The Poetry of Oscar Wilde. Оскар Уайльд

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СКАЧАТЬ Than any gaudy galleon of Spain Bare from the

       Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

       For well I know they are not dead at all,

       The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy,

       They are asleep, and when they hear thee call

       Will wake and think ‘tis very Thessaly,

       This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade

       The yellow-irised mead where once young

       Itys laughed and played.

       If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird

       Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne

       Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard

       The horn of Atalanta faintly blown

       Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering

       Through Bagley wood at evening found the

       Attic poet’s spring, — Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate

       That pleadest for the moon against the day!

       If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate

       On that sweet questing, when Proserpina

       Forgot it was not Sicily and leant

       Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, —

       Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!

       If ever thou didst soothe with melody

       One of that little clan, that brotherhood

       Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany

       More than the perfect sun of Raphael,

       And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well,

       Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,

       Let elemental things take form again,

       And the old shapes of Beauty walk among

       The simple garths and open crofts, as when

       The son of Leto bare the willow rod,

       And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

       Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here

       Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,

       And over whimpering tigers shake the spear

       With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,

       While at his side the wanton Bassarid

       Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

       Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,

       And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,

       Upon whose icy chariot we could win

       Cithaeron in an hour e’er the froth

       Has overbrimmed the wine-vat or the Faun

       Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

       Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,

       And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,

       Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast

       Will filch their beechnuts from the sleeping Pans

       So softly that the little nested thrush

       Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

       Down the green valley where the fallen dew

       Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,

       Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew

       Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,

       And where their horned master sits in state

       Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

       Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face

       Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,

       The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase

       Adown the chestnut copses all a-bloom,

       And ivory-limbed, gray-eyed, with look of pride,

       After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.

       Sing on! and I the dying boy will, see

       Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell

       That overweighs the jacinth, and to me

       The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,

       And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,

       And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

       Cry out aloud on Itys! memory

       That foster-brother of remorse and pain

       Drops poison in mine ear — O to be free,

       To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again

       Into the white-plumed battle of the waves

       And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves?

       O for Medea with her poppied spell!

       O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!

       O for one leaf of that pale asphodel

       Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,

       And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she

       Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

       Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased

       From lily to lily on the level mead,

       Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste

       The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,

       Ere the black steeds had harried her away

       Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

       O for one midnight and as paramour

       The Venus of the little Melian farm!

       O that some antique statue for one hour

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