Созданьем зыбкой красоты
Казались мне ее черты,
Когда, ниспослана судьбой,
Она возникла предо мной:
От звезд полночных — блеск очей,
От ночи летней — смоль кудрей,
А май беспечный и рассвет
Дополнили ее портрет
Весельем чувственных проказ,
Таких губительных для нас.
Сия духовность — я узнал —
Не лишена земных начал:
Уверенность хозяйских рук
И девичьи движенья вдруг;
Лицо, в котором чистота
Со страстью пылкою слита;
А как выдерживать подчас
Потоки немудреных фраз,
Печаль, и смех, и ливень слез,
Признаний, клятвенных угроз?!
Теперь мой взор невозмутим,
И ясно предстает пред ним
Ее размеренность во всем,
Единство опыта с умом,
Уменье все перенести
На трудном жизненном пути;
Венец земных начал, она
Для дома Богом создана,
И все ж духовное нет-нет
Свой ангельский в ней явит свет.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Как тучи одинокой тень,
Бродил я, сумрачен и тих,
И встретил в тот счастливый день
Толпу нарциссов золотых.
В тени ветвей у синих вод
Они водили хоровод.
Подобно звездному шатру,
Цветы струили зыбкий свет
И, колыхаясь на ветру,
Мне посылали свой привет.
Их были тысячи вокруг,
И каждый мне кивал, как друг.
Была их пляска весела,
И видел я, восторга полн,
Что с ней сравниться не могла
Медлительная пляска волн.
Тогда не знал я всей цены
Живому золоту весны.
Но с той поры, когда впотьмах
Я тщетно жду прихода сна,
Я вспоминаю о цветах,
И, радостью осенена,
На том лесистом берегу
Душа танцует в их кругу.
Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:
You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies, wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:
Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.
Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right —
Of your fair household, Father-knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.
Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over hill and hollow,
With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.
Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:
Enough for him to find
The empty house when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!"
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.
Some close behind, some side to side,
Like clouds in stormy weather;
They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
And let us die together."
A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;
They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.
The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair,
By faeries all are buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.
