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Until the poet, in whose verse alone
Exists a world – can make their actions known,
And in eternal epic measures, show
They are not yet forgotten here below.
And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed,
Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed,
Although our shouts to pigmies rise – no cries
To mark thy presence echo to the skies;
Farewell to Grecian heroes – silent is the lute,
And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?
There was a time men gave no peace
To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!
And Canaris' more-worshipped name was found
On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.
But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page
Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age,
And thine are not remembered. – Greece, farewell!
The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.
Not that this matters to a man like thee!
To whom is left the dark blue open sea,
Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies,
And the bright planet guiding in clear skies;
All these remain, with accident and strife,
Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life,
Boon Nature's fairest prospects – land and main —
The noisy starting, glad return again;
The pride of freeman on a bounding deck
Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck,
And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea,
'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!
Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue,
Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view —
The sun in golden beauty ever pure,
The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure —
Thy language so mellifluously bland,
Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand,
As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide
And with them mingle in one placid tide.
Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms —
The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms —
The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest
Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest!
And when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound
Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound,
At once the point of beauty may restore
Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
POLAND
("Seule au pied de la tour.")
{IX., September, 1833.}
Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth
The mandates of the Tyrant of the North,
Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears,
Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears —
Alas! the crucifix is all that's left
To her, of freedom and her sons bereft;
And on her royal robe foul marks are seen
Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been.
Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms, —
The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms!
And while she weeps against the prison walls,
And waves her bleeding arm until it falls,
To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes,
And sues her sister's succor ere she dies.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
INSULT NOT THE FALLEN
("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.")
{XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.}
I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn —
True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow.
Poor girl! too many like her only born
To love one day – to sin – and die the morrow.
What know you of her struggles or her grief?
Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain
Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf
From autumn branches, or a drop of rain
That hung in frailest splendor from a bough —
Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day —
So had she clung to virtue once. But now —
See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay!
The sin is yours – with your accursed gold —
Man's wealth is master – woman's soul the slave!
Some purest water still the mire may hold.
Is there no hope for her – no power to save?
Yea, once again to draw up from the clay
The fallen raindrop, till it shine above,
Exists a world – can make their actions known,
And in eternal epic measures, show
They are not yet forgotten here below.
And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed,
Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed,
Although our shouts to pigmies rise – no cries
To mark thy presence echo to the skies;
Farewell to Grecian heroes – silent is the lute,
And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?
There was a time men gave no peace
To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!
And Canaris' more-worshipped name was found
On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.
But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page
Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age,
And thine are not remembered. – Greece, farewell!
The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.
Not that this matters to a man like thee!
To whom is left the dark blue open sea,
Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies,
And the bright planet guiding in clear skies;
All these remain, with accident and strife,
Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life,
Boon Nature's fairest prospects – land and main —
The noisy starting, glad return again;
The pride of freeman on a bounding deck
Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck,
And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea,
'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!
Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue,
Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view —
The sun in golden beauty ever pure,
The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure —
Thy language so mellifluously bland,
Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand,
As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide
And with them mingle in one placid tide.
Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms —
The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms —
The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest
Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest!
And when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound
Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound,
At once the point of beauty may restore
Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
POLAND
("Seule au pied de la tour.")
{IX., September, 1833.}
Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth
The mandates of the Tyrant of the North,
Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears,
Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears —
Alas! the crucifix is all that's left
To her, of freedom and her sons bereft;
And on her royal robe foul marks are seen
Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been.
Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms, —
The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms!
And while she weeps against the prison walls,
And waves her bleeding arm until it falls,
To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes,
And sues her sister's succor ere she dies.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
INSULT NOT THE FALLEN
("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.")
{XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.}
I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn —
True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow.
Poor girl! too many like her only born
To love one day – to sin – and die the morrow.
What know you of her struggles or her grief?
Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain
Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf
From autumn branches, or a drop of rain
That hung in frailest splendor from a bough —
Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day —
So had she clung to virtue once. But now —
See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay!
The sin is yours – with your accursed gold —
Man's wealth is master – woman's soul the slave!
Some purest water still the mire may hold.
Is there no hope for her – no power to save?
Yea, once again to draw up from the clay
The fallen raindrop, till it shine above,
Другие электронные книги автора Виктор Мари Гюго
Другие аудиокниги автора Виктор Мари Гюго
Последний отзыв
В борьбе за власть есть первые; есть вторые; и есть 6ыдло (из канала BS "Без Слёз").
- Вторые всегда стремятся стать первыми. Но ресурсы власти – у п...
Далее