S. T. COLERIDGE,
W. WORDSWORTH
FROM "LYRICAL BALLADS" (1798)
Translations are published according to the edition:
W. Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, Lyrical ballads and other poems, Publishing Center of the Russian State University for the Humanities, 2011 (the book is fully translated by Igor Melamed).
“Lyrical ballads” by outstanding English poets of the late 18th – early 19th centuries, representatives of the so-called “Lake School” S. T. Coleridge and W. Wordsworth are one of the earliest monuments of European romanticism. The first edition of the ballads appeared in 1798, and over the next two centuries the book went through many reprints. The lack of a complete translation of “Lyrical Ballads” was a very annoying gap in the number of domestic publications of world classics. In Soviet times, Wordsworth and Coleridge were considered “reactionary” romantics in contrast to the “revolutionary” Byron and Shelley. The works of the Lake School poets could only be found in anthologies of English poetry. Coleridge’s first personal edition in Russian translations was published only in 1974 in the “Literary Monuments” series, and the first translated book of Wordsworth’s selected lyrics was published only in 2001. in the publishing house "Rainbow".
I have carried out a complete translation of “Lyrical Ballads” - from the original of their first edition in 1798. And this is important, since in later publications during my lifetime some works underwent serious revision. It seemed to me interesting and necessary to acquaint the reader with the famous original version of the book, which glorified its authors.
Seven translations are published here:
1. THE BALLAD OF THE ANCIENT SAILOR (COLERIDGE)
2. NIGHTINGALE (COLERIDGE)
3. GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY JILL (WORDSWORTH)
4. WE ARE SEVEN (WORDSWORTH)
5. THORNK (WORDSWORTH)
6. MAD MOTHER (WORDSWORTH)
7. IDIOT BOY (WORDSWORTH)
BALLAD OF THE OLD SAILOR
In seven parts
Summary
About how a ship that crossed the Equator was thrown by storms into a cold country near the South Pole, how from there it sailed into the tropical latitudes of the Great Pacific Ocean, about the strange events that happened there, and about how the Ancient Mariner returned to his fatherland.
I
Gray-haired Sailor, stopped
He sees the young man at the door.
“Old man, what do you want? Your gaze
It burns, instilling fear!
All the guests are assembled, waiting for me
Groom: I'm his brother.
And sometimes there is a feast there,
Can you hear the noise!”
“And there was a ship...” said the old man,
He kept everything as a guest.
“Well, Sailor, come with me,
If your story is funny."
“And there was a ship...” - he said again,
But then the guest rushed:
“Go away, gray-haired rogue, or else
You will recognize my cane!”
But the old man's burning gaze
Or rather tenacious hands.
And like a three-year-old child,
The guest suddenly became obedient.
Limply he sat down on a stone
At the door, and the Sailor,
Glaring at him,
He started his story like this:
"The crowd is roaring, the ship is sailing,
And no one is happier than us.
And the hill, and the church, and the lighthouse
Hiding from sight.
The sun has risen to the left,
And the ocean is on fire.
And again it goes to the bottom
On the right side.
It's getting higher every day
It rises above the mast..."
The guest’s blood boils again:
A bassoon sings nearby.
The bride ceremoniously enters the hall,
Charming every look.
She's as pretty as a rose
The choir bows to her.
And again the guest represses his anger:
No way to escape.
Glaring at him,
The sailor continued:
“O stranger! Whirlwind and storm
They came to our grief.
And for a long time our ship was driven by a squall,
Like a sliver on the waves.
Fog and snow and cold
They are coming to us on the mountain.
Enormous ice rises from the waters,
Shining like an emerald.
There is no sun here. Ominous Light
Burns through ice and snow.
We couldn't live among these blocks
Neither beast nor man.
There's ice everywhere, there's ice everywhere,
Everything around here is covered in ice,
And it cracks, and it thunders,
It rumbles like hell.
Good Creator! Finally come to us
Albatross nailed it.
And, as with a relative, you are friendly with him
Every one of our sailors was there.
While he was feeding from hands,
Circling above the deck,
We escaped from the snowy darkness,
Damn ice is crushing.
A fair wind has found us,
The south wind carried us.
And take food or play
Albatross flew to us.
At one hour of the night in the damp darkness
He slept on the mast with us.
Barely visible, the moon is above him
It rose nine times.”
“Why are you looking like that, gray-haired Sailor?
Christ save you
Evil at heart!” - “With my arrow
Albatross was killed."
“The sun has risen to the right,
And the ocean is on fire.
Now it's going to the bottom
On the left side.
A fair wind propels the ship
Along the gentle waves.
No one to play or take food
Doesn't come to us.
In everyone's opinion it was a mortal sin,
A hellish sin was committed:
That Albatross brought us the breeze,
And I shot him.
But a ray of sun appeared from the clouds,
And I was justified:
That Albatross brought the fog,
And I killed him.
He is the messenger of troubles, and there is no grief,
That I killed him.
And the wind sang and the shaft boiled,
And the ship moved forward.
And he was the first to disturb his sleep
These silent waters.
Then the breeze disappeared and the sail fell,
And every sailor
Suddenly he began to scream, just to explode
The silence of these waters.
It's hot, the sun looks like
Bloody stain.
It froze above the mast -
No bigger than the moon.
Silent sea and ship
Motionless in the stuffiness,
It's like someone wrote
Their brush on canvas.
There is water all around, just water,
But it's dry on board.
There is water all around, only water -
Not a drop in my mouth.
My God, how empty in the depths! –
There is only rot and slime.
And the creatures are slippery up
We went up from there.
In the darkness the night fire is bad
It was burning here and there,
Like in witches' lamps - and the ocean
It was green, blue and white.
And a spirit appeared to us in our dreams,
Who drove us here,
The spirit that followed us
From the edge of darkness and ice.
Each of us has a language
As if burned to the ground,
And we are all dumb, like mouths
The ash has clogged us.
Both young and old blame me
Their every look and gesture.
And an Albatross on my neck
He was hanged like a cross.
I saw something in the sky
Some kind of stain.
And it looked like fog
And it moved.
And it seemed to me that in the distance
The canvas turns white.
The vision was approaching, it
Slipped over the water
Diving, making circles,
Like a spirit of the sea.
The crying stopped, the laughter stopped - for a long time now for everyone
The voices are gone.
I grabbed my hand with my black mouth
And drank blood, and with difficulty
He shouted to them: “Sails!”
Although the cry was quiet, in their eyes
He ignited a passion for life.
And suddenly it became easy for all of them,
And everyone took a deep breath,
As if drunk to your heart's content.
But I looked closely, full of fear,
That wonderful ship:
He walked without wind and without waves
And did not touch the waters.
The day was ending, and the whole west
Was engulfed in fire
The sun was setting on the ocean
And it was reflected in it,
And that ghost floated between the sun
And our ship.
The face of the sun is covered with bars,
As if it
(Have mercy on us, Virgo!) looks
Through the prison window.
He's close! (I was terrified
And continued to follow) -
Aren't the sails shining in the rays?
Like a spider's web thread?
Are his ribs now?
Will the sun block out our light?
And who is grinning at us? –
Old woman and skeleton!
This skeleton was blacker than the graves
And hell itself.
And only in places, like rust,
Covered with brown bark
The raw bone of it.
The one with him has a shameless look,
Blood red mouth
And the skin of the shroud is whiter -
That is Death, and the air next to it
Cold, like ice.
They play dice there
There is no gloating.
And Death whistles, and Death shouts:
"I won! I!"
Then a whirlwind rocked their brig for a moment,
He hit the skeleton
So much so that in the holes of the eyes and mouth
There was a whistle and a groan.
And immediately the ghost ship
Swam away silently.
And between the horns of the moon it lit
One star is like a bright eye
And night came.
Everyone has fear and pain on their faces
I read by moonlight.
And every eye followed me,
And he cursed me.
There were two hundred of them,
And everyone fell dead -
Without any pain, as if suddenly
Smitten on the spot.
And their souls rushed into the darkness
Or to heavenly lands,
And they cut through the air like this,
Like that arrow of mine.
“You scare me, Sailor!
Your hand is bad
Like a harrier you are gray, your skin is colored
Wet sand.
You are as thin as a pole, bony as death,
And your look is terrible.”
- Don’t be afraid, guest, I survived
That damn night.
All alone, I was alone
For the whole ocean
And the Heavenly King did not aim
My mental wounds.
Handsome sailors lie:
Oh, how many, how many there are!
And the vile slugs live,
And I am among the living.
I looked at the sea, but rot
I didn't want to see.
I looked at the deck, but there
Just a pile of dead bodies.
