The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

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        Its rising billows through the world resound,

        Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,

        Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

           Oh could the Muse my ravished breast inspire

        With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,

        Unnumbered beauties in my verse should shine,

        And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

           See how the golden groves around me smile,

        That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle,

        Or when transplanted and preserved with care,

        Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.

        Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments

        To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:

        Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,

        And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.

        Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats,

        Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;

        Where western gales eternally reside,

        And all the seasons lavish all their pride:

        Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise,

        And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

           Immortal glories in my mind revive,

        And in my soul a thousand passions strive,

        When Rome's exalted beauties I descry

        Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

        An amphitheatre's amazing height

        Here fills my eye with terror and delight,

        That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,

        And held uncrowded nations in its womb;

        Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies;

        And here the proud triumphal arches rise,

        Where the old Romans' deathless acts displayed,

        Their base, degenerate progeny upbraid:

        Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,

        And wondering at their height through airy channels flow.

           Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,

        And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;

        Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,

        And softened into flesh the rugged stone.

        In solemn silence, a majestic band,

        Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand;

        Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,

        And emperors in Parian marble frown;

        While the bright dames, to whom they humble sued,

        Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdued.

           Fain would I Raphæl's godlike art rehearse,

        And show the immortal labours in my verse,

        Where from the mingled strength of shade and light

        A new creation rises to my sight,

        Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,

        So warm with life his blended colours glow.

        From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss'd,

        Amidst the soft variety I'm lost:

        Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound

        With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;

        Here domes and temples rise in distant views,

        And opening palaces invite my Muse.

           How has kind Heaven adorned the happy land,

        And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand!

        But what avail her unexhausted stores,

        Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores,

        With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,

        The smiles of nature, and the charms of art,

        While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,

        And tyranny usurps her happy plains?

        The poor inhabitant beholds in vain

        The reddening orange and the swelling grain:

        Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,

        And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:

        Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curs'd,

        And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

           O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,

        Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!

        Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,

        And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;

        Eased of her load, subjection grows more light,

        And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;

        Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay,

        Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

           Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores;

        How has she oft exhausted all her stores,

        How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,

        Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

        On foreign mountains may the sun refine

        The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine,

        With citron groves adorn a distant soil,

        And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:

        We envy not the warmer clime, that lies

        In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,

        Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,

        Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine:

        'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

        And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

           Others with towering piles may please the sight,

        And in their proud aspiring domes delight;

        A nicer touch to the stretched canvas give,

        Or teach their animated rocks to live:

        'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,

        And hold in balance each contending state,

        To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war,

        And answer her afflicted neighbours' prayer.

        The Dane and Swede, roused up by fierce alarms,

        Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms:

        Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,

        And all the northern world lies hushed in peace.

           The ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread

        Her thunder aimed at his aspiring head,

        And СКАЧАТЬ