The result of the friendship of the two poets was the appearance of the collection "Lyrical Ballads" ("Lyrical Ballads", the first edition of which appeared in 1798 in Bristol, and the second, significantly supplemented, in 1800)
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 compiled mainly from the works of Wordsworth.
"Lyrical ballads" became milestone in the development of English literature, it is often from this work that literary historians begin the countdown of the romantic period in English culture. Both Wordsworth and Coleridge were well aware of the novelty of this book, and this is partly due to the fact that the Lyric Ballads were published anonymously. The authors did not want the poems from the new collection to be somehow associated in the reader's mind with their earlier and more traditional works. To show the essence of a creative experiment and justify its legitimacy and tried Wordsworth in the Preface to Lyrical Ballads.
The novelty of the collection of poetry, according to Wordsworth, is the appeal to new topics and the use of new language. Unlike contemporary authors who are oriented towards the poetry of classicism, Wordsworth is not attracted to lofty and significant subjects: “... the main task of these poems was to select cases and situations from Everyday life and retell or describe them, always using, as far as possible, everyday language ... 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 less limited and 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 more vividly reproduced ... ”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 any - a "special" language, as the creators of the previous era believed. Nor can there be "special" poetic themes. Poetry borrows its themes from life, it refers to those subjects that excite a person and resonate in her heart. And for Wordsworth, the poet is not a hermit who retires in an ivory tower, but "a man who talks to people."
However, Wordsworth does not believe that poetry 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 amazing and sublime, about imagination, about the relationship between feeling and mind in poetry, etc. give reason to consider "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 "Foreword ..." to the book. Most of them are devoted to the life of peasants or other representatives of the lower strata. The poetic language is understandable, most of the words are borrowed from everyday vocabulary, the poet avoids using unusual comparisons or very complex metaphors.
The second edition of Lyric Ballads (1800) was supplemented by the inclusion of new verses, mainly those of Wordsworth. If in the first edition verses created in the ballad genre prevailed, then in the second edition the number of poetic works with more pronounced lyricism noticeably increases. True, in the collection of Coleridge and Wordsworth it is very difficult to distinguish between ballads and lyrical poems proper. The essence of the poetic experiment of the two authors was to embody the features of each of the genres into one whole. They tried, using a simple four-row 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 has increased, in which the author-narrator gives way to an author who is more prone to introspection, more attentive to the impulses of his own soul.
Poetry of Coleridge
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834 was born in Ottery (Devonshire), in the family of a provincial priest. During his school years (1782-1791), Coleridge was fond of studying philosophy,
Unusually impressionable and nervous by nature, he lived a rich inner spiritual life. He responded to the events of the French Revolution with the poem "The Destruction of the Bastille" (1789), which has not been fully preserved. The seventeen-year-old poet enthusiastically writes about "joyful freedom" and dreams of uniting all people under its banner.
In 1793, Coleridge met R. Southey and captivated him with his daring plans. Together they dreamed of going to America, creating a community there. free people, workers and humanist intellectuals who are not subject to any authority. The poet's fascination with socio-utopian ideas was reflected in the poems "Pantisocracy" (1794) and "On the prospect of establishing pantisocracy in America" (1794). Since the friends did not have enough money to travel to America, the plan to create a pantisocracy failed, which Coleridge deeply regretted, as he was too keen on his idea. Together with Southey Coleridge he wrote the drama The Fall of Robespierre (1794). Coleridge's next dramatic work, the tragedy Osorio (1797), was inspired by Schiller's The Robbers. In this tragedy, the author largely borrowed the theatrical style of D. Bailey's "passion drama" fashionable in the period of early romanticism.
In 1796, Coleridge met Wordsworth, whose poetic collaboration resulted in the creation in 1798 of a joint collection of Lyrical Ballads. After the success of Lyrical Ballads, Coleridge went to Germany, where he spent a year seriously studying philosophy and literature. Returning to his homeland, he settled in Keswick, next to the Wordsworths, where he met Sarah Hutchison, who played a significant role in his future destiny. Feeling the tragic impossibility of happiness, he, having fallen in love with Sarah, sings of her in poems amazing in depth, beauty and sharpness of form. Azra - poetic name Sarah Hutchison - will constantly accompany Coleridge in his further wanderings and painful search for truth and beauty.
In 1816, Coleridge moved to London, where he was mainly engaged in literary criticism and educational activities. Here he publishes Literary biography"(1817)," Secular preaching: an appeal to the upper and middle classes about pressing troubles and discontents, "Leaves of the Sibyl", lectures on philosophy, the history of English poetry.
Of Coleridge's early poems, "Monody on the Death of Chatterton" (1790) should be noted.
In Sonnet to the Otter River (1793), joyful and at the same time sad moods prevail at parting with childhood, in Genevieve (1790) Shakespearean features of the portrait of a dark-skinned lady and a juicy palette of sensual bliss of Byron's future Jewish Melodies are clearly visible. love lyrics young Coleridge is represented by poems * dedicated to his bride Sarah Fricker (The Kiss, 1793; Sigh, 1794). Here the joyful expectation of happiness, given in baroque whimsical form, is overshadowed by a vague sense of its impossibility.
The most attractive verse form for Coleridge in his youth was the sonnet. In 1794-1795. he creates a whole cycle of “Sonnets dedicated to prominent figures.
In 1797-1802, the most fruitful time in Coleridge's work, the most famous and significant works of the poet were created: "The Ballad of the Old Sailor" (1797), "Christabel" (1797), "Kubla Khan" (1798), " France" (1798), "Despondency" (1802), "Love and old age" (1802), etc.
The lyrics and prose works of the poet of these years reflect the extraordinary creative activity of Coleridge, at the same time they are a kind of result of his theoretical searches, which combined the diverse and multi-colored traditions of pre-romanticism, the metaphysical trends of baroque lyrics with the emerging possibilities of romantic art.
During these years, Coleridge is revisiting and reevaluating his former political ideals. Turning to the events of the French Revolution meant, in the new historical conditions, disappointment in the ideals of freedom, discredited by Napoleon, whom the poet called "the crazy dreamer of a crazy world." Such a position was characteristic of many of Coleridge's contemporaries, who saw in Napoleon the emperor a ruler who unleashed wars of conquest. The very concept of freedom for Coleridge was now associated only with the elements of nature, while human deeds destroyed the very content of this concept.
The story of an old sailor who committed a crime against nature by killing an albatross is projected onto the poetic structure of the hymn to the elements of nature, those living forces that rule over man. This work was the result of the poet's careful study of numerous sources, which gave him the opportunity to recreate vivid pictures of northern and southern nature.
Back in 1799, Coleridge wrote about the “harmonic system of movements in nature” that struck him, about the harmony that links the artificial and the natural in art through the changing colors of the imagination. Nature is perceived by the poet as an extremely mobile, ever-changing, mysterious and beautiful whole. It is significant that the hero of the work - an experienced navigator who has seen a lot during his travels - never ceases to be amazed at the beauty of nature, each time discovering it anew.
Distinctive feature"Tales of the Old Sailor" is an organic combination of real images, almost physically felt and tangible, with fantastic images of Gothic novels. That is why the work makes an extremely strong impression. “Life-and-in-death” is a plastic image perfectly found by Coleridge, symbolizing punishment, retribution for a crime committed against nature. "Death" and "Life-and-in-death" appear together, but the second ghost is scarier. One of the vivid romantic generalizations in the Tale, emphasizing the general decline, death and decay, is a rotting sea with a dead ship, where both ghosts and corpses are located, sometimes seeming to the old sailor come to life.
The old sailor is the personified sick conscience of a man who has no forgiveness. Using the techniques of the ballad form, Coleridge often uses repetitions (the same verbs, adjectives) to add drama to the narrative. The torments and sufferings of the sailor acquire a universal character in the ballad, and he himself turns into a romantic titan, called to suffer for everyone and proudly bear this burden of loneliness. The economically used vocabulary develops the reader's imagination, makes him think for the poet, and finish painting the picture he has just begun. The fantastic and contrived in the melody and rhythm of the verse is intertwined with lively, colloquial intonations, creating a poetically whimsical and varied romantic atmosphere.
At the end of The Tale of the Old Sailor, the theme of forgiveness of those who will be able to realize their guilt before nature, who “love every living creature and every people” and thereby restore the disturbed balance in the world, persistently and definitely sounds.