Looked at the sky, but praying,
It was cold and dry
It's like he entered me
Some kind of evil spirit.
I closed my heavy eyelids
From pain, but, alas,
And the ocean and the skies
Pressed on my eyes -
And everyone around is dead!
Cold sweat covered their faces,
And everyone, as if alive,
On me, on me stopped
Your merciless gaze.
He who is cursed as an orphan becomes
Prey for devils.
But know this: the curse of the dead
Many times worse
When you look into their eyes
Seven days and seven nights.
Ascended like an ethereal ghost
Above the silence of the water
The moon led
One or two stars.
And the hot ocean turned white
Like snow in the rays of the moon,
But where the ship cast its shadow,
The color of the water was ominously scarlet
To the very depths.
Far from the shadow of the ship,
I'm in the white light
I saw marvelous sea snakes:
They surfaced and they
The scales glowed.
In the moonlight their outfit
Was noticeable everywhere:
Green, black, blue,
And the golden trail stretched
Follow them across the water.
My God, what a joy it is to be
Your creation!
I unexpectedly sent
Blessings to them!
I sent with all my heart
Blessings to them.
And I prayed, and later
One moment
Albatross fell off me
And he fell to the bottom like a stone.
O dear light-winged dream,
The joy of all hearts!
To me from heaven the Blessed Mother
A desired dream is like grace,
Finally sent it.
I dreamed about our empty tank
A stream of water flowed.
And I drank in my sleep, and to the noise
I woke up to rain.
My black tongue was wet
And the larynx is cold.
And the rain was noisy, and my flesh
I saw it through the fabric.
Without feeling my arms or legs,
I was as light as feathers.
Perhaps I died in my sleep
And now - the spirit of heaven?
Suddenly it's far away from me
There was a rumble of wind.
And the wind is already slightly
Our sail moved.
And myriads of lights
The sky exploded:
Magic fireworks flew
Forward, backward, and down, and up,
And he touched the stars.
The distant wind has become so powerful,
That the sail came to life in an instant,
And the rain poured down from the black clouds,
Eclipsed the lunar face.
And the veil was torn,
Hiding the moon
And, like a stream from steep cliffs,
Lightning fell from the clouds
Into the boiling wave.
And with a howl the whirlwind overtook the ship,
But it immediately stalled.
Thunder struck and the dead
There was a heavy sigh.
They sigh and stand up
Keeping silence.
How strange! Or a nightmare
Stalking me?
And the helmsman again steered the ship,
Even though there is dead calm all around,
And everyone was busy with their own
With everyday work,
Lifeless, like a machine gun,
And scary as a phantom.
My nephew stood with his shoulder
Snuggled close to me.
And we pulled the rope with him
In terrible silence.
But my voice would sound there
Doubly worse.
And everyone gathered at dawn
At the mast in a tight circle,
And an intoxicating song
They suddenly began to sing.
And every sound fluttered around,
And flew to the zenith,
And fell down alone
Ile was merged with others.
It's like a lark trilling
I heard, and sometimes
All the birds singing voices,
What fills the skies
Between land and water.
I imagined orchestral thunder
And the tune of the pipes,
Choir of angels, what heaven
He listens, speechless.
And everything went quiet. All that's left is
The hum of the sails:
So on a summer day the stream roars
In the silence of dense forests
And lulls them to sleep, murmuring
In the middle of the night.
Oh, listen, listen, young guest!
“Sailor, I am subdued:
They froze under your gaze
My soul and flesh."
Nobody's story yet
I wasn't so sad.
Sadder tomorrow and wiser
You will wake up from your sleep.
No mortal has heard
Stories are sadder...
And again the sailors began
With my work.
They began to pull the ropes,
Keeping silence
And, as if I were transparent,
They looked right through me.
And until noon the ship sailed,
Even though there was calm all around.
He swam smoothly, as if he were
Lead by water itself.
And sailed under him from the kingdom of winters,
Where is the eternal darkness and ice,
A stern spirit drove the ship
On the surface of dead waters.
But at noon the sails fell silent,
And our move was interrupted.
We stood under the burning sun
In the silence of the sea.
But then we were thrown forward
With a desperate jerk,
And again it was thrown back
A desperate jerk.
And our ship suddenly jumped,
Like a horse whose temper is wild,
And I fell on the deck,
And I lost my senses instantly.
I don't know how long I lay there
As if lifeless.
Without coming out of oblivion,
I heard two voices
Hovering above me.
“Isn’t this the same person,”
A question was heard -
By whose evil will and whose arrow
Albatross defeated?
He committed a grave sin: he
That bird loved
And the spirit burned with love for her,
Lord of darkness and ice."
"Oh, say something else,
While our Sailor is sleeping.
What makes a fast ship move?
What does the sea look like?
“It is like a slave before the king,
In stillness, mute.
His huge eye is now
Mesmerized by the moon.
It is subordinate to the moon
Both in calm and in hurricanes.
Look, brother, how soft the look is
Moons on the ocean."
“But how can a ship without wind
Is it possible to go like this?”
"The air is parted in front of him
And they will close behind.
Night is approaching, let's fly away,
So that darkness does not overtake us.
The ship is about to slow down,
The Sailor will come to his senses.”
I wake up. Walked quietly under the moon
Our ship is tired.
And again appeared in front of me
Terrible crew.
And again they are on deck
Crowded and on me
Every gaze stopped
Glistening under the moon.
It's all the same damnation forever
Their eyes froze:
I couldn't turn away
Nor remember the saints.
And at this moment, like an evil nightmare,
Witchcraft has disappeared.
I began to look forward, almost
Seeing nothing.
So the one who walks the dark path,
Trembling, he set off on his way,
Goes and head back
Doesn't dare turn around
And leaves behind
Mysterious horror.
Then the wind blew on me
An inaudible stream.
He blew and did not disturb
Sea surface.
Like a breath of spring,
Like a meadow zephyr,
He caressed his cheeks and eyes,
Instilling peace in the soul.
And the ship sailed faster and faster,
But it’s quiet, like in a dream.
And the wind blew more and more gently,
And he clung only to me.
Is this really a dream? And I
Back in your native land?
And the hill, and the church, and the lighthouse
I'm excited to find out.
We enter the harbor and are in tears
I began to pray to the Creator:
"Let me wake up, or let me
There will be no end to the dream!
Gulf smooth water
Transparent than glass
And the moon is reflected in it,
Huge and bright.
The bay shone while above it
The swarm of shadows has not grown,
It's like there's smoke billowing out
From torch lights.
And a swarm of purple shadows
Hovered over the ship.
I looked at my hands:
Their color was strangely scarlet.
The same horror squeezed my chest,
I looked back:
Oh my goodness! Dead men
They stand before the mast!
And everyone's hands are raised
Straight as swords.
And those hands are blazing
Like torches in the night.
And their eyes reflect
Purple rays.
Praying, turning away from them,
I began to look ahead:
There is no wind in the bay and it is quiet
The expanse of coastal waters.
Here the hill sparkles golden,
The temple shines on it,
The weather vane is motionless under the moon,
And it’s so calm there!
And, silent, the bay shone,
Bye, behind the line, line up,
Didn't rise in the air above him
A swarm of purple shadows.
They are right above the ship
Soared in the heights.
My gaze fell on the deck:
Oh, what has been revealed to me! –
There were corpses lying, but I swear
Holy Crucifixion:
Stood over every dead man
Radiant Seraphim.
And he called me, beckoning with his hand,
Fly after him
To the land of the unfading day,
Where did the light come from?
And he called me, beckoning with his hand,
And this call is silent,
I swear it was sweeter for me
All earthly music.
And soon the splash of an oar and a cry
I heard the rower.
Involuntarily turning back,
I look: a boat is sailing.
But the miraculous light went out,
And corpses under the moon
Again they stand behind the rope
They take it as if in a dream.
The breeze could not touch their robe,
And he clung only to me.
The boy swam with the oarsman in that boat -
O all-good Creator! –
I was so happy with them that I forgot
Finally about the dead.
The hermit was third in the boat.
I heard how in silence
He sang loud hymns that he himself
Laid it in the wilderness. –
He will wash away the blood of the Albatross
From a tormented soul.
The hermit is right by the waters
Lives in the wilderness of the forest.
And his song can be heard all around,
And with a foreign sailor
Sometimes he interprets.
An anchorite in prayer
Spends the whole day.
I replaced his pillow
A stump overgrown with moss.
The shuttle was approaching. “It’s strange how! –
A voice rang out from the rower -
Where is this wonderful heavenly light,
Shining on us now?
