The old inventive Poets, had they seen,

               Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains

               Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains —

               The still repose, the liquid lapse serene,

               Transferred to bowers imperishably green,

               Had beautified Elysium! But these chains

               Will soon be broken;-a rough course remains,

               Rough as the past; where Thou, of placid mien,

               Innocuous as a firstling of the flock,

               And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky,

               Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock

               Given and received in mutual jeopardy,

               Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock,

               Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!

                      Когда б седые барды были живы

                      И видели тебя, о Деддон мой,

                      Они б Элизием назвали берег твой.

                      Оставил ты свой прежний вид бурливый,

                      И меж цветов ползут твои извивы

                      Вдоль по равнине светлою струей —

                      Но, видно, чужд тенистых рощ покой

                      Твоей волне свободной и шумливой.

                      И ты, ягненка робкого смирней,

                      Огнем небес отсвечивавший чистым,

                      Вмиг забываешь тишину полей,

                      Преграды рвешь в своем теченье быстром

                      И, как вакханка, пляшешь средь камней,

                      Неистово размахивая тирсом.

                I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide.

                As being past away. - Vain sympathies!

                For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

                I see what was, and is, and will abide;

                Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;

                The Form remains, the Function never dies;

                While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise;

                We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

                The elements, must vanish; — be it so!

                Enough, if something from our hands have power

                To live, and act, and serve the future hour;

                And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

                Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent

                                                               dower.

                We feel that we are greater than we know.

                    В прощальный час, мой друг и спутник мой,

                    Иду к тебе. — Напрасное влеченье!

                    Я вижу, Даддон, все в твоем теченье,

                    Что было, есть и будет впредь со мной.

                       Ты катишь воды, вечный, озорной,

                       Даруешь вечно жизнь и обновленье,

                       А мы — мы сила, мудрость, устремленье,

                       Мы с юных лет зовем стихии в бой,

                    И все-таки мы смертны. — Да свершится!

                    Но не обижен, кто хоть малый срок

                    Своим трудом служить потомству мог,

                       Кто и тогда, когда близка гробница,

                       Любовь, Надежду, Веру — все сберег.

                       Не выше ль он, чем смертным это мнится!

                    A Pilgrim, when the summer day

                    Had closed upon his weary way,

                    A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;

                    But him the haughty Warder spurned;

                    And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,

                    To seek such covert as the field

                    Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,

                    Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

                    He paced along; and, pensively,

                    Halting beneath a shady tree,

                    Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,

                    Fixed on a Star his upward eye;

                    Then, from the tenant of the sky

                    He turned, and watched with kindred look,

                    A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,

                    Apparent at his feet.

                    The murmur of a neighbouring stream

                    Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,

                    A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds

                    He recognised the earth-born Star,

                    And _That_ which glittered from afar;

                    And (strange to witness!) from the frame

                    Of the ethereal Orb, there came

                    Intelligible sounds.

                    Much did it taunt the humble Light

                    That now, when day was fled, and night

                    Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,

                    A very reptile could presume

                    To show her taper in the gloom,

                    As if in rivalship with One

                    Who sate a ruler on his throne

                    Erected in the skies.

                    "Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,

                    "Abate this unbecoming pride,

                    Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;

                    Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays

                    Are mastered by the breathing haze;

                    While neither mist, nor thickest cloud

                    That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,

                    Hath power to injure mine.

                    But not for this do I aspire

                    To match the spark of local fire,

                    That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,

                    With thy acknowledged glories;-No!

                    Yet, thus upbraided, I may show

                    What favours do attend me here,

                    Till, like thyself, I disappear

                    Before the purple dawn."

                    When this in modest guise was said,

                    Across the welkin seemed to spread

                    A boding sound-for aught but sleep unfit!

                    Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;

                    That Star, so proud of late, looked wan;

                    And reeled with visionary stir

                    In the blue depth, like Lucifer

                    Cast headlong to the pit!

                    Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor

                    Of ancient ether was no more,

                    New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth:

                    And all the happy Souls that rode

                    Transfigured through that fresh abode,

                    Had heretofore, in humble trust,

                    Shone meekly 'mid their native dust,

                    The Glow-worms of the earth!

                    This knowledge, from an Angel's voice

                    Proceeding, made the heart rejoice

                    Of Him who slept upon the open lea:

                    Waking at morn he murmured not;

                    And, till life's journey closed, the spot

                    Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,

                    Where by that dream he had been cheered

                    Beneath the shady tree.