знали вовсе.

У Леонарда сердце сжалось больно,

Когда он к дому тихо подходил.

И вот, о брате расспросить не смея,

На кладбище прошел он прямо к церкви.

Он помнил, где лежат его родные,

И по числу могил узнать он думал,

Жив или нет любимый брат. Увы,

Одной могилой стало больше. Долго

Стоял он здесь, но в памяти его

Смешалось все, он начал сомневаться,

Надеяться, быть может, он ошибся.

Быть может, этот холмик был и раньше

И он забыл его. Ведь нынче в полдень

Он посреди полей давно знакомых

С дороги чуть не сбился... И в душе

Воспоминанья ожили. Казалось,

Что все кругом теперь глядит иначе,

Что изменились как-то лес и поле,

Что даже прежних скал как будто нет.

Меж тем священник подошел к ограде

И незаметно отворил калитку,

Смеясь в душе, окинул Леонарда

Лукавым взглядом с головы до ног.

"Ну так и есть, - подумал он с улыбкой, -

Один из тех скитальцев нелюбимых,

Кому до нашей жизни дела нет,

Чьи руки вечно празднуют. Конечно,

Зашел сюда, дорогой размечтавшись,

И будет слезы лить в уединеньи

И до заката дураком стоять".

Почтенный пастырь мог бы очень долго

Так рассуждать один с самим собою,

Остановившись у ворот, когда бы

Не подошел к нему сам незнакомец.

Викария узнал тотчас же он,

Но поклонился, будто бы впервые

Его он видел, и заговорил.

Леонард

Вам, верно, здесь живется беззаботно,

Проходят годы мирной чередою,

Встречаете вы их приход радушно,

Их провожаете без сожаленья

И забываете. Едва ль за целый год

Похоронить кого-нибудь придется.

И все-таки не вечно все кругом,

И мы, которым здесь досталось жизни

Шесть или семь десятков лет, не боле,

Мы не единственные здесь подвластны

И времени и смерти. Проходил я

Когда-то раньше этими местами,

И помнится, что здесь была тропинка

Вдоль по ручью - ее уже не видно,

И эта вот расселина, по-моему,

Теперь глядит иначе...

Священник

Что вы, нет,

Она все та же, что была.

Леонард

Быть может,

Вот та?

Священник

Вы правы. Видно, ваша память,

Товарищ добрый, вам не изменяет.

На тех холмах (глухие там места)

Там два ручья текли почти что рядом,

Как будто бы велела им природа

Быть спутниками вечно. В ту скалу

Ударила раз молния. Расселась

Она глубоко, и один ручей

Иссяк с тех пор, - другой журчит поныне.

Событья все у нас наперечет.

Вдруг буря с ливнем полгоры подмоет,

Уж то-то радости таким, как вы,

Глядеть, как целый акр земли несется

С камнями вниз. Иль майская гроза

Все занесет январским белым снегом,

И в одну ночь достанется воронам

На растерзанье сотни две овец.

Умрет пастух в горах случайной смертью,

Весною ледоходом мост снесет,

Лес вырубят для наших же построек,

Родины иль крестины, поле вспашут,

Отправят дочь куда-нибудь служить,

Ткать кончат, старые часы починят,

Все это помнится отлично всеми,

И по событьям счет годам ведется

Всегда двойной - один для всей долины,

Другой свой собственный в хозяйстве каждом.

А обо мне судили вы неверно,

Я летописцем здесь считаюсь.

Леонард

Все же,

Простите, я на кладбище не вижу

Особенной заботы об ушедших,

Могилы матери дитя не сыщет.

Ни памятников нет, ни плит надгробных,

Нет черепов с костями, говорящих

О том, что все здесь в нашей жизни бренно,

Нет символов бессмертья, будто здесь

И не приют последний для умерших,

А так, простое поле или луг.

Священник

От первого от вас я это слышу.

Не спорю, если б в Англии повсюду

Похожи были бы кладбищи на наше,

Каменотесы по миру пошли бы.

Но вы неверно судите о нас.

Нам надписей надгробных и не надо,

У очага мы мертвых вспоминаем,

И нас бессмертьем утешать излишне,

Ведь тот, кто здесь, в горах, как мы, родился,

Тот так спокойно думает о смерти,

Что для него все ясно и без слов.

Леонард

Как видно, здесь живут второю жизнью

В воспоминаньях люди. Верно,

Вы рассказать могли бы очень много

Об этих вот могилах.

Священник

Ну еще бы!

За восемьдесят лет немало слышал

И видел я кругом. Текст взят с http://www.lit-bit.narod.ru/