The poet was always worried about the problem of loneliness. This theme sounds differently in "The Tale of the Old Sailor", "Pains of Sleep", in "Christabeli
The poet, as if in a dream, intuitively creates a special world for himself, in which, in contrast to the "Old Sailor" and "Christabeli", the loneliness of a person is clearly heroized. The fantastic visions that apparently arose in Coleridge's mind under the influence of drugs that he took to reduce the neuralgic pains that had tormented him since childhood are significantly different from the scenes of The Tale of the Old Mariner, terrible in their naturalism. The well-known artificiality and far-fetchedness of poetic heaps emphasize the complexity and whimsicality of the poetic vision of the world.
In the 1920s, Coleridge moved away from artistic creativity, is more concerned with reflections on religion, values religious ethics. In the Philosophical Lectures of 1818-1819, delivered in London on the Strand to a large and varied audience, the poet, in an attempt to create his own philosophy, whimsically combines the English philosophical tradition with Neoplatonism.
In his Literary Biography (1815-1817), Coleridge articulated his literary tastes in an argumentative and captivating way, explained the Romantics' interest in Shakespeare and the poets of the English Renaissance, and systematized the aesthetic views of English romanticism at its various stages. "Literary biography" can be considered a brilliant example of English romantic essays, where the theoretical problems of imagination, poetic creativity, the purpose of the poet and character are posed. modern poetry, differences between scientific and artistic knowledge.
The first sketches of his independent, rather mature philosophical reflections date back to the last decade of the 18th century, when, after a trip to Germany, he became an ardent admirer of German philosophy.
The metrics of Coleridge's poems are varied: there are quatrains, five- and six-line stanzas, white verse, hexameter and frequent changes of syllables in a line, interruptions in meter and rhythm, classical antiquity measures, the metrics of a song ballad, doggerel (raeshnik).
The richness and brightness of colors, the amazing fidelity in the choice of colors, the necessary musical phrasing, the bold experiment in mixing old classicist samples with song and ballad forms testify to the originality and audacity of Coleridge's talent, his giftedness as a poet, who carried out the reform of poetic language and versification. Coleridge's poetic skill was highly appreciated by his contemporaries. W. Scott, who often quoted Coleridge, especially his "Christabel", called him "a great poet." “His poems about love,” V. Scott noted, “are among the most beautiful written in English.”
In 1828, he was traveling with his daughter Dora and Coleridge along the Rhine valley in Germany, where they were met by the English traveler Thomas Gratton, who left a description: Coleridge was “about five feet five inches tall, full and lazy in appearance, but not fat. He was dressed in black, wore short trousers with buttons and lacing at the knees, and black silk stockings... His face was extraordinarily handsome, with an expression of serene and benevolent, his mouth was especially pleasant, and his gray eyes, not large and not protruding, were full of intelligent softness. His huge head of hair is completely gray, his forehead and cheeks are without wrinkles, a healthy blush is visible on the latter. Wordsworth was the exact opposite of Coleridge, tall, wiry, large-built, and inelegant in appearance. He was casually dressed in a long brown frock coat, striped canvas trousers, flannel leggings, and thick boots. He looked more like a mountain farmer than a lakeside poet. His whole appearance was unrefined and unprepossessing. He seemed quite pleased that his friend was superior, and had absolutely no pretensions, which is very rare to find even in a man of a much lesser literary reputation than his; and in his attitude towards his daughter there was something unobtrusively friendly.
In the 1830s Wordsworth had to endure several severe losses. In 1834 two friends died: Coleridge and Charles Lamb. That same year, sister Dorothy, daughter Dora, and Sarah Hutchinson contracted influenza; Sarah died, Dora recovered, but her health has since deteriorated, and Dorothy, who had experienced several bouts of clouding of consciousness even before her illness, developed a brain complication, as a result of which she lost her mind and never recovered for the rest of her life.
Southey died in 1834, and Wordsworth was offered the post of Poet Laureate, which involved poetic coverage. major events in the life of the state and the royal family. Southey, admittedly, behaved very worthily as poet laureate (although Byron had a different opinion on this), and Wordsworth was not ashamed to take this post after him. Thanks to this, Wordsworth traveled to London several times and once even attended a royal ball. But his only work of an official nature was “Ode on the Introduction of His Royal Highness Prince Albert to the Office of Chancellor of the University of Cambridge” in 1847, which, moreover, was not completed by him and added to by his nephew, the Bishop of Lincoln. Wordsworth remained true to himself until the end of his life and did not become an official poet.
Wordsworth's work gained recognition starting in the 1820s. And although his works were never the poetic sensation, the bestsellers of their time, like Byron's Oriental poems or Thomas Moore's Lalla Rook, his literary reputation grew steadily. In the 1830s he was already considered the greatest English poet, and by late XIX V. in terms of the number of favorite quotes ranked third among English authors, right after Shakespeare and Milton.
The topic “Wordsworth in Russia” is still waiting for its researcher. His work has never aroused such wide interest as the poetry of Byron or Shelley. Nevertheless, in the 1830s, the first articles about the Lake School appeared in English poetry, the first translation of I. I. Kozlov’s ballad “We are seven”, after the death of Wordsworth his obituary was published. A. S. Pushkin mentions Wordsworth as a poet who resolutely advocated bringing the poetic language closer to colloquial speech, creates his own free imitation of Wordsworth - “Severe Dante did not despise the sonnet ...”. In the 1870s, excellent translations by D. Ming appeared, and at the turn of the century, two poems by Wordsworth were translated by K. D. Balmont. For translators of the 20th century. Wordsworth's work is a classic, whose significance for world poetry is undeniable.
Do you know who
Who was hidden, as in an embrace - in the shadows
Thick tree, bare now?
Endowed with an unusual soul,
He was raised by the greatness of these places,
And in his youth, full of lofty thoughts
And pure in heart, he rushed into the world
And he was ready, as his own enemies,
Evil speech, envy, hatred to smash.
The world has neglected them. He fell in spirit
With disdain, turning away from everyone.
Pride in loneliness
Feeding his soul, he liked to sit
Under this gloomy yew, where
Only birds visited yes sheep,
Left behind from her flock.
On these wild rocks where they grew
Only stunted heather and thistle,
Wandering eyes, long hours
He cherished a mournful triumph,
Imagining them as a symbol of his
Barren life. Raising your head,
He saw a beautiful landscape in the distance,
"Lyrical Ballads" (Lyrical Ballads) is an anonymous poetry collection of 1798, which is one of the major watersheds in the history of English poetry. The vast majority of poems were written by W. Wordsworth, however, the collection opens with a long poem by S. T. Coleridge " About the old sailor".
To finance a joint trip to Germany, the young poets Coleridge and Wordsworth, who lived nearby in Somerset and spent much time in each other's company, agreed to prepare and publish anonymously a collection of poems that would reflect their views on literature. The name was explained by the fact that, according to a preliminary agreement, Wordsworth had to write " lyrics" on topics from everyday life, and Coleridge - " ballads" on exotic subjects. For various reasons, the latter did not complete the planned poems "Kubla Khan" and "Kristabel". Since the collection includes only four of his poems, the "lyrical" (that is, Wordsworthian) component in the book noticeably prevails over the "ballad", narrative.
The collection ends with Wordsworth's elegy "Tintern Abbey", written spontaneously just before publication, which eventually became a textbook. She entered the history of English literature as "an example of a sensitive and thoughtful perception of nature, in which landscape and lyrical emotions are intertwined into an inseparable whole."
The second, greatly expanded edition in 1800 included, among other things, poems written by Wordsworth in Germany about the enigmatic Lucy. They were translated into Russian by Georgy Ivanov and Samuil Marshak. While the first edition did not contain any attribution, the second edition went to press as Wordsworth's work.
Meaning
Title page of the first edition
Despite the high artistic merit, the book initially did not cause much resonance. The first printing was very tight, 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 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 the immediacy of feeling with the ready-made poetic recipes, the traditional "high calm" - the language of everyday communication. Like other representatives of English pre-romanticism, the authors profess a Rousseauist cult of nature, but they go further than their predecessors. The heroes of Wordsworth's poems are never before sung in verse, unremarkable characters, such as the village fool.
