Уильям Вордсворт - Избранная лирика

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.

"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.