KING HENRY V AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. He pass'd unquestion'd through the camp, Their heads the soldiers bent In silent reverence, or begg'd A blessing as he went; And so the Hermit pass'd along And reached the royal tent. King Henry sate in his tent alone, The map before him lay, Fresh conquests he was planning there To grace the future day. King Henry lifted up his eyes The intruder to behold; With reverence he the hermit saw, For the holy man was old, His look was gentle as a Saint's, And yet his eye was bold. "Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs Which thou hast done this land! O King, repent in time, for know The judgement is at hand. "I have pass'd forty years of peace Beside the river Blaise, But what a weight of woe hast thou Laid on my latter days! "I used to see along the stream The white sail gliding down, That wafted food in better times To yonder peaceful town. "Henry! I never now behold The white sail gliding down; Famine, Disease, and Death, and Thou Destroy that wretched town. "I used to hear the traveller's voice As here he pass'd along, Or maiden as she loiter'd home Singing her even-song. "No traveller's voice may now be heard, In fear he hastens by; But I have heard the village maid In vain for succour cry. "I used to see the youths row down And watch the dripping oar, As pleasantly their viol's tones Came soften'd to the shore. "King Henry, many a blacken'd corpse I now see floating down! Thou man of blood! repent in time, And leave this leaguer'd town." "I shall go on," King Henry cried, "And conquer this good land; Seest thou not, Hermit, that the Lord Hath given it to my hand?" The Hermit heard King Henry speak, And angrily look'd down;. His face was gentle, and for that More solemn was his frown. "What if no miracle from Heaven The murderer's arm controul, Think you for that the weight of blood Lies lighter on his soul? "Thou conqueror King, repent in time Or dread the coming woe! For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat, And soon shalt feel the blow!" King Henry forced a careless smile, As the hermit went his way; But Henry soon remember'd him Upon his dying day. О, Валентин[20] О, Валентин, скажи той деве милой, Чей образ до сих пор в моих мечтах, Что вновь я здесь, в тени густой, унылой, И ночи мрак печален как монах. Что в жизни я своей уединённой Страдаю каждый вечер в тишине, И слушаю тоскливо перезвоны, Поющие ей так же как и мне. Скажи, что я вздыхаю от мученья, Чарующий представив силуэт, Глаз волшебство в своём воображенье, И на щеках улыбки дивный свет; В тот час, когда стихает в роще звук, Любви своей я чувствую недуг. Go, Valentine Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, How here I linger in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull monastic night; Say, that every joy of life remote At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, Listening in solitude the ring-dome's note, Who pours like me her solitary song; Say, that of her absence calls the sorrowing sigh; Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, In fancy feel the magic of her eye, In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove, And heave the sigh of memory and of love Порлок![21] Порлок! Ты чуден зеленью долин, Грядою скал, где папоротник с дроком, Журчащих вод стремительным потоком Среди лесов, где путник мог один Мечтам предаться, и седой канал, Где в твой залив, крутясь волной, впадал. Не позабыть тебя, Порлок! Там летний дождь меня схватил в объятья; Но буду постоянно вспоминать я Как здесь, спокойный узник, одинок, Дня окончанье тщетно ожидал, И создал свой сонет в пивной, где Ленью Был вдохновлён, и где в Уединенье Уныние рифмовкой прогонял. PORLOCK! Porlock! thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown, The waters that roll musically down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Recalls to memory, and the channel grey Circling its surges in thy level bay. Porlock! I shall forget thee not, Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined; But often shall hereafter call to mind How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot To wear the lonely, lingering close of day, Making my sonnet by the alehouse fire, Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away. |
