Стихотворения

То Spring

О thou with dewy locks, who lookest down

Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, О Spring!

The hills tell each other, and the list'ning

Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds

Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

О deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour

Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.

К Весне. Перевод В. Потаповой

О светлый Гений с влажными кудрями,

Глядящий из промытых окон утра!
Ты взором ангельских очей окинь
Наш остров западный: он ждет Весны!

Перекликаются холмы и долы;

Глаза на твой блистающий шатер
Устремлены: в наш край стопой святой
Шагни через восточную гряду!

Нам утренним дыханьем и вечерним

Упиться дай! Пускай целуют ветры
Твою благоуханную одежду
Земля полна истомы. Жемчугами

Укрась и поцелуями осыпь

Ей грудь, перстами чудными надень
Златой венец на голову, чьи косы
Стыдливо для тебя расплетены.

То Summer

То Summer

О thou who passest thro' our valleys in

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, О Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:

Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.