The saint said: “No one on our
The call is not answered.
The ship's hull was rotting,
And the fabric of the sails
Look how thin it has become!
So in the middle of the forests
Dry leaves smolder - their
The stream carries away
When it snows around
And the she-wolf eats her offspring
Under the evil cry of owls."
"I'm scared! - answered the rower -
It was a demonic light!
“Don’t be afraid and lead the rook!” –
The anchorite ordered.
The shuttle was approaching. I froze
Without moving my hand,
And listened to the menacing roar
Under the keel of the ship.
And thunder struck, lifting from the bottom
A giant wave
And a moment later the ship left
Lead deep.
The sky and the bay trembled,
And I was full of fear
When, like a corpse, I floated up,
Surrendered to the will of the waves
But miraculously he survived again:
I got into the same boat.
He was spinning there, where is the ship
Underwater thunder struck.
There was silence, and only echo
It flew over the hill.
The rower fell unconscious as soon as
I opened my eyes slightly.
The saint prayed and looked
Anxiously to the skies.
I sat down to row, but there was a child,
Looks like he's gone crazy:
Laughs loudly at me
Evil looks
"Ha! Ha! - shouts, - cheerful look!
The demon took the oar!”
But here is my native shore,
And I stepped onto the firmament!
The saint left the boat with difficulty
And he was completely exhausted.
“Listen to the confession, father!” –
An anchorite being baptized
He asked me: “Who are you?
Give me an answer immediately!”
And my bitter story
He immediately heard
And from painful melancholy
I was released.
But often since then I
The melancholy oppresses again
And makes this true
Repeat all the time.
And I, like the night, from end to end
I go every time
I recognize in a crowd of people
The one who should listen to my
A tragic story.
Behind that door is a feast,
And there are no number of guests.
A girl's choir sings in the garden,
The bride is so sweet!
But do you hear the ringing? Me to the temple
The bells are calling.
O guest! I was so lonely
In lifeless seas,
As even the Lord himself was not
In transcendental worlds.
O young guest! I paid tribute
Fun and feasts.
But it's sweeter with kind people
Go to pray at the temple.
Go to the temple as commanded
Our Heavenly Father,
Where, having acquired grace,
Let's pray together, child,
Both the old man and the young man.
Goodbye now, but believe, but believe,
Only he is blessed forever
To whom is dear and every animal,
And every person.
Blessed is he who prays for everyone,
For all living flesh,
What he created and loved
Our great Lord."
A sailor with a crazy sparkle in his eyes
And a white beard
He disappeared, and the guest wandered to his place,
And he was not himself.
Walked away from the wedding doors
Confused, stunned,
But sadder and wiser
He woke up in the morning.
S-T. Coleridge
NIGHTINGALE
A poem in conversational style,
written in April 1798
In the West it is no longer possible to distinguish
Not a streak of sunset fire,
No colors, no transparent clouds.
Let's go up to the bridge covered with moss,
Let's look down at the shining stream,
We can't hear it here, because it flows
On soft grasses. What a night it is all around!
What peace! Let the light of the stars be dim,
Let's imagine the spring rains,
Caressing the earth, then we
The dim sky will be pleasant.
But be quiet! The nightingale begins to sing.
He is “more musical and sadder” than all the birds!*
Are all the birds sadder? Empty fiction! –
After all, there is no sadness in nature at all.
The midnight wanderer who remembered his
Past humiliations, or illness,
Or unrequited love
(In everything he saw his own sorrow,
And even gentle trills for him
They told about her), the first was,
Who called this singing sad?
And the poet began to repeat this nonsense,
Who only knows a lot about rhymes, -
It would be more useful for him in the forest
The meadow stretches out by the stream
Under the sun or in the moonlight,
Captivated by the sights, sounds and elements
Lose your soul and forget yours
And song and glory! Glory to him
Merged with immortal nature,
And the song would make him stronger
If I loved nature I would do it myself
Loved like nature! But, alas,
Young poets, as always,
Spring evenings are spent
At the ball or in the theater, so that later
Over Philomela's complaints again
Sigh with tender compassion.
My friend and you, his sister! Given
We have a different knowledge: in the voices
Nature's only bliss and love
We hear. Here is a cheerful nightingale
Disperses, in a hurry to pour out
In the beautiful sounds of your love hymn,
As if worried that it’s night for the song
April is too short,
And quickly free your soul
He strives for music. I found
Picturesque oak grove nearby
Abandoned castle: all of it
Already overgrown with wild undergrowth,
The paths have become desolate -
There is grass and weed flowers on them.
But nowhere do I see so many nightingales
Didn't come across: near and far
One another in dense thickets
He either called out or sang back to him,
And the murmuring trill interrupted
Hasty clatter and merged itself
With a low roulade, pleasing to the ear, -
The air was full of such harmony,
That you, closing your eyes, could night
Take it a day! When lit
By the moon, bushes with dewy foliage,
It's easy to see the shine among the branches
Their bright eyes, bottomless bright eyes,
While the firefly lantern is alive
Burns in the dark.
The most tender of maidens,
In your hospitable house
Living by the castle, late at night
(She is like a priestess whose gods
Nature in that grove is subordinated)
Glides along the paths, knowing by heart
All the trills, waiting for that time,
When the moon is covered by clouds,
And the world will freeze in silence, and again
In the moonlight, sky and earth
The chorus of sleepless birds will awaken
With his song he will explode the silence,
As if the wind of a hundred air harps
Suddenly touched! And before that maiden
The nimble nightingale will spin around
On a branch slightly trembling in the wind,
And in time with his movements he will sing,
Swinging like drunken Delight.
Farewell singer! Goodbye until evening!
See you soon, friends!
We had a great time with you.
It's time to go home, and the song sounds again.
I would happily stay! My baby,
Trying to babble
Imitate various sounds,
Now I would put my little hand to my ear,
Raising a finger so that we
Listen! Let him be since childhood
Friendly with nature! He's already familiar
With the night luminary: somehow out of my mind
The baby woke up (it’s strange that he
I had a really sad dream)
With him in my arms I went out to our kindergarten,
He saw the moon and cut off
Sobs, and suddenly laughed,
And yellow moonlight in his eyes
The tear-stained splashed! Let's take a break here
Father's story. But if heaven
Extend my life, let the child grow up
The night will fall in love with these songs,
What a joy! So goodbye, nightingale!
And goodbye, dear friends!
_____________________________
* “Musical and sad” - this passage in Milton is much more than a simple description: it expresses the character of a sad person and, therefore, contains dramatic features. The author makes this remark in order to protect himself from the accusation of frivolously playing with Milton’s line: a more serious charge for him would be perhaps the accusation of ridiculing the Bible. (Coleridge's note)
S.-T. Coleridge
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY JILL
True story
What illness, what strength
And days and months in a row
So shakes Harry Gill,
Why are his teeth chattering?
Harry has no shortage
In vests, fur coats.
And everything that the patient is wearing,
It would have warmed nine people.
In April, in December, in June,
Whether it's hot, whether it's raining, whether it's snowing,
Under the sun or at full moon
Harry's teeth keep chattering!
It's the same with Harry all year round -
Both old and young talk about him:
During the day, in the morning, all night long
Harry's teeth keep chattering!
He was young and strong
For the cattle driver's craft:
There are slanting fathoms in his shoulders,
Blood with milk is his cheek.
And Goody Blake was old,
And everyone could tell you
What need did she live in?
How miserable her dark house is.
Thin shoulders behind the yarn
I didn’t straighten it day and night.
Alas, it happened to candles too
She couldn't afford to save up.
Stood on the cold side
The hill is her frozen home.
And coal was at a high price
In a remote village.
She doesn't have a close friend
She has no one to share shelter and food with,
And to her in an unheated shack
One will have to die.
Only on clear sunny days,
With the arrival of summer warmth,
Like a bird of the field,
She can be cheerful.
When will the streams be covered with ice?
Life is completely unbearable for her.
So the cruel frost burns her,
What a shiver runs through my bones!
When it's so empty and dead
Her dwelling at a late hour, -
Oh guess what it's like
Don't close your eyes from the cold!
She rarely had happiness
When, around committing robbery,
Dry branches to her hut
And the night wind blew the wood chips away.
Not even the rumor mentioned
So that Goody can stock up for future use.
And she barely had enough firewood
Just for one day or another.
When frost pierces your veins
And the old bones ache -
Garden wattle Harry Gill
She is drawn to the look.
And so, having left my hearth,
As soon as the winter day fades away,
With a cold hand she
Feels for that fence.
But about old Goody's walks
Harry Gill guessed.
He mentally threatened her with punishment,
He decided to waylay Goody.