Literary controversy
The appeal to such mundane subjects in a poetic form baffled the first reviewers of the collection. Finding a common denominator for the rural elegies of Wordsworth and the archaic meter of The Old Sailor was difficult. Especially zealously took up arms against the impudent youth, the authors of the literary review Edinburgh Review who ironically dubbed Wordsworth's circle the "lake poets".
To clarify his intentions, Wordsworth prefaced the second edition of the collection with a preface, which is commonly regarded as a manifesto for the lake school. In the 1802 edition, this preface was supplemented by an essay on the language of poetry ( Poetic Diction). In these writings, Wordsworth defines his task as follows:
... To take material for creativity from ordinary life, arrange it in an ordinary way, in an ordinary language. Ordinary life was chosen by me because only in it is everything natural and true; in its conditions, a simple, unadorned life does not contradict the beautiful and stable forms of nature.
Coleridge expressed his point of view on the poetic program of the Lyrical Ballads years later in the 14th chapter of the aesthetic treatise Biography Literaria(1817). The poet claims that the purpose of art is a kind of narrative magic, which he defines with the phrase "the voluntary renunciation of disbelief by the reader" ( suspension of disbelief), which has become winged in the English-speaking world.
Notes
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S. T. COLRIGE,
W. WORDSWORTH
FROM "LYRIC BALLADS" (1798)
Translations are published according to the edition:
W. Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, Lyric Ballads and Other Poems, RSUH Publishing Center, 2011 (the book is fully translated by Igor Melamed).
"Lyrical Ballads" by Eminent English Poets late XVIII – early XIX century, representatives of the so-called "lake school" S. T. Coleridge and W. Wordsworth - 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 editions. The lack of a complete translation of "Lyrical Ballads" was a very unfortunate gap in a number of domestic publications of world classics. IN Soviet time Wordsworth and Coleridge were considered "reactionary" romantics, as opposed to "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. 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 lifetime publications, some works were seriously revised. 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. BALLAD OF THE OLD SAILOR (COLERIDGE)
2 Nightingale (Coleridge)
3. GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL (WORDSWORTH)
4. WE ARE SEVEN (WORDSWORTH)
5. Blackthorn (WORDSWORTH)
6. MAD MOTHER (WORDSWORTH)
7 IDIOT BOY (WORDSWORTH)
BALLAD OF AN OLD SAILOR
In seven parts
Summary
About how a ship that crossed the Equator was thrown by storms into a cold country near South Pole how from there he sailed away to the tropical latitudes of the Great Pacific Ocean, about the strange events that took place there, and how the Old Sailor returned to his fatherland.
I
Gray-haired sailor, stopped
He is the youth 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 am his brother.
And this sometimes there is a feast with a mountain,
Can you hear the noise!”
“And there was a ship…” said the old man,
He kept all the guests.
"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, not that
You will recognize my cane!”
But the old man's burning gaze
Rather tenacious hands.
And like a three year old
The guest suddenly became obedient.
Involuntarily he sat down on a stone
At the door, and the sailor,
Glancing at him,
The story began like this:
"The crowd roars, the ship sails,
And there is no happier us.
And the hill, and the church, and the lighthouse
Hiding from the eyes.
The sun has risen on 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
Above the mast rises ... "
The guest's blood boils again:
The bassoon sings nearby.
The bride ceremoniously enters the hall,
Enchanting every glance.
She's pretty like a rose
The choir bows to her.
And again the guest subdues anger:
No way to escape.
Glancing at him,
The sailor continued:
"O stranger! Whirlwind and storm
They came to us on the mountain.
And for a long time a squall drove our ship,
Like a chip, along the waves.
Fog and snow and cold
On the mountain they go to us.
Enormous ice rises from the waters,
Shine like an emerald.
There is no sun here. sinister light
Burns through ice and snow.
Could not live among these blocks
Neither animal nor man.
There's ice everywhere, there's ice everywhere
Everything around here is in ice,
And it crackles and it rattles
Rumbles like hell.
Good Creator! To us at last
Albatross arrived.
And, as with family, friendly with him
Every one of our sailors was.
While he fed from the hands,
circling above the deck,
We were saved from the snowy darkness,
Damn ice breaking.
A fair wind found us
The south wind carried us.
And take food or play
Albatross flew to us.
He is at one o'clock at night in the darkness of the damp
He slept on the mast with us.
Barely visible, above him the moon
Went up nine times.
“Why are you looking like that, gray-haired Sailor?
Save you Christ
From the power of evil! - "My arrow
Albatross was killed."
“Here the sun has risen on the right,
And the ocean is on fire.
Now it's going to the bottom
On the left side.
A fair wind rushes the ship
On gentle waves.
No one to play or take food
Doesn't come to us.
According to everyone was a mortal sin,
A hell of a sin was committed:
That Albatross brought us a breeze,
And I shot him.
But the sun's ray arose from the clouds,
And I was justified
That Albatross brought 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 broke the dream first
Silent these waters.
Then the breeze disappeared, and the sail fell,
And every sailor
Suddenly he began to scream, just to blow up
The silence of these waters.
The heat is on, the sun has a view
Blood stain.
It froze over the mast -
No more than the moon.
Silent sea and ship
Motionless in spirit
Like someone wrote
Their brush on canvas.
Around the water, one water,
But it's dry on board.
Around the water, one 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
They got up from there.
In the darkness of the night, a bad fire
Here and there it burned
As in witches' lamps - and the ocean
It was green, blue and white.
And a spirit appeared to us in 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
We got ash.
Both old and young blame me
Their every look and gesture.
And on my neck Albatross
He was hung like a cross.
I saw something in the sky
Some stain.
And it looked like fog
And it moved.
And it seemed to me that away
The canvas is white.
The vision was drawing near
Gliding over the water
Dived, made circles,
Like a spirit of the sea.
Crying ceased, laughter ceased - for a long time everyone
The voices are gone.
I dug into the hand with a black mouth
And drank the blood, and with difficulty
He shouted to them: "Sails!"
Although the cry was quiet, in their eyes
He ignited a passion for life.
And all of a sudden it became easy for them,
And everyone took a deep breath
As if drunk.
But I peered, full of fear,
That wonderful ship:
He walked without wind and without waves
And did not touch the water.
The day was ending, and the whole west
Was engulfed in fire
The sun fell into the ocean
And reflected in it
And that ghost floated between the sun
And our ship.
The face of the sun is taken away by a lattice,
As if it
(Have mercy, Virgin, us!) looks
Through the prison window.
He's close! (I was horrified
And continued to follow)
Do not the sails shine in the rays,
How do cobwebs thread?
Aren't his ribs now
Will we block out the sun?
And who's leaning on us there? -
The old woman and the skeleton!
This skeleton was blacker than graves
And hell itself.
And only in places, like a rye,
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 Death, and the air next to it
Cold, like ice.
They play dice there
Malice is not melting.
And Death whistles, and Death cries:
"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 a ghost ship
Sailed silently away.
And between the horns of the moon lit up
One star, like a bright eye,
And the 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
Outright smitten.
And their souls rushed into the darkness
Or to paradise,
And cut through the air so
Like my arrow.
“You scare me, Sailor!
Your hand is bad
Like a harrier you are gray, your skin has color
Wet sand.
You are thin as a pole, bony as death,
And your look is terrible.
- Do not be afraid, guest, I survived
That damned night.
All alone, alone I was
For the whole ocean
And the King of Heaven did not aim
my spiritual wounds.
Handsome sailors lie:
Oh, how many, how many of them!
And vile slugs live
And I'm 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 up at the sky, but praying
Was cold and dry
As if entered into me
Some evil spirit.
I closed my heavy eyelids
From pain, but, alas,
And the ocean and the sky
Pressed on my eyes -
And everyone is dead!
Their faces were covered with cold sweat,
And each, as if alive,
On me, stopped on me
His merciless gaze.
Who is cursed by an orphan, he became
I get devils.
But know: the curse of the dead
Many times more terrible
When you look into their eyes
Seven days and seven nights.
As a disembodied ghost ascended
Above the silence of the water
The moon led
One or two stars.
And the hot ocean turned white
Like snow in the moonlight
But where the ship cast a shadow,
The color of the water was ominously scarlet
To the very depths.
