'Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!..'

               Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!                Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night;                But studious only to remove from sight                Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power!                Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower,                To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest                Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest                On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower                Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen                The self-same Vision which we now behold,                At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth;                These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;                The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old                As the beginning of the heavens and earth!

'О Сумрак, предвечерья государь…'[85]

                    О Сумрак, предвечерья государь!                     Халиф на час, ты Тьмы ночной щедрее,                     Когда стираешь, над землею рея,                     Все преходящее. — О древний царь!                     Не так ли за грядой скалистой встарь                     Мерцал залив, когда в ложбине хмурой                     Косматый бритт, покрытый волчьей шкурой,                     Устраивал себе ночлег? Дикарь,                     Что мог узреть он в меркнущем просторе                     Пред тем, как сном его глаза смежило? —                     То, что доныне видим мы вдали:                     Подкову темных гор, и это море,                     Прибой и звезды — все, что есть и было                     От сотворенья неба и земли.

From the Prologue to 'PETER BELL'

Отрывок из пролога к поэме 'ПИТЕР БЕЛЛ'

'There's something in a flying horse…'

                    There's something in a flying horse,                     There's something in a huge balloon;                     But through the clouds I'll never float                     Until I have a little Boat,                     Shaped like the crescent-moon.                     And now I _have_ a little Boat,                     In shape a very crescent-moon                     Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;                     But if perchance your faith should fail,                     Look up — and you shall see me soon!                     The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,                     Rocking and roaring like a sea;                     The noise of danger's in your ears,                     And ye have all a thousand fears                     Both for my little Boat and me!                     Meanwhile untroubled I admire                     The pointed horns of my canoe;                     And, did not pity touch my breast,                     To see how ye are all distrest,                     Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!                     Away we go, my Boat and I —                     Frail man ne'er sate in such another;                     Whether among the winds we strive,                     Or deep into the clouds we dive,                     Each is contented with the other.                     Away we go — and what care we                     For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
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