He went to stalk her
In the fields at night, in the snow, in a blizzard,
Leaving a warm home,
Leaving the hot bed.
And then one day behind the haystack
He lurked, cursing the frost.
Under the bright full moon
The frozen stubble crunched.
Suddenly he hears a noise and immediately
Coming down from the hill like a shadow:
Yes, that's Goody Blake
She came to destroy the fence!
Harry was pleased with her diligence,
He blossomed with an evil smile,
And he waited until - pole by pole -
She will fill her hem.
When did she go without strength?
Back with your burden -
Harry Gill shouted fiercely
And he blocked her way.
And he grabbed her with his hand,
With a hand as heavy as lead,
With a strong and evil hand,
Crying out: “I finally got it!”
The full moon was shining.
I'll put it on the ground,
She prayed to the Lord,
Kneeling in the snow.
Falling into the snow, Goody prayed
And she raised her hands to the sky:
“Let him freeze forever!
Lord, deprive him of warmth!
This was her plea.
Harry Gill heard her -
And at the same moment from toes to forehead
A chill ran through him all over.
He was shaking all night, and in the morning
A trembling ran through him.
With a dull face and dull eyes
He didn't look like himself.
Didn't help save me from the cold
He's wearing a cab driver's sheepskin coat.
And he couldn’t keep warm in two,
And at three he was cold as a corpse.
Caftans, blankets, fur coats -
Everything is useless from now on.
Harry's teeth are chattering and chattering,
Like a window in the wind.
In winter and summer, in heat and snow
They knock, knock, knock!
He won't get warm forever! –
Both old and young talk about him.
He doesn't want to talk to anyone.
In the light of day, in the darkness of night
He just mutters pitifully
That he is very cold.
This is an extraordinary story
I told you truthfully.
May they be in your memory
And Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
W. Wordsworth
WE ARE SEVEN
A simple-minded child whose
Every breath is so easy
In whom life flows like a stream,
What could he know about death?
I met a girl while walking
Dear Field.
“I’m eight,” said the child
With a curly head.
The clothes she's wearing are pathetic
And a wild look.
But the sweet look of her eyes
He was meek and open.
“And how many brothers and sisters
In your family, my light?
Casting a surprised glance,
“We are seven,” she answered.
“Where are they?” - “Two of us
They sent me to a foreign land,
And two are at sea now.
And there are seven of us with me.
Sister and brother lie in the shadows -
The earth covered them.
And my mother and I live alone
At their relatives’ graves.”
"My child, how can you
To be seven with you
Since two people are at sea now
And two in the distance is a stranger?
“We are seven,” her answer was simple, “
My sister and brother,
As soon as you enter the churchyard -
They are lying under the tree.”
“You are frolicking here, my angel,
And they will never get up.
If two people sleep in damp ground,
Then there are five of you left."
“Their graves are filled with living flowers.
Twelve steps to them
From the door to the house where we live
And we keep them in peace.
I often knit stockings there,
I sew my own clothes.
And I sit on the ground next to them,
And I sing songs to them.
And sometimes on clear summer days,
On bright evenings
I take the bowl with me
And I have dinner there.
First Jane left us.
Moaned day and night.
The Lord saved her from pain,
How unbearable she became.
We played there - me and John,
Where is the gravestone
Grew up above her, surrounded
Withered grass.
When did the snow cover the paths?
And the skating rink sparkled,
John had to go too:
He lay down next to his sister.”
“But if a brother and sister are in heaven, -
I cried out, “How many of you are there?”
She responded to my speech:
“There are seven of us now!”
“They are not there, alas! They're dead!
Their home is in heaven!”
She still says: “There are seven of us!” –
Without listening to me at all,
She stood her ground.
W. Wordsworth
BLACKTHORN
I
This thorn tree is old, yes,
Which is hard to imagine,
How it bloomed in the old days -
He turned gray a long time ago.
He is the size of a small child,
But everything doesn’t bend, it’s a dilapidated bush.
Deprived of foliage, deprived of thorns,
By the tenacity of tenacious branches he
Lives, gloomy and empty.
And, like a stone or a cliff,
It is all overgrown with lichen.
II
Like a stone or a cliff, it
Covered to the very top with lichen,
Heavy moss hung on it,
Like a mournful harvest.
The thorns have been taken over by mosses,
And he, unfortunate one, is squeezed by them
It's so tight that it's clear to you
Their goal, and they have one goal:
They want him
Raze it to the ground quickly,
Bury her forever.
III
On a mountain ridge, high up,
Where is the hurricane, powerful and angry,
It cuts through the clouds with a whistle
And collapses into the valley, -
Near the path you will find
Old thorn without difficulty,
And a muddy dwarf pond
You will immediately find here -
There is always water in it.
I could easily measure the pond:
Three feet along, two across.
IV
And behind the gray thorns
About four steps away
A hill will appear in front of you,
Dressed in bright moss.
All the colors of the world, all the colors,
Which ones the eye loves,
You will see on a piece of land,
It's as if fairy hands are intertwined
Divine pattern.
That hill is half a foot high
Shines with wondrous beauty.
V
Oh, how pleasing to the eye it is here
Olive and scarlet color! –
Such branches, ears of corn, stars
No longer in nature.
Blackthorn in his old age
Unattractive and gray
And the hill, which is so good,
Similar to a child’s grave -
Its size is so small.
But I'm more beautiful than graves
I haven't found it anywhere yet.
VI
But if you were on an old bush,
I wanted to look at the wonderful hill,
Be careful: not always
You can hit the road.
There is often only one woman there,
Wrapped in a scarlet cloak,
Sits between a small hill
With a similar grave and a pond,
And there is crying
And her loud moan is heard:
“Oh, my bitter grief!”
VII
The sufferer hurries there.
All the winds know her there
And every star.
There, near the thorn bushes, alone
She sits on top
When the blue sky is pure,
With the roar of fierce storms,
In frosty silence.
And you can hear her crying:
“Oh, my bitter grief!”
VIII
"But explain why she
Both on a clear day and at night
Climbs a gloomy peak, -
And in the rain, and in the snow, and in the heat?
Why at the decrepit bush
She sits on top
When the blue sky is pure,
With the roar of fierce storms,
In frosty silence?
What caused this mournful groan?
Why doesn’t it subside?”
IX
I don't know: the truth is dark
And not known to anyone.
But if you want to go
To the wonderful hill
What is similar to a child's grave,
And look at the bush, at the pond -
Make sure first that
That the woman returned to the house,
And he’s not sad here,
Where not a single person
He will never get close to her.
X
"But why is she here?
And on a clear day, and at night,
No matter the wind, it stays on track,
Under every star?
I'll tell you everything I know,
But it will be a futile effort
Unless you go to the mountains yourself
And you won’t find that thorn bush,
And a dwarf pond.
You'll be more likely to find a trace there
Tragedies of past years.
XI
Until you have visited
On this gloomy height,
I'm ready to tell you
All that is known to me.
Twenty years have passed since then
How Martha Ray fell in love,
How he captivated a girl's heart
Her boyfriend Stephen Hill
And he became dearer to everyone,
How happy Martha was
And she had fun and blossomed.
XII
And the wedding day was set,
But it didn’t come for her:
Took an oath of allegiance to another
Mindless Stephen Hill.
The traitor went down the aisle
With his other chosen one.
And they say that this afternoon
A cruel fire broke out
The Consciousness of Martha Ray.
And, as if incinerated,
She dried up from grief.
XIII
Six months have passed, the forest is still
The green leaves rustled,
And Martha was pulled upward
To the fatal crest.
Everyone saw that there was a child in her,
But her brain was enveloped in darkness,
Although from unbearable torment
Suddenly became reasonable
Her sad look.
And the one who could become a father,
It would be better if he were dead!
XIV
There's still a debate going on here.
How could I perceive
In yourself the movements of a baby
Crazy mother.
Just last Christmas
One old man assured us,
That Martha, feeling the child,
As if I woke up, having found
Reason at the same moment
And God took care of her in peace,
While the deadline was approaching.
XV
And that's all I know
And he didn’t hide anything, believe me.
What happened to the poor baby?
It's still a mystery.
Yes, and whether he was born or not -
Nobody knows this
And you won't know if he's alive
Or was he born dead?
All that is known is
That Martha more often since then
Climbing up a mountain slope.
XVI
And that winter at night
The wind fell from the mountains
And reported to our churchyard
Some kind of wild choir.
One heard in the choir
Living creatures voices,
The other one bet his head
That the howling of the dead was heard,
But these miracles
And a strange cry in the silence of the night
Not associated with Martha Ray.