Far from the shadow of the ship
In the radiance of white I
I saw marvelous sea snakes:
They surfaced, and they
The scales glowed.
In the radiance of the moon their outfit
Was visible everywhere.
Green, black, blue,
And the trail was golden
Follow them on the water.
My God, what happiness to be
Your creation!
I unexpectedly sent
Bless them!
I sent with all my heart
Bless them.
And prayed, and after
One moment
Albatross got off me
And fell to the bottom like a stone.
O sweet light-winged dream,
The joy of all hearts!
Holy Mother from heaven
Desired dream, like grace,
Finally sent.
I dreamed of our empty tank
A stream of water flowed.
And I drank in a dream, and under the noise
I woke up in the rain.
My black tongue was wet
And cold throat.
And the rain was noisy, and my flesh
Saw it through the fabric.
Feeling no hands, no legs,
I was as light as fluff.
Maybe I died in my sleep
And now - a heavenly spirit?
Suddenly to me from afar
The roar of the wind came.
And the wind is already slightly
Our sail moved.
And a myriad of lights
Sky exploded:
Flying magical fireworks
Forward, backward and down and up
And he touched the stars.
The distant wind became so powerful,
That the sail came to life in an instant,
And the rain lashed out from the black clouds,
That eclipsed the face of the moon.
And the veil was torn
hiding the moon,
And, like a stream from steep cliffs,
Lightning fell from the clouds
In a boiling wave
And with a howl the whirlwind overtook the ship,
But immediately, he froze.
Thunder struck, and the dead
There was a heavy sigh.
They sigh and get up
Keeping silence.
How strange! Or a nightmare
Is he following me?
And the helmsman again led the ship,
Though dead calm all around,
And everyone was busy with their own
everyday work,
Lifeless, like an automaton,
And scary, like a phantom.
My nephew stood with his shoulder
Clinging 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 a delightful song
They sang suddenly.
And every sound fluttered around
And flew to the zenith
And lonely fell down
Ile was merged with others.
It's like a lark trill
I have heard and sometimes
All birds singing voices
What fills the sky
Between land and water.
I fancied the orchestra's thunder
And chanting pipes
Choir of angels, what a paradise
Listens numb.
And everything was quiet. All that's left is
Sail buzz:
So on a summer day the stream rustles
In the silence of dense forests
And lulls them, murmuring
Among the night hours.
Oh, listen, listen, young guest!
“Sailor, I am subdued:
Frozen under your gaze
My soul and flesh."
Nobody's story yet
So it wasn't sad.
Sadder tomorrow and wiser
You will wake up from your sleep.
No mortal has heard
sadder stories...
And again the sailors took up
By my work.
Pulling the ropes began
Keeping silence
And, as if I were transparent,
They looked through me.
And until noon the ship sailed,
Though the calm stood around.
He floated smoothly, as if he were
Guided by the water itself.
And sailed under him from the realm of winters,
Where is eternal darkness and ice,
Severe spirit and drove the ship
On the surface of dead waters.
But at noon the sails died down,
And our course was interrupted.
We stood under the burning sun
In the silence of the sea
But then we were thrown forward
Desperate rush
And pushed back again
Desperate jerk.
And our ship jumped suddenly
Like a horse whose temper is wild,
And I fell on deck
And he lost his senses in an instant.
I don't know how long I lay
As if lifeless.
Without leaving oblivion
I heard two voices
hovering over me.
"Isn't this the same person?
There was a question,
Whose evil will and whose arrow
Defeated Albatross?
He committed a grave sin: his
That bird loved
And her spirit burned with love,
Lord of darkness and ice."
"Oh, say something else,
While our sailor sleeps.
What drives a fast ship?
What is the view of the sea?
“It is like a slave before the king,
Silent in real estate.
Huge eye of it now
Enchanted by the moon.
It is subject to the moon
And in calm, and in a hurricane.
Look, brother, how soft the look
Moons on the ocean.
“But how without wind a ship
Is it possible to go like this?
"Spread the air in front of him
And close behind.
The night is near, 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. Walking quietly under the moon
Our ship is tired.
And reappeared in front of me
Terrible crew.
And again on deck they
Crowded, and on me
Every glance stopped
Glittering in the moonlight.
All the same curse forever
Their eyes froze:
I couldn't turn away
Don't mention the saints.
And at this moment, like an evil nightmare,
Witchcraft is gone.
I began to look ahead, almost
Seeing nothing.
So the one who walks the dark path
Trembling, set off on the road,
Walks and head back
Can't turn around
And leaves behind
Mysterious horror.
Then the wind blew on me
Inaudible stream.
He fanned and did not revolt
Surfaces of the sea.
Like a breath of spring
Like a meadow marshmallow
He caressed his cheeks and eyes,
Instilling peace in the soul.
And the ship sailed faster and faster,
But quiet as in a dream.
And the gentler wind blew,
And he clung only to me.
Is this really a dream? And I
Again in your native land?
And the hill, and the church, and the lighthouse
I am excited to know.
We enter the harbor and in tears
I began to pray to the Creator:
"Let me wake up, or let
There will be no end to the dream!
Gulf smooth water
More transparent than glass
And the moon is reflected in it,
Huge and bright.
The bay shone while above it
The swarm of shadows did not grow,
Like it was smoke
From torchlights.
And a swarm of purple shadows
hovered over the ship.
I looked at my hands:
Their color was strange scarlet.
All the same horror squeezed the chest,
I looked back.
Oh right God! Dead people
Standing before the mast!
And everyone's hands are up
Straight as swords.
And those hands blaze
Like torches in the night.
And reflect their eyes
purple rays.
Praying, turning away from them,
I started looking 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,
Motionless weather vane under the moon,
And it's so calm there!
And, silent, shone the bay,
For now, behind the line,
Didn't grow up in the air above him
A swarm of purple shadows.
They are above the ship
They soared above.
My eyes fell on the deck:
Oh, what has been revealed to me! -
There were corpses, 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 never-fading day,
Where did the light come from?
And he called me, beckoning with his hand,
And this call is silent
I swear was sweeter for me
All earthly music.
And soon the splash of the oars and the cry
I heard the rower.
Involuntarily turning back
I look: the rook is floating.
But the miraculous light went out,
And corpses by the moon
Again they stand behind the rope
Taken as in a dream.
The breeze could not touch their rhymes,
And he clung only to me.
With a rower in that boat, the boy sailed -
O omnipotent Creator! -
I was so happy with them that I forgot
About the dead at last.
The hermit was third in the canoe.
I heard in the silence
He sang hymns loudly that he himself
Compiled in the wilderness. -
He will wash away the blood of the Albatross
From a tortured soul.
That hermit by the very waters
Lives in the wilderness of the forest.
And his song is heard all around,
And with a foreign sailor
He interprets sometimes.
Anchorite in prayers
Spends all day.
Replaced his pillow
Moss-covered stump.
The boat was approaching. “How strange! -
The rower's voice rang out -
Where is this wonderful heavenly light,
Shining for us now?
The saint said: "No one on our
The call is not answered.
The hull of the ship is rotten,
And the fabric of the sails
How thin, look!
So in the middle of the woods
Dry leaves smolder - their
Carries away the stream
When the snow falls around
And the she-wolf eats her offspring
Under the angry cry of owls.
"I'm scared! - answered the rower -
That was demonic light!”
"Do not be afraid and lead the rook!" -
Anchorite ordered.
The boat was approaching. I froze
Don't move your hand
And listened to the terrible rumble
Under the keel of the ship.
And thunder struck, lifting from the bottom
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, he surfaced,
Surrendered to the will of the waves
But miraculously survived again:
Got into the same boat.
He circled there, where the ship
Underwater thunder struck.
Silence has come, and the echo is only
Worn over the hill.
The rower fell unconscious, barely
I opened my eyes.
The saint prayed and looked
With anxiety to heaven.
I sat down to row, but here is a child,
You see, it's crazy.
Laughs loudly at me
Looking at evil
"Ha! Ha! - shouts - a cheerful look!
Bes took up the oar!
But now my native shore,
And I stepped on the firmament!
The saint hardly left the boat
And he was completely powerless.
"Listen to the confession, father!" -
being baptized, anchorite
He asked me: “Who are you?
Give me an answer now!"
