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Patrick Brontë (Патрик Бронте) The Happy Cottagers One sunny morn of May, When dressed in flowery green The dewy landscape, charmed With Nature's fairest scene, In thoughtful mood I slowly strayed O'er hill and dale, Through bush and glade. Throughout the cloudless sky Of light unsullied blue, The larks their matins raised, Whilst on my dizzy view, Like dusky motes, They winged their way Till vanished in The blaze of day. The linnets sweetly sang On every fragrant thorn, Whilst from the tangled wood The blackbirds hailed the morn; And through the dew Ran here and there, But half afraid, The startled hare. The balmy breeze just kissed The countless dewy gems Which decked the yielding blade Or gilt the sturdy stems, And gently o'er The charmed sight A deluge shed Of trembling light. A sympathetic glow Ran through my melting soul, And calm and sweet delight O'er all my senses stole; And through my heart A grateful flood Of joy rolled on To Nature's God. Time flew unheeded by, Till wearied and oppressed, Upon a flowery bank I laid me down to rest; Beneath my feet A purling stream Ran glittering in The noontide beam. I turned me round to view The lovely rural scene; And, just at hand, I spied A cottage on the green; The street was clean, The walls were white, The thatch was neat, The window bright. Bold chanticleer, arrayed In velvet plumage gay, With many an amorous dame, Fierce strutted o'er the way; And motley ducks Were waddling seen, And drake with neck Of glossy green. The latch I gently raised, And oped the humble door; An oaken stool was placed On the neat sanded floor; An aged man Said with a smile, "You're welcome, sir: Come rest a while." His coarse attire was clean, His manner rude yet kind: His air, his words, and looks Showed a contented mind; Though mean and poor, Thrice happy he, As by our tale You soon shall see. But don't expect to hear Of deeds of martial fame, Or that our peasant mean Was born of rank or name, And soon will strut, As in romance, A knight and all In armour glance. I sing of real life; All else is empty show-- To those who read a source Of much unreal woe: Pollution, too, Through novel-veins, Oft fills the mind With guilty stains. Our peasant long was bred Affliction's meagre child, Yet gratefully resigned, Loud hymning praises, smiled, And like a tower He stood unmoved, Supported by The God he loved. His loving wife long since Was numbered with the dead His son, a martial youth, Had for his country bled; And now remained One daughter fair, And only she, To soothe his care. The aged man with tears Spoke of the lovely maid; How earnestly she strove To lend her father aid, And as he ran Her praises o'er, She gently oped The cottage-door. With vegetable store The table soon she spread, And pressed me to partake; Whilst blushes rosy-red Suffused her face-- The old man smiled, Well pleased to see His darling child. With venerable air He then looked up to God, A blessing craved on all, And on our daily food; Then kindly begged I would excuse Their humble fair, And not refuse.-- The tablecloth, though coarse, Was of a snowy white, The vessels, spoons, and knives Were clean and dazzling bright; So down we sat Devoid of care, Nor envied kings Their dainty fare. When nature was refreshed, And we familiar grown; The good old man exclaimed, "Around Jehovah's throne, Come, let us all Our voices raise, And sing our great Redeemer's praise!" Their artless notes were sweet, Grace ran through every line; Their breasts with rapture swelled, Their looks were all divine: Delight o'er all My senses stole, And heaven's pure joy O'erwhelmed my soul. When we had praised our God, And knelt around His throne, The aged man began In deep and zealous tone, With hands upraised And heavenward eye, And prayed loud And fervently: He prayed that for His sake, Whose guiltless blood was shed For guilty ruined man, We might that day be fed With that pure bread Which cheers the soul, And living stream, Where pleasures roll. He prayed long for all, And for his daughter dear, That she, preserved from ill, Might lead for many a year A spotless life When he's no more; Then follow him To Canaan's shore. His faltering voice then fell, His tears were dropping fast, And muttering praise to God For all His mercies past, He closed his prayer Midst heavenly joys, And tasted bliss Which never cloys. In sweet discourse we spent The fast declining day: We spoke of Jesus' love, And of that narrow way Which leads, through care And toil below, To streams where joys Eternal flow. The wondrous plan of Grace, Adoring, we surveyed, The birth of heavenly skill-- In Love Eternal laid-- Too deep for clear Angelic ken, And far beyond Dim-sighted men. To tell you all that passed Would far exceed my power; Suffice it, then, to say, Joy winged the passing hour, Till, ere we knew, The setting day Had clad the world In silver grey. I kindly took my leave, And blessed the happy lot Of those I left behind Lodged in their humble cot; And pitied some In palace walls, Where pride torments, And pleasure palls. The silver moon now shed A flood of trembling light On tower, and tree, and stream; The twinkling stars shone bright, Nor misty stain Nor cloud was seen O'er all the deep Celestial green. Mild was the lovely night, Nor stirred a whispering breeze. Smooth was the glassy lake, And still the leafy trees; No sound in air Was heard afloat, Save Philomel's Sweet warbling note. My thoughts were on the wing, And back my fancy fled To where contentment dwelt In the neat humble shed; To shining courts From thence it ran, Where restless pride Oppresses man. In fame some search for bliss, Some seek content in gain, In search of happiness Some give the slackened rein To passions fierce, And down the stream Through giddy life, Of pleasures dream. These all mistake the way, As many more have done: The narrow path of bliss Through God's Eternal Son Directly tends; And only he Who treads this path Can happy be. Who anchors all above Has still a happy lot, Though doomed for life to dwell E'en in a humble cot, And when he lays This covering down He'll wear a bright Immortal crown. Patrick Brontë's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1414 |
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