XVII
He hurries up to the thorn bush
And she sits there for a long time,
Wrapped in a scarlet cloak,
Full of suffering.
I didn't know about her when
For the first time I reached these mountains.
Look at the surf from the top
I walked with a telescope
And climbed to the peak.
But the storm struck, and darkness
My eyes were clouded over.
XVIII
Thick fog and heavy rain
My path was immediately blocked.
And the wind is ten times stronger
Suddenly it started to blow.
My look through the veil of rain
I found a rocky ledge,
who could hide me,
And I set off at full speed,
But instead of imaginary rocks
I saw a woman in the darkness:
She was sitting on the ground.
XIX
Everything became clear to me as soon as
I saw her face.
Turning away, I heard:
“Oh, my bitter grief!”
And I found out that she was there
Sits for hours, and when
The moon will flood the sky
And a light wind will stir
The murk of a gloomy pond, -
Her cry is heard in the village:
“Oh, my bitter grief!”
XX
“But what are thorns and a pond to her,
And that light breeze?
Why to the flowering hill
Does fate bring her?
They talk like it's a bitch
The baby was hanged by her
Or drowned in that pond,
When she was delirious,
But everyone only agrees
With the fact that he lies under the hill,
Strewn with wonderful moss.
XXI
And rumor has it that red moss
Just from the blood of a child,
But to blame such a sin
I wouldn't do Marta.
And if you look closely
To the bottom of the pond, they say,
The lake will show you
Child's poor face,
His motionless gaze.
And that child is from you
He won't take away his sad eyes.
XXII
And there were those who swore
Convict the mother of villainy,
And they just gathered
To dig up a grave -
To their amazement, variegated moss
Moved as if alive
And suddenly the grass began to tremble
Around the hill - the rumor repeats,
But everything in that village
They stand their ground, as before:
The child lies under wonderful moss.
XXIII
And I see how the mosses are strangled
The thorn is old and gray,
And they lean down, and they want
Raze it to the ground.
And every time like Martha Ray
Sits on a mountain top
And on a clear noon, and in the night,
When the rays of beautiful stars
Shine in silence -
I can hear, I can hear her crying:
“Oh, my bitter grief!”
W. Wordsworth
MAD MOTHER
Off-road at random, -
Simple-haired, wild-eyed, -
Burned by the fierce sun,
She wanders in the wilderness.
And in her arms there is a child.
(Or is this the delirium of a sick soul?)
Taking a breath under the haystack,
On a stone in the silence of the forest
She sings, full of love,
And her speech is quite clear:
“Everyone says: I’m crazy.
But, my little one, my life,
I'm happy when I sing
I forget my pain
And I pray to you baby
Don't be afraid, don't be afraid of me!
It's like you're sleeping in a cradle,
And keeping you from harm,
Oh my dear, I remember mine
A huge debt to you.
My brain was on fire
And pain clouded my vision,
And the chest is cruel at that time
A swarm of ominous spirits tormented.
But having awakened, having come to my senses,
How happy I am to see again
And feel your child
His living flesh and blood!
I have conquered a nightmare,
My boy is with me, only him.
To my chest, son, snuggle
With tender lips - they
As if from my heart
They draw out his sorrow.
Rest on my chest,
Touch her with your fingers;
Gives her relief
Your cool palm.
Your hand is fresh, light,
Like a breath of wind.
Love, love me baby!
You give happiness to your mother!
Don't be afraid of the evil waves below,
When I carry in my arms
You along the sharp ridges of rocks.
Rocks don't bode well for me
I'm not afraid of the roaring wave -
After all, you save my life.
Blessed am I, keeping the child:
He can't survive without me.
Don't be afraid, little one! Believe me,
You, brave as a beast,
I will carry you across the rivers
And through the dense regions.
I'll build you a home:
From leaves - a soft bed.
And if you, my child,
You won’t leave your mother before the deadline, -
My beloved, in the depths of the forest
You will sing like a thrush in the spring.
Sleep on my chest, little bird!
Your father doesn't love her.
She faded and faded.
Well, my light, she is sweet to you.
She's yours. And it doesn't matter
That my beauty is gone:
You will always be faithful to me
And the fact that I became dark,
There is some benefit: after all, pale cheeks
You don't see mine, son.
Don't listen to lies, my love!
I married your father.
We will fill in the forest shade
Happy life these days.
He will never live with me,
If he neglected you!
But don't be afraid: he's not evil,
He himself is unhappy, God knows!
And every day with you alone
We will pray for him.
You, darling, the singing of owls
I will teach in the darkness of the forests.
The baby's lips are motionless.
You're probably full, my soul?
How strange they suddenly became confused
Your heavenly features!
My dear boy, your look is wild!
Aren't you crazy too?
Terrible sign! If this is so -
There is sadness and darkness in me forever.
Oh, smile, my lamb!
And calm down your dear mother!
I managed to overcome everything:
I searched for my father day and night,
Recognized the rage of the spirits of darkness
And the taste of ground nuts.
But don't be afraid - we will find you
Father among the forest thickets.
All my life in the forest region,
Son, we will be like in heaven.”
W. Wordsworth
IDIOT BOY
It strikes eight. March night
Svetla. The moon floats above
Among the blue sky.
Sad, long cry of an owl
Sounds in the unknown distance:
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo, woo-hoo, woo-hoo!
What's wrong, Betty Foy? You
It's like a fever!
Why are you in such torment?
Where are you ready to ride?
Is your poor boy an idiot?
Under the serene moon
You're out of your mind from all the trouble.
What good is it, Betty Foy?
Why is yours put in the saddle?
Favorite idiot boy?
Quickly take him off his horse,
Otherwise, trouble will happen to him!
He purrs - he’s having fun,
But, Betty, the guy doesn't need anything
Girth, stirrup and bridle.
The whole world would say: what nonsense!
Come to your senses, it's night all around!
But isn't Betty Foy a mother?
If only she could predict everything -
She would be driven crazy by fear.
What's driving her out the door now? –
Neighbor Susan Gale is sick.
She, the old one, can’t bear to live alone,
She feels very bad that night
And she moans pitifully.
Their homes are a mile away.
And Susan Gale fell completely ill.
And there is no one near them,
Who would give them good advice?
How to help her, how to console her.
And Betty's husband is not at home, -
About a week, a few days
He is cutting down a forest in a distant grove.
Who's interested in old Susan?
Will he show mercy on her?
And Betty brought a pony -
He was always meek and sweet:
Was he sick, was he laughing joyfully,
Or ran to the pasture,
Or he carried brushwood from the forest.
The pony is equipped for the journey.
And - has it been heard of? - That,
Who we love Betty with all our hearts,
Today I must rule it -
Poor idiot boy.
Let him go to the city across the bridge,
Where under the moon the water is bright.
There is a house near the church, a doctor lives in it, -
You have to gallop after him,
So that Susan Gale doesn't die.
The guy doesn't need any boots,
No spurs, no whiplash.
Just a branch of holly John,
Armed like a sword
And he waves it rashly.
Admiring my son for the hundredth time
Betty Foy told John,
Where to turn and how to turn,
Where is his path ordered?
Which path to follow?
But her main sadness
Was: “Dear Johnny, you
Then hurry home,
Non-stop, my boy,
Otherwise, it won’t be long before trouble!”
In response, he waved his hand like this
And nodded as much as he could,
So he pulled the reins that the mother
I could easily understand him
At least he didn't say any words.
Johnny has been on horseback for a long time -
Betty's soul still hurts,
And Betty is still full of worries
And gently strokes the horse's side,
Don't rush to part with them.
Here the pony took the first step -
Oh, poor idiot boy! –
From head to toe happiness
Embraced by numbness,
He doesn't move the reins.
With a motionless branch in hand
John froze, spellbound.
Moon in the sky
Above him in the same silence,
Silent just like him.
He rejoiced so with all his heart,
I forgot about the sword too
In my hand, I completely forgot,
That he is the envy of everyone, -
He was happy! He was happy!
And Betty is happy herself, -
Until he disappeared into the darkness
Proud of myself, proud of him:
How imperturbable his appearance is!
How deftly he stays in the saddle!
In his valiant silence
He's leaving now
Passing the pillar, around the bend.
And Betty still stands and waits,
When he disappears from sight.
So he purred, made a noise,
Like a mill, in silence.
And the pony is as gentle as a sheep.
And Betty listens to the messenger
And he rejoices from the heart.
Now it's time for her to visit Susan Gale.
And Johnny rides under the moon,
Purrs, mumbles and sings,
Cheerful idiot boy
Under the cries of owls in the darkness of the night.
