'How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?' he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. — Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply: — 'As it befell, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. — Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short — and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. — When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again; That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet; — back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. — Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished To shelter from some object of her fear. — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone: — And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.'
Два года ранней юности своей Ты подарила дымным городам И с тихим прилежаньем научилась Ценить лишь те живые Существа, Какие жизнь проводят у камина; И потому-то сердцем не спешишь Ответить на расположенье тех, Кто с умилением глядит на горы И дружит с рощами и ручейками. Ты нас покинула, и все же мы, Живущие в укромной простоте Среди лесов и нив, не разлюбили Тебя, Джоанна! Я бы поручился, Что после долгих месяцев разлуки Ты с радостью бы услыхала некий Обычный наш пустячный разговор И подивилась верным чувствам тех, С кем ты бывала счастлива когда-то. Тому дней десять — я сидел в тиши Под соснами, сомкнувшимися гордо Над старой колокольней, и Викарий Оставил мрачное свое жилище И, поздоровавшись со мной, спросил: 'Что слышно про строптивую Джоанну? Не собирается ль она вернуться?'
