Filarze Stonehenge! Tak dumny by dać
wskazówkę a mimo to zachować
Swe sekrety, Ty, który kochasz stać i
słyszeć
Równinę rozbrzmiewającą wiatrem
trąby powietrznej,
Więźniu bezkresnego roku osamotnionej
Natury;
Jeśli nawet widziałeś nikczemny ryk
olbrzyma
By złożyć w ofierze jego tłumy żywych
ludzi,
Czy przed twym obliczem kiedykolwiek
pojawił się nędznik,
Który w swym sercu jęczał od bólu
śmiertelniejszego
Niż ten, który przywiedziony przez burzę,
u Ciebie schronienie może zdobyć.
"Pile of Stone-henge!
so proud to hint yet keep
Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to
stand and hear
The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep,
Inmate of lonesome
Nature's
endless year;
Even if thou saw'st the giant wicked roar
For sacrifice its throngs
of living men,
Before thy face did ever wretch
appear,
Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain
Than he who, tempest-driven,
thy shelter now would gain."
Section XIV, "Guilt and Sorrow;
or Incidents upon Salisbury Plain"
Address To The Scholars Of The Village School Of
Address To The Scholars Of The Village School Of
Wordsworth William
I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:--it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne`er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment`s care.
Alas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our Master`s sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.
DIRGE
Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!
Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.
Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide
Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,
As he before had sanctified
Thy infancy with heavenly truth.
Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
Give, when your thoughts are turned this way,
A sigh to him whom we deplore.
For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.
And when our hearts shall feel a sting
From ill we meet or good we miss,
May touches of his memory bring
Fond healing, like a mother`s kiss.
BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER
LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat
But benefits, his gift, we trace--
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear Vale, his native place.
To stately Hall and Cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold,
Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
And blessings half a century old.
Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity`s sweet sake alone.
Such solace find we for our loss;
And what beyond this thought we crave
Comes in the promise from the Cross,
Shining upon thy happy grave.
Ballada
Mieszkała wśród odludnych ścieżek,
Gdzie Dove jest strugą małą;
Nikt o niej słowa pochwały nie rzekł,
Niewielu ją kochało;
Fiołek, za omszały kamień
Schowany wpół przed okiem!
Piękna jak gwiazda, kiedy sama
Na niebie lśni wysokim;
Nieznana żyła, i wiedziało
Niewielu, gdy szła w nicość;
Lecz leży w grobie, i to całą
Dziś dla mnie jest różnicą!
Do kukulki
Jak ciebie nazwać, gościu? Jakim
Imieniem wołać? Gdy pod drzewem
Słucham cię, czymże jesteś? Ptakiem?
Czy tylko wędrującym śpiewem?
Leżąc śród bujnej trawy, słyszą
Wołanie twe, co w dal ucieka;
To głośniej zabrzmi, to znów ciszej,
Zarazem z bliska i z daleka.
Chociaż prócz kwiatów, prócz promienia
Nie ma w nim żadnej innej treści,
Ty o godzinach zachwycenia
Przynosisz błogie dla mnie wieści.
Kukułko, wiosny ukochanie,
Ty ciągle jesteś dla mej duszy
Nie ptakiem — tyś jest to wołanie
Niedocieczone w leśnej głuszy,
Za którym biegłem, chłopiec mały,
Ciebie na ziemi i na niebie
Szukając. Ręce rozgarniały
Gęstwiną, byle znaleźć ciebie,