And the pony and the boy are in harmony:
He will also be quiet and sweet
And he will not lose his cheerful spirit,
Even if he became blind and deaf,
At least he lived for hundreds of years.
This horse thinks! He's smarter
The one who rides a horse.
But, knowing Johnny better than anyone,
Now he will not judge that
It's happening on his back.
And so they go through the moonlight
They gallop through the valley of the moon into the night.
There is a house near the church, and knocking on the door,
John must wake up the doctor,
To help old Susan Gale.
And Betty Foy, coming to the sick woman,
He tells his story about Johnny:
How brave, how smart he is,
What a relief he is
Will deliver Susan Gale now.
And Betty, telling her story,
tends to take on a mournful look,
Sitting with a plate over the patient, -
It's like Susan Gale alone
She belongs with her soul.
But Betty's face gives away:
One can clearly read in it,
What happiness in this moment she
I could give it in full
Any five or six years old.
But Betty looks a little
Anxious for some time now,
And her ears are alert:
Is anyone going yet?
But the night space is quiet and silent.
Sighs, moans Susan Gale.
And Betty told her: “They’re on their way.”
And - I am convinced of this,
They'll arrive after ten."
But Susan Gale groans heavily.
The clock is already striking eleven.
And Betty told her: “I’m convinced,
As in the fact that there is a moon in the sky -
Our Johnny will be here soon."
It's midnight now. But Johnny is not there
Although there is a moon in the sky.
Betty holds on as best she can,
But she, poor thing, doesn’t like the world,
And Susan is filled with trepidation.
Just half an hour ago
Betty Foy scolded the messenger:
"Lazy little fool,
Where, unfortunate thing, did he disappear to? –
Now there is no face on it.
Blissful hours have passed
And now there is no face on it.
“Oh, Susan, that’s right, that doctor
I made myself wait, but here I am
They are already rushing towards us, believe me!”
Everything is worse than old Susan Gale.
And Betty - what should she do?
What should she do, Betty Foy?
Should I leave or stay with the patient?
Who will tell her what to do?
And now the first hour has struck,
Betty's hopes are buried.
The moon shines all around,
And on the road outside the window -
Neither man nor horse.
And Susan is overcome with fear,
And he appears sick
That Johnny might drown
To perish forever somewhere, -
It will all be their fault!
But only she said:
“Save him, Lord, on his way!” –
Like Betty, rising from her bed,
She cried out: “Susan, I have to go!”
You, poor thing, forgive me!
I need to find Johnny:
He is weak in mind and bad in the saddle.
I won't part with him anymore
Just be sure he’s safe and sound!” –
And Susan said to her: “God have mercy!”
And Betty said to her: “What should I do with you?
And how can I relieve your pain?
Perhaps I should stay after all?
Although you won't wait long -
I'll be here again soon."
“Go, darling, go!
And how can you help me?..” –
And Betty Foy prays to God
About mercy for the sick,
And immediately runs out.
She's running through the moonlight
Valley of the moon at a late hour.
About how she's in a hurry
And what does he say at the same time -
Will the story be boring?
On the dark bottom and in the heights,
In a road post and in a bush,
In the twinkling of distant stars,
In the rustling of crow's nests, -
She sees Johnny everywhere.
Here's Betty running across the bridge,
Tormenting himself with the thought: he
Came down from the pony to the moon
Caught in the stream - and to the bottom
Fuck her poor John!
Here she is on the hill - from it
A wide view is open to her.
But in the open air and in the wilderness,
On Mount Betty - not a soul,
And you can’t hear the horse’s hooves.
"Oh my God! What happened to him?
Did you climb an oak tree and couldn’t get down?
Or some gypsy
He was shamelessly deceived
And then he dragged you to the camp?
Or maybe this bad horse brought
Him to the cave of the evil gnomes?
Or in the castle, sparing no effort,
He caught ghosts
And he himself died in captivity among them?
And Betty is in a hurry to the city,
Now Susan Gale is blaming:
“If she weren’t so sick -
My John would stay with me
Would always make me happy."
In serious disorder he does not spare
She and the doctor himself,
Scolding him desperately.
And even a meek horse
Betty scolds rashly.
But here is the city, here is the house -
She is at the doctor's door.
And the city that appeared before her -
It's so wide, it's so big
And as quiet as the moon in the sky.
And then she knocks on the door, -
Oh, how her hand trembles! –
And opening the window frame,
The doctor casts a sleepy glance
From under the nightcap.
“Oh, doctor, doctor, where is my son?”
“I've been sleeping for a long time. What do you need?"
"But, sir, I'm Betty Foy,
My dear Johnny is missing,
You saw him often.
He's a little out of his mind..."
But the doctor became very angry
And he said menacingly to her:
“Is he sane? I don’t care!” –
He closed the window and went to bed.
“Oh woe is me! Woe is me!
Alas, my death comes!
I looked for Johnny everywhere
But I didn’t find it anywhere, -
I am the most unhappy of all mothers!”
She stands and looks around:
There is silence everywhere, sleep everywhere.
What's the rush this time? –
And now it’s three o’clock on the tower
Sounds like a death knell.
She's from the city in sadness
She runs like a madwoman.
Full of my sorrow,
She forgot the doctor
Send to the sick Susan Gale.
And Betty is back on the hill:
From here you can see every bush.
“How can I survive - that’s the problem! –
Such a night at my age?
Oh God, the path is still empty!”
Human speech and the ringing of horseshoes
In the silent, unheard edge.
She feels better in the silence of the oak forests
Hear the grass sprouting,
An underground stream.
And in the blue twilight all around
The calls of owls do not stop:
So do lovers sometimes
Separated in the midnight darkness,
They send a sad call to each other.
Pond green water
The thought of sin inspires her.
And, so as not to rush there,
From the edge of the scary pond
She leaves quickly.
And cries, sitting on the ground,
And more and more tears are shed:
"My pony, dear pony,
Bring Johnny home
And we will live without worries."
And, crying, she thinks:
“The pony has a kind, gentle disposition,
He Johnny loves mine,
And inadvertently into his forest
I brought it in and got lost on the way.”
From the ground she is inspired
Hope jumps up instantly.
From sinful thoughts by the pond
Not a trace remains,
And the temptation was small.
Reader, I know everything
About Johnny and his horse
I'm glad to bring them to light,
But such a brilliant plot
How can I tell it in poetry?
Perhaps with your horse
Dangerous mountain path
He climbed up a steep rock,
To get a star from heaven
And bring her home.
Or, turning around on his horse,
His back is turned to the withers,
In a wonderful slumber, dumb and deaf,
Like a disembodied spirit rider,
He wanders through the valley.
No, he is a hunter, an enemy of the sheep!
He is evil, he inspires fear!
Give him only six months -
And this fertile land
He will turn dust into ashes.
Or from head to toe on fire,
He is a demon, not a man, -
He rushes, menacing and winged,
And sows horror, sows hell,
And it will race like this forever.
Oh Muses, help me again
I need to find inspiration
Allow me - even if not completely -
Should I describe the events
What happened to him on the way.
Ah, Muses, why are you mine?
Are you neglecting prayer?
Why is it not my fault?
They don't like me
You, so beloved by me?
But who is that in the distance?
Looking at a noisy waterfall
And under the shining moon
Sits carelessly on a horse
Are you numb?
His horse grazes freely,
It’s as if he’s been deprived of his reins.
To the lunar disk, to the star swarm
Our hero doesn’t look at all, -
But it's Johnny! It is he!
Where's Betty? What's wrong with her?
She sheds tears as before:
She hears a booming stream,
But she still has no idea
Where is the poor idiot boy.
She hurries to the sound of water,
It goes through the dark thicket.
Breathe freely, Betty Foy,
There's your pony and your Johnny,
Favorite idiot boy.
Why are you standing there, dumbfounded? –
The end of suffering is coming!
He is not a ghost, not an evil gnome,
And found with difficulty
Your son, your idiot boy.
Betty Foy clasping her hands
Lets out a cry of jubilation
Rushing like that stream,
Almost knocks the pony off his feet -
The idiot boy is with her again!
And he purrs, he laughs,
Is it out of joy - God will understand!
And Betty is happy, she
Drunk from his voice:
The idiot boy is with her again!
And then she’s to the horse’s tail,
Then he will rush to the withers again, -
Betty Foy is so blissful
What sometimes suffocates,
And it’s hard for her to stop her tears.
She is in ecstasy
Kisses his son again and again,
Johnny gives no rest:
The idiot boy is with her again,
Her soul, her love.