And my bitter story
He immediately heard
And from painful longing
I was released.
But often since then I
Longing oppresses again
And makes this story
Repeat all the time.
And I, like the night, from edge to edge
I go every time
I recognize in the crowd of people
The one who should listen to my
Tragic story.
Behind that door all the feast is a mountain,
And there are no guests.
A girl's choir sings in the garden,
The bride is so cute!
But do you hear the sound? me to the temple
They call the bells.
O guest! I've been so alone
In lifeless seas
Like the Lord himself was not
In transcendental worlds.
O young guest! I paid tribute
I'll have fun and feast.
But sweeter with kind people
Go to the temple to pray.
Go to the temple as ordered
Heavenly Father,
Where, having acquired grace,
Child pray together
Both old and young.
Farewell now, but believe, but believe
Only he is blessed forever
To whom is dear and every beast,
And every person.
Blessed is he who prays for all
For all living flesh
What did you do and love
Great is our Lord."
A sailor with a crazy gleam in his eyes
And a white beard
Disappeared, and the guest wandered to himself,
And he was not himself.
Left the wedding door
Confused, stunned
But sadder and wiser
He woke up in the morning.
S-T. Coleridge
NIGHTINGALE
conversational poem,
written in April 1798
In the west you can no longer distinguish
Not a streak of sunset fire,
No colors, no transparent clouds.
Let's climb the bridge overgrown with moss,
Look down at the glittering stream
We are not heard here, because it flows
Soft herbs. What a night around!
What peace! Let the stars dim light
Imagine spring rains
Caressing the earth - then we
The dim sky will be pleasant.
But be quiet! The nightingale starts the song.
He is “more musical and sadder” than all the birds!*
Are all birds sadder? The idea is empty! -
After all, there is no sadness in nature at all.
The midnight wanderer who remembered his
Past humiliations, or illness,
Or unrequited love
(He saw his own sorrow in everything,
And even gentle trills to 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
Glades stretch out by the stream
Under the sun or in the moonlight,
Captivated by landscapes, sounds and elements
Soul to forget and forget your
And song, and glory! Glory to him
Merged with immortal nature
And the song would make him stronger
Love nature and be myself
Love like nature! But, alas,
Poets are young, as always,
Spring spend evenings
At the ball or in the theater, so that later
Over the complaints of Philomela again
Sigh with tender compassion.
My friend and you, his sister! Given
We have a different knowledge: in the voices
Nature is only bliss and love
We hear. Here is a merry nightingale
Disperses, in a hurry to pour out
In beautiful sounds your love hymn,
As if worrying that the song is night
April is too short
And free your soul as soon as possible
Aspires from music. I found
Oak forest picturesque close up
Abandoned castle: all of it
Already overgrown with wild undergrowth,
The paths have fallen into disrepair -
They have grass and weeds on them.
But I have nowhere so many nightingales
Did not come across: near and far
One another in dense thickets
He called, then sang to him in response,
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, squinting, could the night
Take for the day! When illuminated
Lunar bushes with dewy foliage,
Among the branches it is easy to see the shine
Their bright eyes, bottomless bright eyes,
While a live firefly lantern
Burning in the dark
The most tender of maidens,
In his hospitable house
Living by the castle, at a late hour
(She is like a priestess whose gods
Nature in the grove is subordinate)
Slides along the paths, knowing by heart
All trills, waiting for that time,
When clouds cover the moon
And the world will freeze in silence, and again
In the radiance of the moon sky and earth
Wake up, and the chorus of sleepless birds
Blow up the silence with his song,
As if the wind of a hundred air harps
Touched suddenly! And before that maiden
The agile nightingale will spin
On a branch, slightly trembling in the wind,
And sing to the beat of his movements,
Swinging like intoxicated Delight.
Farewell, singer! Farewell to the evening!
See you soon, friends!
We had a great time with you.
It's time to go home, and the song sounds again.
I'd love to stay! My baby,
Trying with his babble
imitate various sounds
Now I would raise my hand to my ear,
Raising a finger so that we
Listened! Let him from childhood
Befriend nature! He already knows
With a night light: somehow not in myself
The kid woke up (it's strange that he
I had a sad dream at all)
With him in my arms, I went out to our garden,
He saw the moon and cut off
Sobs, and suddenly laughed,
And yellow moonlight in his eyes
Weeping splashed! Let's interrupt here
Father's story. But if heaven
Extend my age, let the child grow up
Under these songs and fall in love with the night
How joy! So farewell, nightingale!
And goodbye, dear friends!
_____________________________
* “More musical and sadder” is a place in Milton that 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 frivolous play on Milton's line: the accusation of ridiculing the Bible would be more serious for him. (Coleridge's note)
S.-T. Coleridge
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL
True story
What sickness, 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 warm nine.
April, December, June,
In the heat, in the rain, in the snow,
Under the sun or full moon
Harry's teeth are chattering!
All the same with Harry all year round -
He speaks about him both old and young:
Day, morning, all night long
Harry's teeth are chattering!
He was young and strong
For the craft driver:
In his shoulders a slanting fathom,
Blood with milk is his cheek.
And Goody Blake was old
And everyone could tell you
What need did she live in?
How miserable is her dark house.
Behind the yarn thin shoulders
Did not straighten day and night.
Alas, it happened to candles
She was unable to accumulate.
Stood on the cold side
The hill is her frozen house.
And the coal was at a great price
In a remote village
She doesn't have a close friend.
She has no one to share shelter and food,
And her in an unheated shack
One has to die.
Only clear sunny times,
With the arrival of summer heat,
Like a bird in the field
She is cheerful.
When will the streams be covered with ice -
She can't bear life at all.
So cruel frost burns her,
That the bones are trembling!
When it's so empty and dead
Her dwelling at a late hour, -
Oh guess what it's like
From the cold, do not close her eyes!
She was rarely lucky
When, around fixing robbery,
Dry branches to her hut
And the wind drove the chips at night.
Did not even mention the rumor
So that Goody stocks up for the future.
And she barely had enough firewood
Just for one or two days.
When the frost pierces the veins
And old bones hurt -
Garden wattle Harry Gill
She is attracted to the eye.
And now, having left his hearth,
As soon as the winter day fades,
She with a frozen hand
Feels for that wattle fence.
But about old Goody's walks
Harry Gill guessed.
He mentally threatened her with punishment,
He decided to lie in wait for Goody.
He went to track her down
In the fields at night, in the snow, in a blizzard,
Leaving a warm home
Leaving the hot bed.
And then one day behind a stack
He hid, cursing frost.
Under the bright full moon
The frozen stubble crunched.
Suddenly he hears a noise and immediately
From the hill descends like a shadow:
Yes, that's Goody Blake.
Came to ruin the wattle fence!
Harry was pleased with her diligence,
Blossomed with an evil smile,
And waited until - pole by pole -
She will fill her hem.
When did she go without strength
Back with your burden -
Harry shouted fiercely to Jill
And blocked her path.
And he grabbed her by the hand
With a hand as heavy as lead
With a strong and evil hand,
Screaming: “Caught, finally!”
The full moon shone.
I'll lay it down on the ground,
She prayed to the Lord
Kneeling in the snow.
Falling on the snow, Goody pleaded
And raised her hands to the sky:
“Let him freeze forever!
Lord, deprive him of warmth!
That was her prayer.
Harry Gill heard it -
And at the same moment from toe to forehead
Chills pierced him all over.
He was shaking all night, and in the morning
A shiver ran through him.
Sad face, dull eyes
He didn't look like himself.
Saved from the cold did not help
He has a cab driver's coat.
And in two he could not keep warm,
And at three he was cold as a corpse.
Caftans, blankets, fur coats -
Everything is useless from now on.
Knocking, knocking at Harry's teeth,
Like a window in the wind.
In winter and summer, in the heat and in the snow
They knock, knock, knock!
He will never get warm! -
He speaks about him both old and young.
He doesn't want to talk to anyone.
In the radiance of the day, in the darkness of the night
He only mutters plaintively,
Which is very cold for him.
This extraordinary story
I told you the truth.
May they be in your memory
And Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
W. Wordsworth
WE ARE SEVEN
The simple-minded child whose
So easy every breath
In whom life flows like a stream,
What could you know about death?
I met a girl while walking
Dear field.
