მთარგმნელი: მედეა ზაალიშვილი

უილიამ უორდსუორთი

შვიდნი ვართ ჩვენა

უმანკო ბავშვი,

ლაღად რომ სუნთქავს,

სიცოცხლის ძალა რომ ფეთქავს მასში,

რა გაეგება სიკვდილის არსის?

ერთხელ, შემოვხვდი გლეხის გოგონას,

--რვა წლისა ვარო, მითხრა პატარამ,

ხშირი თმა ჰქონდა, კულულთა კონა

მის თავს ამკობდა გვირგვინის დარად.

უბრალო, ტყის შვილს გავდა იერით,

ტანთ კი უხეში სამოსი ეცვა,

იყო ისეთი თვალმშვენიერი,

რომ სიხარული გამიათკეცა.

პატარა ქალო, თუ გყავს და ან ძმა?

სულ რამდენი ხართ? აბა, მითხარი!

--სულ რამდენი ვართ? შვიდნი ვართ,- თქვა მან

და გაოცებით მომაპყრო თვალი.

თქვი, სად არიან? გთხოვ, რომ მიამბო.

-- შვიდნი ვართ, როგორც გითხარით მაშინ,

ორი კონვეის მხარეში სახლობს,

ორი კი არის გასული ზღვაში.

და აქ კი წვანან საფლავში ორნი,

ერთი დაა და ერთიც ჩემი ძმა,

მე და დედა კი ვცხოვრობთ იმ ქოხში,

აი, იქ რომ დგას საფლავებს მიღმა.

ამბობ, რომ ორი კონვეიშია,

ორი კი არის გასული ზღვაში,

მაინც შვიდნი ხართ?! როგორ გგონია,

რამდენი დარჩით და-ძმანი მაშინ?

შემეპასუხა პატარა ქალი,

- გოგო-ბიჭები ვართ ერთად შვიდნი,

აქ, ჩემი და-ძმის არის საფლავი,

იქვე ხეს არწევს ნიავი მშვიდი.

პატარა ქალო, დარბიხარ მარდად

და არ გეღლება ხელ-ფეხი გარჯით

და თუკი ორნი საფლავში წვანან,

მაშინ ხომ მარტო ხუთნიღა დარჩით?

-- მწვანეა მათი საფლავი ახლა, აქ შეიძლება იმათი ნახვა,

ასე მომიგო პატარა ქალმა,

-- თორმეტიოდე ნაბიჯი დარჩა, რომ დედაჩემის მივიდეთ კართან

და ისინი ხომ გვერდი-გვერდ წვანან.

ჩემს წინდებს ვკემსავ მათ ახლოს ხშირად,

ან ვკეცავ ქობას ჩემი თავსაფრის,

იქვე, მიწაზე მათ ახლოს ვზივარ

და თან სიმღერებს ვღიღინებ მათთვის.

სერ, ხშირად, როცა მზე უკვე ჩადის,

ჯერ სინათლეა, საამოდ თბილა,

მომაქვს პატარა ფიალა ფაფით,

იქ შევექცევი ჩემს ვახშამს ტკბილად.

ჯერ გარდიცვალა ჩემი და ჯეინ,

იწვა და მისი გვესმოდა კვნესა,

ვიდრე ტკივილი დაუცხრო ღმერთმა

და მისი სული მიიღო ზეცამ.

ის სასაფლაოს მიწას მიბარდა

და როცა გახმა ბალახი, მაშინ,

ჯეინთან ახლოს ყოფნა გვიყვარდა,

მეც ვხალისობდი ჯონთან თამაშით.

მერე კი თოვლმა დაფარა არე,

რბენით, სრიალით ვერ ვგრძნობდით დაღლას,

ჩემი ძმა ჯონიც წავიდა მალე,

ჯეინის გვერდით წევს ისიც ახლა.

მაშ რამდენი ხართ?-- ვიკითხე ისევ,

თქვენთაგან ორი თუ იხმო ზენამ?

პატარა ქალმა მომიგო მყისვე,

-- ო, მისტერ, ხომ ვთქვი, შვიდნი ვართ ჩვენა!

-- მაგრამ, ისინი აღარ არიან; აღარ არიან ის ორნი თქვენთან,

მათი სულები მიიღო ზენამ!

ამაოდ ვხარჯე სიტყვები, რადგან, პატარა ქალი თავისას ადგა,

იძახდა, --არა, შვიდნი ვართ ჩვენა!

Lucy Gray [or Solitude]

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

And when I cross'd the Wild,
I chanc'd to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wild Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the Town must go,
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother thro' the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do;

'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon."

At this the Father rais'd his hook

And snapp'd a faggot-band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,

She wander'd up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reach'd the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the Moor;
And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood
A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd

"In Heaven we all shall meet!"
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge

They track'd the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross'd,

The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost,
And to the Bridge they came.

They follow'd from the snowy bank

The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,
And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living Child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

The Last of the Flock

In distant countries have I been,

And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had.

II

He saw me, and he turned aside,

As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, 'My friend,
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?'
--'Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock,

III

'When I was young, a single man,

And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.

IV

'Year after year my stock it grew;

And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
--This lusty Lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.

V
'Six Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the uplands fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.
'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

VI

'I sold a sheep, as they had said,

And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food
For me--it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--
For me it was a woeful day.

VII

'Another still! and still another!

A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped--
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
'Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one
And I may say, that many a time
I wished they all were gone--
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past.

VIII

'To wicked deeds I was inclined,

And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;
And, crazily and wearily
I went my work about;
And oft was moved to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

IX

'Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,

As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

X
 'They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;--
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;--
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock.'

The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
 Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern
Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye
during a Tour. July 13, 1798

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, not any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!