Природа в этом месте умирает».«Седой пастух, ты хорошо сказал;Но мы различны нашим пониманьем:Когда Олень особенный здесь пал,Он был оплакан горним состраданьем.Ведь Дух, что устремился к облакам,Что проникает рощи и низовья,Относится к безвинным существамС благоговейной отческой любовью.Дворец утехи — тлен: тогда, потом,Но это всё ж не светопреставленье;Природа вновь одним весенним днёмПроявит здесь и прелесть, и цветенье.А все столпы исчезнут в свой черёд,Что видим мы, о чём когда-то знали;Когда же день спокойствия придёт,Все монументы зарастут в печали.Один урок! но поделён на два,Природа учит явно нас и скрыто:Чтоб с муками живого существаСпесь и утеха не были бы слиты.
Hart-Leap Well
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley MoorWith the slow motion of a summer's cloud,And now, as he approached a vassal's door,'Bring forth another horse!' he cried aloud.'Another horse!' — That shout the vassal heardAnd saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;Sir Walter mounted him; he was the thirdWhich he had mounted on that glorious day.Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;The horse and horseman are a happy pair;But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,There is a doleful silence in the air.A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,That as they galloped made the echoes roar;But horse and man are vanished, one and all;Such race, I think, was never seen before.Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them onWith suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?The bugles that so joyfully were blown?— This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.The poor Hart toils along the mountainside;I will not stop to tell how far he fled,Nor will I mention by what death he died;But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
