The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      As a memento of the Gypsy camp

      In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller

      Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid.

      Pray, let me have the ring.

       Prec. No, never! never!

      I will not part with it, even when I die;

      But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus,

      That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token

      Of a beloved friend, who is no more.

       Vict. How? dead?

       Prec. Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead.

      He is estranged! And yet I keep this ring.

      I will rise with it from my grave hereafter,

      To prove to him that I was never false.

       Vict. (aside). Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still!

      Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl.

      Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine,

      And that you stole it.

       Prec. O, you will not dare

      To utter such a falsehood!

       Vict. I not dare?

      Look in my face, and say if there is aught

      I have not dared, I would not dare for thee!

      (She rushes into his arms.)

      Prec. 'T is thou! 't is thou! Yes; yes; my heart's elected!

      My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul's heaven!

      Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me?

       Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa.

      Let me forget we ever have been parted!

       Prec. Hadst thou not come—

       Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me!

       Prec. I should have perished here among these Gypsies.

       Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer.

      Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy,

      Thou being absent? O, believe it not!

      Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept,

      For thinking of the wrong I did to thee

      Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me?

       Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger

      Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee,

      I had forgiven thee.

       Vict. I'm the veriest fool

      That walks the earth, to have believed thee false.

      It was the Count of Lara—

       Prec. That bad man

      Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard—

       Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on!

      Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy;

      For every tone, like some sweet incantation,

      Calls up the buried past to plead for me.

      Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart,

      Whatever fills and agitates thine own.

      (They walk aside.)

      Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets,

      All passionate love scenes in the best romances,

      All chaste embraces on the public stage,

      All soft adventures, which the liberal stars

      Have winked at, as the natural course of things,

      Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student,

      And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa!

       Prec. Senor Hypolito! I kiss your hand.

      Pray, shall I tell your fortune?

       Hyp. Not to-night;

      For, should you treat me as you did Victorian,

      And send me back to marry maids forlorn,

      My wedding day would last from now till Christmas.

       Chispa (within). What ho! the Gypsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado!

      Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo!

      (Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.

      Vict. What now

      Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed?

       Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you,

      My worthy masters.

       Vict. Speak; what brings thee here?

       CHISPA (to PRECIOSA).

      Good news from Court; good news! Beltran Cruzado,

      The Count of the Cales, is not your father,

      But your true father has returned to Spain

      Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy.

       Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale!

       Chispa. And we have all

      Been drinking at the tavern to your health,

      As wells drink in November, when it rains.

       Vict. Where is the gentlemen?

       Chispa. As the old song says,

       His body is in Segovia,

       His soul is in Madrid,

       Prec. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream,

      Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

      Repeat thy story! Say I'm not deceived!

      Say that I do not dream! I am awake;

      This is the Gypsy camp; this is Victorian,

      And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak!

      Let СКАЧАТЬ