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Richard Chenevix Trench (Ричард Ченевикс Тренч) A Legend of Alhambra The tradition on which the following Ballad is founded is an existing one, and exactly as it is here recounted was narrated to the author during his stay at Granada. O hymned in many a poet’s strain, Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand Exalted on this throne of Spain, A marvel of the land, The last of thy imperial race, Alhambra, when he overstept Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face-- He turned his face and wept. In sooth it was a thing to weep, If then, as now, the level plain Beneath was spreading like the deep, The broad unruffled main: If, like a watch-tower of the sun, Above the Alpujarras rose, Streaked, when the dying day was done, With evening’s roseate snows. Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound, And the twelve lions, couchant yet, Sustain their ponderous burthen, round The marble basin set. But never, when the moon is bright O’er hill and golden-sanded stream, And thy square turrets in the light And taper columns gleam, Will village maiden dare to fill Her pitcher from that basin wide, But rather seeks a niggard rill Far down the steep hill-side! It was an Andalusian maid, With rose and pink-enwoven hair, Who told me what the fear that stayed Their footsteps from that stair: How, rising from that watery floor, A Moorish maiden, in the gleam Of the wan moonlight, stands before The stirrer of the stream: And mournfully she begs the grace, That they would speak the words divine, And sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign. And whosoe’er will grant this boon, Returning with the morrow’s light, Shall find the fountain pavement strewn With gold and jewels bright: A regal gift--for once, they say, Her father ruled this broad domain, The last who kept beneath his sway This pleasant place of Spain. It surely is a fearful doom, That one so beautiful should have No present quiet in her tomb, No hope beyond the grave. It must be, that some amulet Doth make all human pity vain, Or that upon her brow is set The silent seal of pain, Which none can meet--else long ago, Since many gentle hearts are there, Some spirit, touched by joy or woe, Had answered to her prayer. But so it is, that till this hour That mournful child beneath the moon Still rises from her watery bower, To urge this simple boon-- To beg, as all have need of grace, That they would speak the words divine, And, sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign. Richard Chenevix Trench's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1250 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |