Robert W. Service. Robert W. Service

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ … or else in the tented town

      Seeking a drunkard’s solace, sinking and sinking down;

      Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world.

      Lost ’mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled;

      In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare,

      Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare;

      Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies,

      In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.

      Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive,

      Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive.

      “But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would ’stablish my fame

      Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honour, not shame;

      Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go,

      Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;

      Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks,

      Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.

      I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods;

      Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods,

      Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst,

      Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first;

      Visioning campfires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn,

      Feeling my womb o’er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.

      Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway,

      And I wait for the men who will win me — and I will not be won in a day;

      And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild,

      But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child;

      Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat,

      Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat.

      “Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise,

      With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, passionless eyes;

      Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day,

      When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away;

      Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave —

      Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep on their path and I stamp them into a grave.

      Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good,

      Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood,

      Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled,

      As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world.”

      This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive;

      That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.

      Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,

      This is the Will of the Yukon, — Lo, how she makes it plain!

      The Spell of the Yukon

      I wanted the gold, and I sought it;

      I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

      Was it famine or scurvy — I fought it;

      I hurled my youth into a grave.

      I wanted the gold, and I got it —

      Came out with a fortune last fall, —

      Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,

      And somehow the gold isn’t all.

      No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)

      It’s the cussedest land that I know,

      From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it

      To the deep, deathlike valleys below.

      Some say God was tired when He made it;

      Some say it’s a fine land to shun;

      Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it

      For no land on earth — and I’m one.

      You come to get rich (damned good reason);

      You feel like an exile at first;

      You hate it like hell for a season,

      And then you are worse than the worst.

      It grips you like some kinds of sinning;

      It twists you from foe to a friend;

      It seems it’s been since the beginning;

      It seems it will be to the end.

      I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow

      That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;

      I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow

      In crimson and gold, and grow dim,

      Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,

      And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;

      And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,

      With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

      The summer — no sweeter was ever;

      The sunshiny woods all athrill;

      The grayling aleap in the river,

      The bighorn asleep on the hill.

      The strong life that never knows harness;

      The wilds where the caribou call;

      The freshness, the freedom, the farness —

СКАЧАТЬ