And unnoticed by yourself
She caresses the horse too,
And the pony is probably happy
Although it seems at first glance,
Frozen, maintaining dispassion.
“Forget about the doctor, son!
Everything is fine, you’re great!” –
And cheerful John rumbles again,
And the pony is taken away by her
Finally from the waterfall.
There are almost no stars in the sky,
The moon faded over the hill.
And every moment you hear more and more
The rustle of wings among the branches
In the forest, still silent.
And the travelers go home,
Tired as ever.
But who rushes to them at such an hour,
He limps, waves his hand at them, -
Is it really Susan Gale? Oh yeah!
She was tormented in bed,
I thought with fear all night:
What about Betty, where is poor John?
And her mind was darkened
And the weakness receded away.
Full of doubts and worries,
She tossed and turned all night.
The darkness of grave assumptions
Drive the poor thing crazy
But the weakness receded away.
She said sadly:
“How can I live in such horror?
I think I’ll go to the forest!”
And suddenly - oh miracle of miracles! –
She rose from the bed with a jerk.
Forest path towards her
Betty, the horse and John come out.
She calls her friends...
How to describe their date? –
Oh, it was a magical dream!
And the owls are already exhausted
And they finished their singing,
While friends were walking home.
From those owls I started a ballad -
And I will complete it with them.
While friends wandered home,
Johnny's mother asked:
"Where did you wander in the dark,
What did you see, what did you hear? –
Try to tell it right."
And Johnny often on this night
Listened to the owls singing
And he raised his eyes to the moon, -
In the moonlight on horseback
He wandered for nine hours.
And therefore, looking at the mother,
He gave a decisive answer,
And this is what he said out loud:
“In fluff, in fluff! - the rooster crowed,
And the light of the sun was cold" -
So said Johnny the daredevil.
And here my story ends.
"Lake School" The group of romantics who made up the “Lake School” included Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey. They are united not only by the fact that they lived in the north of England, in Cumberland, in the land of the lakes (hence they are called “leucists”, from lake), but also by some common features of their ideological and creative path. At the beginning of their creative activity, they are characterized by rebellious sentiments; they welcome the French bourgeois revolution, but subsequently, disillusioned with its results, they lose faith in active struggle and switch to conservative positions. Being innovators in poetry (this applies to Wordsworth and Coleridge), they paved the way for romantic art in England in the early period of their creativity. This is the progressive meaning of their work in the 80s and 90s, but later they increasingly turn to ideas of passivity and submission.
A certain commonality of ideological and creative positions of the poets of the “Lake School” does not mean identity of views and talent. If Wordsworth and Coleridge had indeed great talent and great insight in assessing the disastrous consequences of their departure from the freedom-loving moods of the early period of creativity, then Southey's modest talent was combined with reaction. In the 90s, he created a number of accusatory works, wrote a drama about the peasant uprising “Wat Tyler” (Wat Tylor, a Dramatic Poem, 1794). But already in the drama “The Fall of Robespierre” (1795), written together with Coleridge, his departure from radical sentiments is revealed. In the late 90s, Southey wrote ballads on medieval themes, which expressed religious ideas and featured supernatural images and situations. Southey's evolution from rebellious sentiments to mysticism and religious humility is reflected in the poems: “Thalaba the Destroyer” (1801), “Madoc” (1805), “The Curse of Kehama” (1810). The content of the poem “A Vision of Judgment” (1821) is reactionary in nature.
In 1798, the anonymous publication “ Lyrical ballads "(Lyrical Ballads) by Wordsworth and Coleridge. The poets opposed any literary rules and sought to create a poetic “experiment” based on the principle of a natural depiction of human feelings and passions, everyday life.
The preface written by Wordsworth to the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800) was a manifesto of English Romanticism. The poet talks about the need to select incidents of everyday life and depict them in the light of poetic imagination, which depicts the ordinary in an unusual aspect.
The subject of poetry should be rural life, for in a simple and modest life human passions, the life of the heart, are manifested with greater spontaneity. In the life of ordinary people, the life of passions merges with the beauty and constancy of nature. In poetry it is necessary to reproduce the language of the common people. Far from the conventions of a civilized society, ordinary people express their feelings artlessly. Their language contains beauty and philosophical significance. Wordsworth wants to speak simply and naturally about human feelings, so he rejects the classicist technique of personifying abstract ideas. He strives to bring the language of poetry closer to the language of prose, believing that the language of good prose is quite suitable for poetry.
Lyrical Ballads tells of the plight of rural workers in England. The main dramatic theme of the poems is the collapse of the former foundations of life for small farmers, the disintegration of patriarchal family relationships, and the miserable existence of disadvantaged people. The feelings and experiences of the peasants are truthfully revealed. “Pastoral” ballads depict the dramatic fate of the English peasantry under the influence of new bourgeois relations associated with the industrial revolution. The poet contrasts rural life with urban life; he sees humanity only in rural residents and stubbornly distances himself from everything new that social development brings with it; the poet increasingly limits himself to attention to the “pastoral” past and to his subjective experiences.
Since the collection includes only four of his poems, the “lyrical” (that is, Wordsworthian) component in the book noticeably prevails over the “ballad”, narrative one.
Despite its high artistic merit, the book initially did not cause much resonance. The first edition sold out very slowly until the attention of the general public to the originality of “Lyrical Ballads” was attracted by such popular journalists as Hazlitt, who met both authors during the period of their work on the collection. The popularity of “Lyrical Ballads” in the early years of the 19th century actually buried English classicism and its poetic techniques. Coleridge and Wordsworth contrasted ready-made poetic recipes with the spontaneity of feeling and the traditional “high calm” - the language of everyday communication. The heroes of Wordsworth's poems are unremarkable characters who have never been sung in poetry before, such as, for example, the village fool.
Wordsworth was born in a small town located in Cumberland County. Wordsworth's father was a lawyer. After graduating from the Khokhshid Drama School, he entered Cambridge. At the university, he immediately attracted the attention of teachers with his outstanding abilities in the field of science. After the first examination session, he topped the list of the best students. Wordsworth's successes in mathematics were especially significant. But the prospect of completely dedicating himself to academic science obviously did not appeal to him. Soon he began to devote all his free time to the study of literature to the detriment of other subjects.
In 1790, Wordsworth decided to travel around Europe. His stay in France was especially long. The ideas of the French Revolution had a significant influence on him during this period. Here in France, he met Annette Vallon, the daughter of a surgeon from Blois, with whom he fell in love and who bore him a daughter. V. learned about the birth of his daughter while already in England. In 1793, he published two poems, “An Evening Walk” and “Descriptive Sketches,” where he tried to express his impressions of the trip. That same year, Wordsworth wrote a “Letter to Bishop Landaff” in defense of the French Revolution, which remained unpublished during the poet’s lifetime. In 1795, Wordsworth received a small inheritance after the death of one of his friends. This money allowed him to devote himself completely to literary creativity. Together with his sister Dorothy, the poet's devoted friend and assistant throughout his life, he stayed at Racedown. In the same year, Wordsworth met S. T. Coleridge and soon moved to live in Olfoxden to be closer to his new friend. The result of the friendship of the two poets was the appearance of the collection “Lyrical Ballads”, the first edition of which appeared in 1798 in Bristol, and the second, significantly expanded, in 1800.
Coldridge later recounted the genesis of the idea for the book in his Literary Biography (1817): “In the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I became neighbors, our conversations often touched upon the two cardinal points of poetry, its power of awakening the sympathy of the reader by its correspondence to the truth of life, and its ability to do its interesting fickle colors of imagination... This idea gave birth to the plan for “Lyrical Ballads”, in which, as agreed, I was to direct my efforts to images and characters that were supernatural or, at least, romantic... Mr. Wordsworth, with his On the other hand, the goal was to provide a note of novelty to the everyday and awaken feelings similar to the perception of the supernatural, awakening consciousness from the lethargy of everyday life and directing it to the perception of the beauty and mystery of the world...” According to the original plan, both poets were supposed to write approximately the same number of poems for the collection, but it so happened that it was composed mainly of the works of Wordsworth.
“Lyrical Ballads” became an important milestone in the development of English literature; literary historians often begin counting the romantic period in English culture with this work. Both Wordsworth and Coleridge were well aware of the innovative nature of this book, which is partly due to the fact that Lyrical Ballads was published anonymously. The authors did not want the poems from the new collection to be in any way associated in the reader's mind with their earlier and more traditional works. Wordsworth tried to show the essence of the creative experiment and justify its legitimacy in the “Preface to Lyrical Ballads.”
