Тема 7. Поэзия Роберта Бернса и уильяма блейка

Райт-Ковалева Р. Роберт Бернс. (Любое издание.)

Колесников Б. И. Роберт Бернс. Очерк жизни и творчества. М., 1967.

Зверев А. Величие Блейка // Блейк У. Стихи. М., 1982 (текст на рус. и англ. яз.).

Некрасова Е. А. Творчество Уильяма Блейка. М., 1962.

Жирмунский В. М. Уильям Блейк // Жирмунский В. М. Из истории западноевропейских литератур. Л., 1981.

Элиот Т.С. Блейк // Элиот Т. С. Избранное: Религия, культура, литература. М., 2004. С. 656–663.

ROBERT BURNS (1759–1796)

To a Mountain-Daisy, On Turning One Down With a Plough,

In April 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,

Thou’s met me in an evil hour;

For I maun¹crush amang the stoure²

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow’r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,

The bonie Lark, companion meet!

Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet³!

Wi’s²speckl’d breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

Thy purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear’d above the Parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our Gardens yield,

High-shelt’ring woods and wa’s³maun shield,

But thou, beneath the random bield

O’ clod or stane⁴,

Adorns the histie⁵stibble⁶-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,

Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!

By Love’s simplicity betray’d,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil’d is laid

Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,

On Life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,

By human pride or cunning driv’n

To Mis’ry’s brink,

Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but HEAV’N,

He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,

That fate is thine – no distant date;

Stern Ruin’d plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,

Shall be thy doom!

* * *

Young Jockey was the blythest lad

In a’ our town or here awa;

Fu’ blythe he whistled at the gaud¹,

Fu’ lightly danc’d he in the ha’.

He roos’d²my een sae bonie blue,

He roos’d my waist sae genty sma’;

An ay my heart came to my mou³,

When ne’er a body heard or saw.

My Jockey toils upon the plain

Thro’ wind and weet, thro’ frost and snaw;

And o’er the lee I leuk⁴fu’ fain

When Jockey’s owsen⁵hameward ca’.

An ay the night comes round again

When in his arms he taks me a’;

An ay he vows he’ll be my ain⁶

As lang’s he has a breath to draw.

william blake (1757–1827)

The Chimney Sweeper

When my mother died I was very young,

And my father sold me while yet my tongue

Could scarcely cry “ ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep!”

So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

That curl’d like a lamb's back, was shav’d, so I said

“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”

And so he was quiet, and that very night

As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,

Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

And he open’d the coffins and set them all free;

Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,

And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,

They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;

And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,

He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,

And got with our bags and our brushes to work.

Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;

So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

The Book of Thel

1

The daughters of the Seraphim led round their sunny flocks,All but the youngest. She in paleness sought the secret air,To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day.Down by the river of Adonaher soft voice is heard,And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew;

“O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall?

Ah! Thel is like a wat’ry bow, and like a parting cloud,Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water,Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant’s face,Like the dove’s voice, like transient day, like music in the air.Ah! gentle may I lay me down and gentle rest my head,And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voiceOf him that walketh in the garden of the evening time.”

The Lilly of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass,Answer'd the lovely maid and said: “I am a wat’ry weed,And I am very small and love to dwell in lowly vales;So weak the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head;Yet I am visited from heaven, and he that smiles on allWalks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads his handSaying, "Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lilly flower,Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks;For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna,Till summer’s heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springsTo flourish in eternal vales”. Then why should Thel complain?Why should the mistress of the vales of Harutter a sigh?She ceas’d and smil’d in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.

Thel answer’d: “O thou little virgin of the peaceful valley,Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o’ertired;Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments,He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face,Wiping his mild and meeking mouth from all contagious taints.Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume,Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs,Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed.But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun:I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?”

“Queen of the vales,” the Lilly answer’d, “ask the tender cloud,And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky,And why it scatters its bright beauty thro’ the humid air.Descend, O little cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.”

The Cloud descended, and the Lilly bow’d her modest head,And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass.