Труд, отягченный мелочным расчетом;                       Так думал он, вознесший волшебство                    Резных колонн и арок невесомых,                    Где радуги дрожат в цветных проемах,                    Где в полумраке музыка парит,                       Блуждая в сотах каменного свода, —                       Как мысли, коих сладость и свобода                       Нам о бессмертье духа говорит.

From 'THE POETICAL WORKS'

Из книги 'ПОЭТИЧЕСКИЕ ПРОИЗВЕДЕНИЯ'

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR

      I                      Smile of the Moon! — for so I name                      That silent greeting from above;                      A gentle flash of light that came                      From her whom drooping captives love;                      Or art thou of still higher birth?                      Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,                      My torpor to reprove!       II                      Bright boon of pitying Heaven! — alas,                      I may not trust thy placid cheer!                      Pondering that Time to-night will pass                      The threshold of another year;                      For years to me are sad and dull;                      My very moments are too full                      Of hopelessness and fear.       III                      And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,                      That struck perchance the farthest cone                      Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem                      To visit me, and me alone;                      Me, unapproached by any friend,                      Save those who to my sorrows lend                      Tears due unto their own.       IV                      To-night the church-tower bells will ring                      Through these wild realms a festive peal;                      To the new year a welcoming;                      A tuneful offering for the weal                      Of happy millions lulled in sleep;                      While I am forced to watch and weep,                      By wounds that may not heal.       V                      Born all too high, by wedlock raised                      Still higher — to be cast thus low!                      Would that mine eyes had never gazed                      On aught of more ambitious show                      Than the sweet flowerets of the fields                      — It is my royal state that yields                      This bitterness of woe.       VI                      Yet how? — for I, if there be truth                      In the world's voice, was passing fair;                      And beauty, for confiding youth,                      Those shocks of passion can prepare                      That kill the bloom before its time;                      And blanch, without the owner's crime,                      The most resplendent hair.       VII                      Unblest distinction! showered on me
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