The novelty of the poetry collection, according to Wordsworth, lies in the treatment of new topics and the use of new language. Unlike contemporary authors focused on the poetry of classicism, Wordsworth is not attracted to sublime and significant subjects: "... the main task of these poems was to select incidents and situations from everyday life and retell or describe them, constantly using, as much as possible it is possible, everyday... We chose, first of all, scenes from simple rural life, since in these conditions the natural impulses of the soul find a favorable basis for maturation, are subject to less restriction and are narrated in a simpler and more expressive language; since under these conditions our simplest feelings manifest themselves with greater clarity and, accordingly, can be more accurately studied and reproduced more clearly...” V. believes that “there is and cannot be a significant difference between the language of prose and the language of poetry” and therefore poetry does not need in some “special” language, as the creators of the previous era believed. Likewise, there cannot be “special” poetic themes. Poetry borrows its themes from life, it turns to those subjects that excite a person and resonate in her heart. And for Wordsworth, the poet is not a schema-monk who secludes himself in an ivory tower, but “a man who talks to people.”
At the same time, Wordsworth does not believe that poetic creativity is accessible to everyone. There are many ideas expressed by Wordsworth in the “Preface to Lyrical Ballads” - about the need for a poet to perceive the everyday and ordinary as something surprising and sublime, about imagination, about the relationship between feeling and mind in poetry, etc. give reason to consider the “Preface...” the first manifesto of romanticism in English literature.
In his poems, which were included in the collection “Lyrical Ballads,” Wordsworth tried to adhere to the principles that he personally expressed in the “Preface...” to the book. Most of them are devoted to the life of peasants or other representatives of the lower classes. The poetic language is clear, most words are borrowed from everyday vocabulary, the poet avoids using unusual comparisons or very complex metaphors.
In several poems the heroes are children. Thus, in the poem “We Are Seven,” the author talks about a meeting with a peasant girl:
No, like children: the world is not peace -
They are already twisting and turning...
Well, like from those stupid years
Do they understand death?..
And how many of you are there? Answer me;
There are two in heaven... Right?
There are only five of them... No, sir, no.
There are seven of us. - And how is this, how?
Two are no longer among the living,
God has a place for them. -
She doesn't hear my words,
One thing repeats: - We are all seven,
We are seven, we are seven, we are seven!
(Translated by G. Grabovsky)
Wordsworth later claimed that such a meeting happened to him in real life. When asked how many children there are in the family, the girl replied: “There are seven of us.” When the author learned that two children - a brother and a sister - had died and were buried in a local cemetery, he tried to convince the girl that she was counting incorrectly, but she continued to repeat: “There are seven of us.” The verse does not contain any deep philosophical truths, and the poet does not try to convince the reader that the child’s view of the world is inherent in some kind of mysticism inherent in nature itself; it simply shows a child in whose mind there is no such thing as death yet. And this feature of children's consciousness only sets off pessimism, fear of the world of an adult, in whose consciousness the category of death becomes one of the central ones.
Another of the "Lyrical Ballads", "The Idiot Boy", became well known in large part due to the criticism with which the poet's contemporaries attacked it. Many readers were shocked by the very idea of making a mentally disabled boy a lyrical hero. The prevailing thought was that the depiction of mentally disabled people in literature could only evoke a feeling of disgust in the reader, so this topic was considered unaesthetic. True, Wordsworth himself had no intention of shocking the tastes of the reading masses. Crazy heroes appear in his other poems in the collection (“The Thorn”, “The Mad Mother”).
The destructive influence of civilization on the peaceful, patriarchal life of peasants became the theme of such poems as “Michael”, “The Brothers”, “The Reverie of Poor Susan”, etc. .
The second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800) was expanded to include new poems, mainly those of Wordsworth. If the first edition was dominated by poems created in the ballad genre, then in the second the number of poetic works with more clearly expressed lyricism noticeably increases. True, in the collection of Coleridge and Wordsworth it is very difficult to distinguish between ballads and lyrical poems themselves. The essence of the poetic experiment of the two authors was to embody the characteristics of each genre into one whole. They tried, using a simple four-line stanza of a ballad, to recreate the subtle and varied experiences of a person, to combine analysis with the movement of the plot. And yet, when compared, it is clear that in the second edition the number of poems in which the author-narrator gives way to an author who is more inclined to introspection, more attentive to the impulses of his own soul, has increased.
The Preface to Lyrical Ballads became a manifesto of the lyrical movement of Romanticism in England. One of the fundamental provisions of Wordsworth's theory is the rationale for the need to bring poetry closer to nature. For Wordsworth, the main thing is to bring the hero and poetic language closer to the most natural forms. Because of this, ordinary villagers who have retained natural spiritual impulses and the simplest feelings, and sometimes even mentally underdeveloped people, become heroes. Their language - the language of everyday life - is more eternal, philosophical, natural than the artificial, whimsical language of poetry. The poet claims that there is no significant difference between the language of prose and the language of poetry. By bringing the language of his works closer to the language of everyday speech, the poet strives to give the reader the opportunity to come into contact with true life.
The poet is convinced of the superiority of creative imagination over the rationalism of enlightenment. In this regard, the key position becomes the role of the poet in society. The poet appears, on the one hand, to be the same person as everyone else, on the other hand, he is able to reproduce what is born in his soul, and thereby the poet is likened to a prophet, a mediator between the world of spirit and reality. The poet differs from other people in his greater strength of experience and ability to express his thoughts and feelings. The poet’s task is seen as mediation between the human world and the natural world. True poetry is a spontaneous outpouring of strong feelings. But the creative act is not limited to intuitive creativity; poetry is also the fruit of the poet’s deep thoughts.
Thought, the romantic poet believes, becomes the result of a previously experienced emotion; it directs and refracts feelings and experiences. All this makes it possible not to draw a line between poetry and philosophy: following Aristotle, the principle of the philosophical nature of poetry is affirmed.
Wordsworth attached almost the main importance to poetry in the process of comprehending reality. Poetry is the beginning and crown of all knowledge; it is as immortal as the human heart.
21. The concept of nature in Wordsworth's poetry.
“Guilt and Sorrow” 1793-1794 is Wordsworth’s first work, in which he reflected the tragic course of the industrial and agrarian revolution for the peasants and the entire people. The most terrible consequence of these events for the poet is the spiritual impoverishment of a person embittered by poverty and lawlessness.
In Wordsworth's poetry, the image of a beggar walking along endless roads often appears. Undoubtedly, this image was suggested to the poet by the harsh reality, when the entire social structure was radically changing: the yeomanry class, the free peasantry, disappeared, many rural workers were forced to leave their homes in search of work. Hence the image of the “abandoned village”.
Of particular note is Wordsworth's landscape poetry. He knew how to convey the colors, movements, smells, sounds of nature, he knew how to breathe life into it, make it worry, think, talk with a person, share his grief and suffering. “Lines written near Tintern Abbey”, “Cuckoo”, “Like clouds of a lonely shadow”. “My Heart Rejoices”, “Yew Tree” - these are poems in which the most beautiful views of the Lake District are forever fixed and glorified. The yew tree, rising alone among the green meadows, is a symbol of the history of its native place. In the middle of the century, warriors made bows from its branches to fight the Goths and Gauls. The poet perfectly conveys the rhythm and movements of the wind, the swaying heads of golden daffodils, that emotional mood that evokes in the author’s soul a reciprocal feeling of joy and involvement in the secrets and power of nature: Like clouds of a lonely shadow, / I wandered, gloomy and quiet, / And I remembered in that happy day/ A crowd of golden daffodils,/ In the shade of branches by the blue waters/ They danced in a circle.
The image of a child in Wordsworth's poetry.
In the ballad “We Are Seven,” the poet meets a girl who tells him about the death of her brother and sister, but when asked how many children are left in the family, she answers that there are seven, as if considering them alive. The understanding of death is inaccessible to a child’s consciousness and, since the girl often plays on the graves of the dead, she believes that they are somewhere nearby. Among the poems on a rural theme, “The Ruined Hut” (1797-1798) deserves special mention. Among lit. The sources for this work are Goethe's The Wanderers and Goldsmith's The Forsaken Village. At the center of the story is the story of the soldier’s widow Margarita, in whose arms children die one by one. Margarita’s confession resonates in the soul of a lonely wanderer, looking for shelter, eager to share loneliness and sadness with someone. The natural state of a person close to nature is often close to dementia in Wordsworth, as in the poem “The Feeble-Minded Boy.” The poet manages to incredibly accurately convey the spiritual nobility of simple hearts, to penetrate even into the foggy dreams of a disabled child. The poet strives to reflect as accurately as possible natural experiences born in a consciousness uncorrupted by the influence of civilization.
