Текст оригинала на английском языке
ONCE more I greet thee, Temple Bar, That hast so often from afar Risen amid my dreams; When avalanches round me roared, Or where the Tagus, sunlit, poured Its stately golden streams; And where, above the torrent-bed, The Alp-peaks flushed with rosy red The sunset dyes arrayed; And where, below on lily banks, The half-wild goats in straggling ranks Fed, leaped, or, butting, played; And even where Niagara roared, And, like a final deluge, poured Majestically calm; And where arose the Pyramid, At starry twilight almost hid, And waved the lonely palm. Well I remember all thy ways, The glimmering, horny light that plays Around thy window-panes; Thy posture-making kings, and she Who brought proud Spain upon his knee, And still up yonder reigns. No grinning traitors’ heads on poles Strike terror now to Tory souls, (Thank God, those days are altered!) A statesman now may lose his head Many a year before he ’s dead, Long ere his last word ’s faltered. How often, like a furnace mouth, I ’ve seen in days of summer drouth The archway flaming red With sunset crimsons fold on fold, That turned the Strand to burning gold, Then darkened overhead. And on how many a fairy night I ’ve seen the sprinkling silver light Transmute thy royalty; Invest thy kings with saintly gleams, Crowning with halo of moonbeams Thy transient majesty. Few burly Doctor Johnsons now At midnight bend their chiding brow On Boswells reeling home; Nor Goldsmith curses German kings, And wishes, among other things, For Chevalier from Rome. Yes, Chatterton has lingered here, Gazing upon a sky, dark, drear, Holding his bated breath; While moonshine blanched the windowed arch, That howling, bitter night in March, He pondered upon death. Still, luckless Chattertons, alas! Through this dark gate of time will pass, Forced by their cruel star; And many Boswells, Johnson-led, Will pass through you when I am dead, To heavens that lie afar. Great arch of Time’s swift rolling river, It makes my blood in ague shiver, To think how fast life’s flowing; And how our little frail canoes, No bigger than a giant’s shoes, Sink ere we know they ’re going.
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