The Prelude. William Wordsworth

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       Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

       But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on

       That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

       With me is now such passion, to be blamed

       No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

      When, as becomes a man who would prepare

       For such an arduous work, I through myself

       Make rigorous inquisition, the report

       Is often cheering; for I neither seem

       To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,

       Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort

       Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,

       Subordinate helpers of the living mind:

       Nor am I naked of external things,

       Forms, images, nor numerous other aids

       Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil

       And needful to build up a Poet's praise.

       Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these

       Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such

       As may be singled out with steady choice;

       ​No little band of yet remembered names

       Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope

       To summon back from lonesome banishment,

       And make them dwellers in the hearts of men

       Now living, or to live in future years.

       Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking

       Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,

       Will settle on some British theme, some old

       Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;

       More often turning to some gentle place

       Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe

       To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,

       Amid reposing knights by a river side

       Or fountain, listen to the grave reports

       Of dire enchantments faced and overcome

       By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,

       Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword

       Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry

       That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;

       Whence inspiration for a song that winds

       Through ever changing scenes of votive quest

       Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid

       To patient courage and unblemished truth,

       To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,

       And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

       ​Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate

       How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,

       And, hidden in the cloud of years, became

       Odin, the Father of a race by whom

       Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends

       And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain

       Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,

       And left their usages, their arts and laws,

       To disappear by a slow gradual death,

       To dwindle and to perish one by one,

       Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul

       Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years

       Survived, and, when the European came

       With skill and power that might not be withstood,

       Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold

       And wasted down by glorious death that race

       Of natural heroes: or I would record

       How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,

       Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,

       Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell,

       How that one Frenchman,(¹) through continued force Of meditation on the inhuman deeds Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles, Went single in his ministry across The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed, ​But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty. Sometimes it suits me better to invent A tale from my own heart, more near akin To my own passions and habitual thoughts; Some variegated story, in the main Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts Before the very sun that brightens it, Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish, My best and favourite aspiration, mounts With yearning toward some philosophic song Of Truth that cherishes our daily life; With meditations passionate from deep Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre; But from this awful burthen I full soon Take refuge and beguile myself with trust ​That mellower years will bring a riper mind And clearer insight. Thus my days are past In contradiction; with no skill to part Vague longing, haply bred by want of power, From paramount impulse not to be withstood, A timorous capacity from prudence, From circumspection, infinite delay. Humility and modest awe themselves Betray me, serving often for a cloak To a more subtle selfishness; that now Locks every function up in blank reserve, Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye That with intrusive restlessness beats off Simplicity and self-presented truth. Ah! better far than this, to stray about Voluptuously through fields and rural walks, And ask no record of the hours, resigned To vacant musing, unreproved neglect Of all things, and deliberate holiday. Far better never to have heard the name Of zeal and just ambition, than to live Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again, Then feels immediately some hollow thought Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. ​This is my lot; for either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, Like a false steward who hath much received And renders nothing back. Was it for this СКАЧАТЬ