"I'm eight," said the child
Curly head.
The clothes are pitiful on her,
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?
Throwing a surprised look,
“There are seven of us,” she answered.
"And where are they?" - "Two of us
Sent 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 with mom we live alone
At their relatives' graves.
"My child, how can you
To be seven with you
If two are at sea now
And two strangers in the distance?
“We are seven,” her answer was simple, “
My sister and brother
As soon as you enter the churchyard -
They lie under the tree.
"You're frolicking here, my angel,
And they never get up.
If two sleep in the damp earth,
There are five of you left."
“Their graves are in the flowers of the living.
Twelve steps to them
From the door to the house where we live
And we keep them safe.
I often knit stockings there,
I sew clothes for myself.
And I sit on the ground near them,
And I sing songs to them.
And in a clear summer time,
On bright evenings
I take a bowl with me
And I dine 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
Above her grew, surrounded
Withered grass.
When the snow covered the way
And the skating rink shone
John had to leave too:
He lay down next to his sister.
“But if a brother and sister are in paradise, -
I cried out, “how many are you?”
She responds to my speech:
"There are seven of us now!"
“There are none, alas! They are dead!
Heaven is their home!
She is still: “We are seven!” -
Not listening to me at all
She stood her ground.
W. Wordsworth
BLACKTHORN
I
This blackthorn is old, yes,
Which is wise to imagine
How it bloomed in the old days, -
He has gone gray for a long time.
He is the size of a small child
But everything does not bend, a decrepit bush.
Leaves devoid, thorns devoid,
By the tenacity of tenacious boughs he
Lives, gloomy and empty.
And, like a stone or a cliff,
It's all overgrown with lichen.
II
Like a stone or a cliff,
Lichen covered the very top,
Heavy moss hung on it,
What a mournful harvest.
The blackthorn was captured by mosses,
And he, unfortunate, is squeezed by them
So tight that you can see
Their goal, and they have one goal:
They want him
Flatten to the ground as soon as possible
Bury forever in it.
III
On the mountain ridge, in the sky,
Where is the hurricane, mighty and angry,
With a whistle cuts the clouds
And collapses on the valley -
Near the path you will find
Blackthorn old 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 lengthwise, two feet across.
IV
And behind the gray thorn
About four steps
A hill will appear in front of you
Dressed in bright moss.
All the colors of the world, all the colors
What only loves the eye,
You will see on a piece of land
As if the hands of the fairies wove
Divine pattern.
That hill half a foot high
Shines with marvelous beauty.
V
Oh, how pleasing to the eye here
Olive and scarlet! -
Such branches, ears, stars
No more in nature.
Blackthorn in his old age
Unattractive and gray
And the hill that is so good
Similar to a child's grave
Its size is so small.
But I'm more beautiful than the graves
Haven't found it anywhere yet.
VI
But if you were on a dilapidated bush,
I wanted to look at the wonderful hill,
Be careful: not always
You can get on the road.
There is often only one woman
Wrapped in a scarlet cloak,
Sitting between a small hill
With a similar grave, and a pond,
And there is crying
And her loud groan is heard:
"Oh, my bitter grief!"
VII
The sufferer hurries there.
All the winds know her there
And every star
There, near the blackthorn, one
She sits on top
When the sky is clear blue
With the roar of fierce storms,
In frosty silence.
And hear, hear her cry:
"Oh, my bitter grief!"
VIII
"But tell me why
And on a clear day, and at one o'clock at night
Climbing the gloomy peak, -
And in the rain, and in the snow, and in the heat?
Why have a decrepit bush
She sits on top
When the sky is clear blue
With the roar of fierce storms,
In frosty silence?
What caused this mournful groan?
Why doesn't he calm down?
IX
I do not know: the truth is dark
And nobody knows.
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 beforehand
That the woman returned to the house,
And do not yearn here
Where not a single person
She will never come close.
X
"But why is she here
And on a clear day, and at night,
With every wind keeps the way,
Under every star?
I'll tell you everything I know
But it will be futile work,
If you yourself do not go to the mountains
And you won't find that thorn
And a dwarf pond.
You will find a trail there
Tragedies of the past.
XI
Until you have been
On this gloomy height
I'm ready to tell you
All that is known to me.
Twenty years have passed since
How Martha Ray loved
How captivated a girl's heart
Her buddy Steven Hill
And became dear to her,
How happy Martha was
And had fun, and bloomed.
XII
And the wedding day was appointed,
But it did not come for her:
swore an oath of allegiance to another
Mindless Steven Hill.
The traitor went down the aisle
With another chosen one.
And they say that this day
Brutal fire broke out
Consciousness of Martha Ray.
And, as if incinerated,
She dried up from grief.
XIII
Six months have passed, the forest is still
Noisy green foliage,
And Martha was pulled up
On the crest of the fatal.
Everyone saw that there was a child in her,
But darkness enveloped her brain,
Although from unbearable torment
suddenly became sane
Her sad look.
And the one who could become a father,
It would be better if he was dead!
XIV
There is still a debate going on here.
How could I perceive
In itself the movements of the baby
Mad mother.
Another Merry Christmas
An old man assured us
That Martha, feeling the child,
How would I wake up, finding
Reason at the same moment
And God save her peace,
As the time drew near.
XV
And that's all I know
And he did not hide anything, believe me.
What happened to the poor kid
The mystery is now.
Yes, and he was born or not -
Nobody knows this
And don't know if he's alive
Or was born dead into the world,
It is only known
That Martha more often since those times
Climbs up the mountainside.
XVI
And that winter at night
The wind was blowing from the mountains
And informed on our churchyard
Some wild choir.
One heard in the choir
living voice creatures,
Another vouched for his head,
That the howl of the dead was heard,
But these miracles
And a strange cry in the silence of the night
Not linked to Martha Ray.
XVII
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 spyglass
And climbed to the top.
But the storm came and the haze
My eyes were covered.
XVIII
Thick fog and heavy rain
They immediately blocked my path.
And the wind is ten times stronger
Suddenly it started blowing.
My view through the 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 dark
She was sitting on the ground.
XIX
Everything became clear to me
I saw her face.
Turning around, I heard:
"Oh, my bitter grief!"
And I found out she was there
Sitting for hours, and when
The moon will flood the sky
And a light wind will stir
The murkiness of the gloomy pond, -
Her cry is heard in the village:
"Oh, my bitter grief!"
XX
“But what is a thornbush to her, and a pond,
And that light breeze?
Why to the flowering hill
Does fate bring her?
They talk like a bitch
The baby was hanged by her
Or drowned in that pond
When she was delirious
But everyone agrees
With the fact that he lies under the hill,
Dotted with wonderful moss.
XXI
And there is a rumor that red moss
Just from the blood of children's al,
But to blame for such a sin
I would not have become Martha.
And if you look closely
To the bottom of the pond, they say
The lake will show you
The child's poor face,
His motionless gaze.
And from you that child
Sad eyes will not take away.
XXII
And there were those who swore
Expose the villainy of the mother,
And they just got together.
Dig up the grave
To their amazement, moss moss
Moved as if alive
And suddenly the grass trembled
Around the hill - repeats the rumor,
But everyone in that village
They stand, as before, on their own:
The child lies under wonderful moss.
XXIII
And I see how the mosses are choking
Blackthorn old and gray,
And they bend down, and they want
Flatten it to the ground.
And whenever Martha Ray
Sitting on a mountaintop
And in a clear noon, and in the night,
When the rays of beautiful stars
Shine in silence
I hear, I hear her crying:
"Oh, my bitter grief!"
W. Wordsworth
CRAZY MOTHER
Off-road at random -
Simple-haired, wild look, -
Burnt by the fierce sun
She wanders into the wilderness.
And in her arms is her child.
(Is this the delusion of a sick soul?)
Under the haystack, taking a breath,
On a rock in the middle 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'm begging you baby
Don't be afraid, don't be afraid of me!
You're sleeping like in a cradle
And keeping you from trouble,
Oh my dear, I remember mine
A huge debt to you.
My brain was on fire
And the pain clouded my vision
And the chest is cruel that time
A swarm of sinister spirits tormented.
But waking up, coming to myself,
How happy I am to see you again
And feel your child
His living flesh and blood!
I conquered a nightmare
My boy is with me, only him.
