Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “Nuremberg”

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Nuremberg In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “Mezzo Cammin”

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Mezzo Cammin Half of my life is gone, and I have left The years slipped from me and have not fulfilled The aspiration of my youth, to build Some tower of song with lofty parapet. Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret Of restless passions that would not be stilled, But sorrow and a care that almost killed, Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; Though half-way up the hill, I see the Past Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,- A city in the twilight dim and vast, With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,- And … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “The Arrow and the Song”

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The Arrow and the Song I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) Стрела … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “The day is done…”

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* * * The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain. And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow «The Slave’s Dream»

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The Slave’s Dream Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair’ Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand! — A tear burst from … Читать далее →

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow «EXELSIOR!»

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Стихотворение американского поэта и переводчика Генри Лонгфелло (1807 – 1882) «Excelsior!» (Excelsior — Вперед и выше! (лат.)) на английском языке и в трёх переводах на русский язык. EXELSIOR! The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral … Читать далее →

Henry W. Longfellow «Psalm of Life»

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Стихотворение американского поэта и переводчика Генри Лонгфелло (1807 – 1882) «Псалом Жизни» (Psalm of Life) на английском и русском языках. Psalm of Life What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, … Читать далее →