Майкл Дрейтон (Michael Drayton) Текст оригинала на английском языке An Ode Written in the Peak THIS while we are abroad Shall we not touch our lyre? Shall we not sing an ode? Shall that holy fire, In us that strongly glowed, In this cold air expire? Long since the summer laid Her lusty bravery down, The autumn half is way’d, And Boreas ’gins to frown, Since now I did behold Great Brute’s first builded town. Though in the utmost Peak Awhile we do remain, Amongst the mountains bleak Exposed to sleet and rain, No sport our hours shall break To exercise our vein. What though bright Phœbus’ beams Refresh the southern ground, And though the princely Thames With beauteous nymphs abound, And by old Camber’s streams Be many wonders found: Yet many rivers clear Here glide in silver swathes, And what of all most dear, Buxton’s delicious baths, Strong ale and noble cheer, To assuage breem winter’s scathes. Those grim and horrid caves, Whose looks affright the day, Wherein nice Nature saves What she would not bewray, Our better leisure craves And doth invite our lay. In places far or near, Or famous or obscure, Where wholesome is the air, Or where the most impure, All times and everywhere The Muse is still in ure. |
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