To my chest, son, snuggle
Soft lips - they
As if from my heart
Draw out his grief.
Rest on my chest
You touch her with your fingers;
Give her relief
Your cool hand
Your hand is fresh, light,
Like a breath of wind.
Love, love me baby!
You bring 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.
The rocks do not promise me trouble,
I'm not afraid of the roaring shaft -
Because 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 translate through the rivers
And through the dark lands.
I'll build you a home
From the leaves - a soft bed.
And if you, my child,
Before the deadline you will not leave your mother, -
My beloved, in the wilderness of the forest
You will sing like a thrush in spring.
Sleep on my chest, chick!
Your father doesn't love her.
She faded, 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 in the fact that I became swarthy,
There is a certain use: 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 our days.
He will never live with me
If he neglected you!
But do not be afraid: he is not evil,
He himself is unhappy, God knows!
And every day with you together
We will pray for him.
You, dear, the song of owls
I will teach in the darkness of the forests.
The baby's lips are motionless.
Are you sure you're full, my soul?
How strange they got confused in an instant
Your heavenly features!
My dear boy, your gaze is wild!
Aren't you insane too?
Terrible sign! Kohl is so -
In me forever sadness and darkness.
Oh, smile, my lamb!
And calm down your mother!
I managed to overcome everything:
I searched for my father day and night
Learned the fury of the spirits of darkness
And the taste of ground nuts.
But do not be afraid - we will find
Father among the thickets of the forest.
All my life in the forest region,
Son, we will be like in paradise.
W. Wordsworth
IDIOT BOY
Hits eight. March night
Svetla. The moon is floating above
In the midst of the blue sky.
The sad, long cry of an owl
Sounds in the unknown distance:
Woo, woo, woo, woo!
What's wrong, Betty Foy? You
As if the fever beats!
Why are you in such agony?
Where ready to ride
Your poor idiot boy?
Under the serene moon
You are overwhelmed by the hassle.
What's the use of that, Betty Foy?
Why is yours seated in the saddle
Favorite idiot boy?
Get him off the horse
Otherwise, trouble will happen to him!
He hums - he has fun,
But, Betty, the guy is useless
Girth, stirrup and bridle.
The whole world would say: what nonsense!
Think again, because the night is around!
But isn't Betty Foy a mother?
When would she predict everything -
The fright would drive her crazy.
What is driving her through the door now? -
Susan Gale's neighbor is sick.
She, old, cannot live alone,
She is very sick tonight
And she moans plaintively.
Their dwellings are a mile away.
And Susan Gale was completely taken ill.
And there is no one near them
Who would give them good advice,
How to help her, how to comfort her.
And Betty's husband is not at home, -
For a week, a few days
He cuts wood in a distant grove.
Who is interested in old Susan
Will he show, take pity on her?
And Betty brought a pony -
He was always meek and sweet:
Was it sick, was it joyfully neighing,
Or ran to the pasture,
Ile carried brushwood from the forest.
The pony is equipped for the road.
And is it a heard thing? - That,
Who Betty love with all my heart,
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 run after him,
So that Susan Gale doesn't die.
The guy doesn't need any boots
No spurs, no biting whip.
Only a branch of holly John,
Like a sword, armed
And waves it rashly.
Admiring the son, for the hundredth time
Betty Foy told John
Where to turn and how to turn
Where he ordered the way,
Which path to follow.
But her main sadness
Was: "Dear Johnny, you
Then hurry home
Non stop my boy
And then not long before the trouble!
In response, he waved his hand
And nodded as hard as he could
So pulled the occasion that the mother
He was easy to understand
Even though he didn't say a word.
For a long time Johnny on a horse -
Betty's soul hurts
And Betty is full of worries
And gently strokes the horse's side,
Don't rush to part with them.
Here the pony took the first step -
Ah, poor idiot boy! -
From happiness from head to toe
embraced by numbness,
Doesn't move the reins.
With a motionless branch in hand
Stunned John froze.
Moon in the sky
Above him in the same silence,
Silent, just like him.
He rejoiced with all his heart
What I forgot about the sword
In my hand, completely forgot
That he rides to 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 he looks!
How dexterous he is in the saddle!
In his valiant silence
He's leaving now
Bypassing the pillar, around the corner.
And Betty is standing and waiting,
When he's out of sight.
Here he murmured, made a noise,
Like a windmill, in silence.
And the pony is meek as a sheep.
And Betty listens to the messenger
And rejoices from the heart.
Now it's time for her to see Susan Gale.
And Johnny rides under the moon
Grumbles, 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 will not lose a cheerful spirit,
Even though he became blind and deaf,
Lived for at least hundreds of years.
This horse thinks! He is smarter
The one who rides a horse.
But, knowing Johnny like no one else,
Now he will not judge that
Happening on his back.
And so they are through the moonlight
The valley of the moon jumps into the night.
Near the church house, and knocking on the door,
John has to wake up the doctor
To help old Susan Gale.
And Betty Foy, coming to the patient,
Leads his story about Johnny:
How brave he is, how smart,
What a relief he
Will deliver Susan Gale now.
And Betty, telling her story,
Seeks to take a mournful look,
With a plate sitting over the patient, -
Like Susan Gale is alone
She belongs to the soul.
But Betty betrays her face:
It can clearly be read
What happiness at this moment she
I could give in full
Any years for five or six.
But Betty looks slightly
Anxious since some time
And her hearing is alert:
Is anyone going already?
But the night expanse is quiet and mute.
Susan Gale sighs, groans.
And Betty to her: "They are on their way
And, of this I am convinced
They'll be here 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 the moon is in the sky, -
Our Johnny will be here soon."
Here it is midnight. And Johnny is not
Although the moon is in the sky.
Fastened Betty, that there are forces,
But to her, poor thing, the light is not sweet,
And Susan is full of trepidation.
Just half an hour ago
Betty Foy scolded the messenger:
"Lazy little dunce,
Where, unfortunate, has he disappeared? -
Now she has no face.
Blissful hours have passed
And there is no face on it now.
“Oh, Susan, that’s right, that doctor
Made me wait, but here
They are already rushing towards us, believe me!
Worse than old Susan Gale.
And Betty - what should she do?
What should she do, Betty Foy, -
Leave, stay with the patient?
Who's to say what to do for her?
And now the first hour has struck,
Bury Betty's hopes.
The moon shines all around,
And on the road outside the window -
No man, no horse.
And Susan gets scared
And he looks sick
That Johnny might drown
Abyss forever somewhere -
It will all be their fault!
But only she said:
“Save, Lord, he is on his way!” -
Like Betty, getting up from her bed,
She screamed, "Susan, I've got to go!
You, poor, forgive me!
I need to find Johnny:
He is weak in mind, he is bad in the saddle.
I won't part with him again
Just be safe and sound!" -
And Susan to her: “God have mercy!”
And Betty told her: “What about you?
And how can I ease your pain?
Perhaps I should stay all the same?
Though you won't last long
I'll be here again soon."
"Go, darling, go!
And how can you help me...?
And pray to God Betty Foy
About mercy to the sick,
And immediately runs away.
She runs through the moonlight
Valley of the moon at a late hour.
About the same way she hurries
And what does it say,
Will the story be boring?
On the dark bottom and above,
In a road pole and in a bush,
In the twinkling of distant stars
In the rustle of crows' nests,
She sees Johnny everywhere.
Betty is running across the bridge
Tormenting himself with the thought: he
Went down from the pony to the moon
Catch in the stream - and to the bottom
Fuck her poor John!
Here she is on the hill - from him
A wide view is open to her.
But in the open and in the wilderness,
On Mount Betty - not a soul,
And do not hear the horse's hooves.
"Oh my God! What happened to him?
Climbed an oak tree and couldn't get off?
Or some gypsy
He was shamelessly deceived,
And then dragged into the camp?
Or this harmful 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 their captivity?
And Betty is in a hurry to the city,
Now blame Susan Gale:
"Don't be so sick -
My John would stay with me
You would always make me happy."
In a grave disorder does not spare
She and the doctor himself
Scolding him desperately.
And even a meek horse
Scolds Betty in a temper.
But here is the city, here is the house -
She is at the doctor's door.
And the city that arose before her -
It's so wide, it's so big
And quiet as the moon in the sky.
