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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 409, November 1849
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2017
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VI
Alas! that Fancy's fount should cease!
In rose-hues limn'd, the myths of Greece
Have waned to dreams – the Colchian fleece,
And labours of Alcides: —
Nay, Homer, even thy mighty line —
Thy living tale of Troy divine —
The sceptic scholiast doubts if thine,
Or Priam, or Pelides!
VII
As silence listens to the lark,
And orient beams disperse the dark,
How sweet to roam abroad, and mark
Their gold the fields adorning:
But, when we think of where are they,
Whose bosoms like our own were gay,
While April gladdened life's young day,
Joy takes the garb of mourning.
VIII
Warm gushing thro' the heart come back
The thoughts that brightened boyhood's track;
And hopes, as 'twere from midnight black,
All star-like re-awaken;
Until we feel how, one by one,
The faces of the loved are gone,
And grieve for those left here alone,
Not those who have been taken.
IX
The past returns in all we see,
The billowy cloud, and branching tree;
In all we hear – the bird and bee
Remind of pleasures cherish'd;
When all is lost it loved the best,
Oh! pity on that vacant breast,
Which would not rather be at rest,
Than pine amid the perish'd!
X
A balmy eve! the round white moon
Emparadises midmost June,
Tune trills the nightingale on tune —
What magic! when a lover,
To him, who now, gray-haired and lone,
Bends o'er the sad sepulchral stone
Of her, whose heart was once his own:
Ah! bright dream briefly over!
XI
See how from port the vessel glides
With streamered masts, o'er halcyon tides;
Its laggard course the sea-boy chides,
All loath that calms should bind him;
But distance only chains him more,
With love-links, to his native shore,
And sleep's best dream is to restore
The home he left behind him.
XII
To sanguine youth's enraptured eye,
Heaven has its reflex in the sky,
The winds themselves have melody,
Like harp some seraph sweepeth;
A silver decks the hawthorn bloom,
A legend shrines the mossy tomb,
And spirits throng the starry gloom,
Her reign when midnight keepeth.
XIII
Silence o'erhangs the Delphic cave;
Where strove the bravest of the brave,
Naught met the wandering Byron, save
A lone, deserted barrow;
And Fancy's iris waned away,
When Wordsworth ventured to survey,
Beneath the light of common day,
The dowie dens of Yarrow.
XIV
Little we dream – when life is new,
And Nature fresh and fair to view,
When throbs the heart to pleasure true,
As if for naught it wanted, —
That, year by year, and ray by ray,
Romance's sunlight dies away,
And long before the hair is gray,
The heart is disenchanted.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.[20 - Redburn: his First Voyage. By Herman Melville, author of Typee, Omoo, and Mardi. 2 vols. London, 1849.]
Alas! that Fancy's fount should cease!
In rose-hues limn'd, the myths of Greece
Have waned to dreams – the Colchian fleece,
And labours of Alcides: —
Nay, Homer, even thy mighty line —
Thy living tale of Troy divine —
The sceptic scholiast doubts if thine,
Or Priam, or Pelides!
VII
As silence listens to the lark,
And orient beams disperse the dark,
How sweet to roam abroad, and mark
Their gold the fields adorning:
But, when we think of where are they,
Whose bosoms like our own were gay,
While April gladdened life's young day,
Joy takes the garb of mourning.
VIII
Warm gushing thro' the heart come back
The thoughts that brightened boyhood's track;
And hopes, as 'twere from midnight black,
All star-like re-awaken;
Until we feel how, one by one,
The faces of the loved are gone,
And grieve for those left here alone,
Not those who have been taken.
IX
The past returns in all we see,
The billowy cloud, and branching tree;
In all we hear – the bird and bee
Remind of pleasures cherish'd;
When all is lost it loved the best,
Oh! pity on that vacant breast,
Which would not rather be at rest,
Than pine amid the perish'd!
X
A balmy eve! the round white moon
Emparadises midmost June,
Tune trills the nightingale on tune —
What magic! when a lover,
To him, who now, gray-haired and lone,
Bends o'er the sad sepulchral stone
Of her, whose heart was once his own:
Ah! bright dream briefly over!
XI
See how from port the vessel glides
With streamered masts, o'er halcyon tides;
Its laggard course the sea-boy chides,
All loath that calms should bind him;
But distance only chains him more,
With love-links, to his native shore,
And sleep's best dream is to restore
The home he left behind him.
XII
To sanguine youth's enraptured eye,
Heaven has its reflex in the sky,
The winds themselves have melody,
Like harp some seraph sweepeth;
A silver decks the hawthorn bloom,
A legend shrines the mossy tomb,
And spirits throng the starry gloom,
Her reign when midnight keepeth.
XIII
Silence o'erhangs the Delphic cave;
Where strove the bravest of the brave,
Naught met the wandering Byron, save
A lone, deserted barrow;
And Fancy's iris waned away,
When Wordsworth ventured to survey,
Beneath the light of common day,
The dowie dens of Yarrow.
XIV
Little we dream – when life is new,
And Nature fresh and fair to view,
When throbs the heart to pleasure true,
As if for naught it wanted, —
That, year by year, and ray by ray,
Romance's sunlight dies away,
And long before the hair is gray,
The heart is disenchanted.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.[20 - Redburn: his First Voyage. By Herman Melville, author of Typee, Omoo, and Mardi. 2 vols. London, 1849.]
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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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