The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Poems, Plays, Essays, Lectures, Autobiography & Personal Letters (Illustrated). Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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СКАЧАТЬ ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.

      But, when he had refused the proffered gold,

       To cruel injuries he became a prey,

       Sore traversed in whate’er he bought and sold:

       His troubles grew upon him day by day,

       Till all his substance fell into decay.

       His little range of water was denied;

       All but the bed where his old body lay,

       All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,

       We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.

      Can I forget that miserable hour,

       When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,

       Peering above the trees, the steeple tower,

       That on his marriage-day sweet music made?

       Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,

       Close by my mother in their native bowers:

       Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, —

       I could not pray: — through tears that fell in showers,

       Glimmer’d our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

      There was a youth whom I had loved so long,

       That when I loved him not I cannot say.

       ‘Mid the green mountains many and many a song

       We two had sung, like little birds in May.

       When we began to tire of childish play

       We seemed still more and more to prize each other:

       We talked of marriage and our marriage day;

       And I in truth did love him like a brother,

       For never could I hope to meet with such another.

      His father said, that to a distant town

       He must repair, to ply the artist’s trade.

       What tears of bitter grief till then unknown!

       What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!

       To him we turned: — we had no other aid.

       Like one revived, upon his neck I wept,

       And her whom he had loved in joy, he said

       He well could love in grief: his faith he kept;

       And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

      Four years each day with daily bread was blest,

       By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.

       Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;

       And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,

       And knew not why. My happy father died

       When sad distress reduced the children’s meal:

       Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide

       The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,

       And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.

      ‘Twas a hard change, an evil time was come;

       We had no hope, and no relief could gain.

       But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum

       Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.

       My husband’s arms now only served to strain

       Me and his children hungering in his view:

       In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:

       To join those miserable men he flew;

       And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

      There foul neglect for months and months we bore,

       Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.

       Green fields before us and our native shore,

       By fever, from polluted air incurred,

       Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.

       Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,

       ‘Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr’d,

       That happier days we never more must view:

       The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew,

      But from delay the summer calms were past.

       On as we drove, the equinoctial deep

       Ran mountains — high before the howling blaft.

       We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep

       Of them that perished in the whirlwind’s sweep,

       Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,

       Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,

       That we the mercy of the waves should rue.

       We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.

      Oh! dreadful price of being to resign

       All that is dear in being! better far

       In Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine,

       Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;

       Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,

       Better our dying bodies to obtrude,

       Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,

       Protract a curst existence, with the brood

       That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother’s blood.

      The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,

       Disease and famine, agony and fear,

       In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,

       It would thy brain unsettle even to hear.

       All perished — all, in one remorseless year,

       Husband and children! one by one, by sword

       And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear

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