And then she knocks on the door,
Oh, how her hand trembles! -
And opening the window,
The healer casts a sleepy look
From under the nightcap.
"Ah, doctor, doctor, where is my son?"
“I have been sleeping for a long time. What do you need?"
"But, sir, I'm Betty Foy,
Lost my Johnny dear
You have often seen him.
He's a little out of his mind..."
But the doctor became very angry
And menacingly said to her in response:
“Is he sane, I don’t care!” -
Close the window and go to sleep.
“Oh, woe to me! Woe to me!
Alas, my death is coming!
I was looking for Johnny everywhere
But I couldn't find it anywhere,
I am more unhappy than all mothers!
She stands and looks around.
Silence everywhere, sleep everywhere.
Where is the rush this time? -
And here is the third hour on the tower
It rumbles like a death knell.
She's from the city in anguish
Runs, crazy to match.
Full of 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 trouble! -
Such a night at my age?
Oh God, the path is still empty!”
Human speech and the ringing of horseshoes
In the silent land you can't hear.
It is easier for her in the silence of oak forests
Hear the grass sprout
Stream underground jet.
And in the blue twilight around
The cliques of owls do not stop:
So sometimes lovers
Parting in the darkness of midnight,
They send a sad call to each other.
Pond green water
The thought of sin inspires her.
And in order not to rush there,
From the edge of the terrible pond
She leaves quickly.
And crying, sitting on the ground,
And more and more tears are pouring:
"My pony, dear pony,
Bring home Johnny
And we will live without worries.
And, crying, she thinks:
“The pony has a kind, meek disposition,
He Johnny loves mine
And inadvertently into his forest
Delivered, getting lost on the road.
From the earth she is winged
Hope jumps up in an instant.
From sinful thoughts by the pond
There is no trace left,
Yes, 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 story
How to tell me in verse?
Maybe with your horse
Dangerous mountain path
He climbed a steep rock,
To get a star from heaven
And bring her home.
Ile, turning around on a horse,
Back to the withers turned,
In a wonderful slumber, mute and deaf,
Like a disembodied horseman-spirit,
He wanders through the valley.
No, he is a hunter, an enemy of sheep!
He is vicious, he inspires fear!
Give him only six months
And this fertile region
He will turn to ashes and dust.
Ile from head to toe in fire,
He's a demon, not a man
He rushes, menacing and winged,
And sows terror, sows hell
And it will run like this forever.
Oh Muses, help again
I get inspiration
Allow - if not in full -
I can describe the events
What happened to him along the way.
Oh, Muses, what are you my
Are you neglecting prayer?
Why without my fault
Not disposed towards me
Are you so beloved by me?
But who is it in the distance
Looks at the noisy waterfall
And with the shining moon
Sitting carelessly on a horse
Entangled in numbness?
His horse grazes freely
As if he was deprived of his bridle.
To the lunar disk, to the star swarm
Our hero does not look at all, -
But it's Johnny! It is he!
Where is Betty? What about her?
She sheds tears like before.
She hears a booming stream,
But she still doesn't know
Where is the poor idiot boy.
She hurries to the sound of water,
Through the dark thicket goes.
Take a deep breath, Betty Foy
There is 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.
Clasping hands, Betty Foy
A cry of jubilation utters
Rushing like that stream
Almost knocks the pony off her feet, -
With her again the boy-idiot!
And he growls, he laughs,
Whether from joy - God will understand!
Betty is happy
From his voice drunk:
With her again the boy-idiot!
And then she is to the tail of the horse,
Then it will rush to the withers again, -
In such bliss Betty Foy
What sometimes suffocates
And the tears are hard for her to appease.
She is in a rapture
Kissing her son again and again
Johnny does not give rest:
With her again an idiot boy,
Her soul, her love.
And imperceptibly
She caresses the horse,
And the pony is probably happy
Although at first glance it seems
He froze, keeping dispassion.
“Forget the doctor, son!
It's all good, you're great!" -
And merry John rumbles again,
And the pony is taken away by her
From the waterfall at last.
There are almost no stars in the sky,
The moon faded over the hill.
And every moment you hear everything
The rustle of wings among the branches
In the forest, still silent.
And travelers go home
Tired as ever.
But who is in a hurry to them at such an hour,
Limping, waving his hand, -
Is it Susan Gale? Oh yeah!
She suffered in bed
I thought with fear all night:
What about Betty, where is poor John?
And her mind was clouded
And weakness receded away.
Full of doubts and worries
She tossed and turned all night.
Assumptions heavy darkness
Drive the poor woman crazy
But weakness receded away.
She said sadly:
“How can I live in such horror?
Perhaps I'll go to the forest!
And suddenly - a miracle of miracles! -
She rose from the bed with a jerk.
Forest path towards her
Enter Betty, horse and John.
She calls her friends...
How to describe their date? -
Oh, it was a magical dream!
And the owls are exhausted
And they finished their singing,
While friends were walking home.
From those owls I began the ballad -
And I will complete it with them.
While friends were walking home
Johnny's mother asked:
"Where did you wander in the dark,
What did you see, what did you hear? -
Try to tell the truth."
And Johnny often that night
Listening to the owls
And raised his eyes to the moon,
In the radiance of the moon on a horse
He wandered for nine hours.
And so, looking at the mother,
He gave a decisive answer
And this is what he said aloud:
"In fluff, in fluff! - the rooster crowed
And the light of the sun was cold
So said daring Johnny.
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 lakes (hence they are called "leukists", from lake - lake), but some common features their ideological and creative path. At the beginning of their creative activity, they are characterized by rebellious moods, they welcome the French bourgeois revolution, but later, disappointed in its results, they lose faith in active struggle and move to conservative positions. Being innovators in poetry (this applies to Wordsworth and Coleridge), they early period creativity pave the way for romantic art in England. This is the progressive meaning of their work in the 80s and 90s, but later they turn more and more to the ideas of passivity and humility.
A certain commonality of the ideological and creative positions of the poets of the "lake school" does not mean the identity of views and talent. If Wordsworth and Coleridge had indeed great talent and great insight in assessing the pernicious consequences of their departure from the freedom-loving moods of the early period of creativity, then Southey's modest talent was combined with reactionaryness. In the 1990s 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" (The Fall of Robespierre, 1795), written jointly with Coleridge, his departure from radical sentiments is revealed. In the late 90s, Southey wrote ballads on medieval themes, in which religious ideas are expressed and supernatural images and situations are given. Southey's evolution from rebellious moods to mysticism and religious humility was reflected in the poems: "Talaba the Destroyer" (Thalaba the Destroyer, 1801), "Madoc" (Madoc, 1805), "The Curse of Kehama" (The Curse of Kehama, 1810). Reactionary in nature is the content of the poem "Vision of the Court" (A Vision of Judgment, 1821).
In 1798, an anonymous edition " 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 the manifesto of English romanticism. The poet speaks of the need to choose the incidents of everyday life and depict them in the light of the poetic imagination, which draws the ordinary in an unusual aspect.
Rural life should become the subject of poetry, because in a simple and modest life human passions, the life of the heart, are manifested with greater immediacy. In being ordinary people the life of passion 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. There is beauty and philosophical significance in their language. Wordsworth wants to speak simply and naturally about human feelings, so he rejects the classicist method of personifying abstract ideas. He seeks to bring the language of poetry closer to the language of prose, believing that the language of good prose is quite suitable for poetry.
The "Lyrical Ballads" tells of the plight of rural workers in England. The main dramatic theme of the poems is the disintegration of the former foundations of the life of small farmers, the disintegration of patriarchal family relations, the miserable existence of destitute people. The feelings and experiences of the peasants are truthfully revealed. "Pastoral" ballads depict the drama of the 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.
Despite the high artistic merit, the book initially did not cause much resonance. The first printing was very tight, until the attention of the general public to the originality of "Lyrical Ballads" was not attracted by such popular journalists as Hazlitt, who met both authors during their work on the collection. The popularity of "Lyric Ballads" in the early years of the 19th century actually buried English classicism and its poetic techniques. Coleridge and Wordsworth contrasted the immediacy of feeling with the ready-made poetic recipes, the traditional "high calm" - the language of everyday communication. The heroes of Wordsworth's poems are never before sung in verse, unremarkable characters, such as the village fool.
