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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) At Madame Tussaud’s in Victorian Years ‘That same first fiddler who leads the orchéstra to-night Here fiddled four decades of years ago; He bears the same babe-like smile of self-centred delight, Same trinket on watch-chain, same ring on the hand with the bow. ‘But his face, if regarded, is woefully wanner, and drier, And his once dark beard has grown straggling and gray; Yet a blissful existence he seems to have led with his lyre, In a trance of his own, where no wearing or tearing had sway. ‘Mid these wax figures, who nothing can do, it may seem That to do but a little thing counts a great deal; To be watched by kings, councillors, queens, may be flattering to him – With their glass eyes longing they too could wake notes that appeal.’ . . . Ah, but he played staunchly – that fiddler – whoever he was, With the innocent heart and the soul-touching string: May he find the Fair Haven! For did he not smile with good cause? Yes; gamuts that graced forty years’-flight were not a small thing! Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1467 |
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