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And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us —
Most innocent, perhaps-and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell`d up
By ignorance and poaching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamper`d mountebanks —
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears
And savage faces, at the clanking hour[,]
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamp`s dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations, thou, O nature!

Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

Март [159]

Петух кукаречет,
Синицы щебечут,
В источниках — плески,
На озере — блески,
Заснуло на солнышке поле.
И дети, и деды
В труде непоседы;
Огромное стадо
Без устали радо
Пощипывать травку на воле.

В весеннем сраженье —

Снегов отступленье,
Им худо на склонах
Холмов обнажённых;
Для пахарей скоро раздолье:
В горах уж веселье,
В ручьях — новоселье;
И тучки бледнее,
И небо синее;
Закончился дождь на приволье!

Written In March

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping — anon-anon:
There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

From Poems, in Two Volumes | 1807

Каторжник [160]