Тема 6. Поэзия английского классицизма и сентиментализма

История английской литературы: В 3 т. Т. 1, вып. 2. М.; Л., 1945. С. 235–246, 301–314.

Сидорченко Л. В. Александр Поуп и художественные искания в английской литературе первой четверти XVIII века. СПб., 1992.

Шайтанов И. О. Английская поэзия XVIII века в культурном контексте раннего Просвещения // Изв. АН СССР, Сер. лит. и яз. 1988. Т. 47, №1.

Соловьева Н. А. У истоков английского романтизма. М., 1988.

Соловьева Н. А. История зарубежной литературы. Предромантизм. М., 2005.

Жирмунский В. М. Поэзия английского сентиментализма // Жирмунский В. М. Из истории западноевропейских литератур. Л., 1981.

Шайтанов И. О. «Открытие природы» и английская рефлективная поэзия XVIII века // Переходные эстетические явления в литературном процессе XVIII–XX веков. М., 1981. С. 51–65.

Есаулов Н. Н. К проблеме метода в английской поэзии XVIII века // Зарубежная литература. Проблемы метода. Л., 1984. Вып. 2

Alexander Pope (1688–1744)

Epistle to Miss Blount,

On Her Leaving the Town after the Coronation (1715)

As some fond Virgin, whom her mother’s care

Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air,

Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,

And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;

From the dear man unwilling she must sever,

Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:

Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,

Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;

Not that their Pleasures caus’d her discontent,

She sigh’d not that they stay’d, but that she went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,

Old fashion’d halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:

She went from Op’ra, Park, Assembly, Play,

To morning-walks, and pray’rs three hours a day;

To part her time ‘twixt reading and bohea;

To muse, and spill her solitary tea;

Or o’er old coffee trifle with the spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;

Up to her godly garret after sev’n,

There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heav’n.

Some Squire, perhaps you take delight to rack;

Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack;

Who visits with a Gun, presents you birds,

Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, – ‘No words!’

Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,

Makes love with nodds, and knees beneath a table;

Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,

And loves you best of all things – but his horse.

In some fair ev’ning, on your elbow laid,

You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;

In pensive thought recall the fancy’d scene,

See Coronations rise on ev’ry green;

Before you pass th’ imaginary sights

Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter’d Knights,

While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes;

Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.

Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls.

And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

So when your Slave, at some dear idle time,

(Not plagu’d with head-aches, or the want of rhyme,)

Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,

And while he seems to study, thinks of you;

Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,

Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,

Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,

Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my sight,

Vex’d to be still in town, I knit my brow,

Look sour, and hum a Tune, as you may now.

JAMES THOMSON (1700–1748)

The Seasons: Summer (Excerpt)

‘Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun

Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.

O’er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye

Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all,

From pole to pole, is undistinguish’d blaze.

In vain the sight, dejected to the ground,

Stoops for relief; thence hot-ascending streams

And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root

Of vegetation parch’d, the cleaving fields

And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose,

Blast fancy’s blooms, and wither even the soul.

Echo no more returns the cheerful sound

Of sharpening scythe: the mower, sinking, heaps

O’er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum’d;

And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard

Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants;

The very streams look languid from afar;

Or, through th’ unshelter’d glade, impatient, seem

To hurl into the covert of the grove.

      Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!

Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks!

Ye ashes wild, resounding o’er the steep!

Delicious in your shelter to the soul,

As to the hunted hart the sallying spring,

Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides

Laves, as he floats along the herbag’d brink.

Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides;

The heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye

And ear resume their watch; the sinews knit;

And life shoots swift through all the lighten’d limbs.

Thomas Gray (1716–1771)

Elegy Written In a Country Churchyard

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,   

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,   

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,  

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,   

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;  

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r   

The moping owl does to the moon complain  

Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r,   

Molest her ancient solitary reign.  

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,   

Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,  

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.  

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,   

The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,   

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.  

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,   

Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,   

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.  

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,  

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 

How jocund did they drive their team afield!   

How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!  

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,   

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;  

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile   

The short and simple annals of the poor.  

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,   

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, 

Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:  

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.  

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,   

If Memory o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault   

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.  

Can storied urn or animated bust   

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,   

Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?  

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid  

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,   

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.  

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page   

Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;  

Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,   

And froze the genial current of the soul.  

Full many a gem of purest ray serene   

The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,  

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.  

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast   

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,   

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.  

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,   

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,   

And read their history in a nation’s eyes,  

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone  

Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,   

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,  

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,  

 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,  

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride   

With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.  

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,   

Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; 

Along the cool sequester’d vale of life  

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.