Joaquin (Cincinnatus Hiner) Miller (Хоакин (Цинциннат Хайнер) Миллер)

Burns

I LINGER in the autumn noon,
I listen to the partridge call,
I watch the yellow leaflets fall
And drift adown the dimpled Doon.
I lean me o’er the ivy-grown
Old brig, where Vandal tourists’ tools
Have ribbed out names that would be known,
Are known,—known as a herd of fools.

Down Ailsa Craig the sun declines,
  With lances levelled here and there,—	 
The tinted thorns! the trailing vines!
  O braes of Doon! so fond, so fair!
So passing fair, so more than fond!
The Poet’s place of birth beyond,
  Beyond the mellow bells of Ayr!

  I hear the milkmaid’s twilight song
Come bravely through the storm-bent oaks;
Beyond, the white surf’s sullen strokes
  Beat in a chorus deep and strong;
I hear the sounding forge afar,
And rush and rumble of the car,
  The steady tinkle of the bell
Of lazy, laden, home-bound cows
That stop to bellow and to browse;
  I breathe the soft sea-wind as well,
And now would fain arouse, arise;
I count the red lights in the skies;
  I yield as to a fairy spell.

  Heard ye the feet of flying horse?
Heard ye the bogles in the air
That clutch at Tam O’Shanter’s mare,
  That flies this mossy brig across?

*        *        *        *        *

  O Burns! another name for song,
Another name for passion,—pride;
For love and poesy allied;
For strangely blended right and wrong.

  I picture you as one who kneeled
A stranger at his own hearthstone;
One knowing all, yet all unknown,
One seeing all, yet all concealed;
The fitful years you lingered here,
A lease of peril and of pain;
And I am thankful yet again
The gods did love you, ploughman! peer!

  In all your own and other lands,
I hear your touching songs of cheer;
The peasant and the lordly peer
Above your honored dust strike hands.

  A touch of tenderness is shown
In this unselfish love of Ayr,
And it is well, you earned it fair;
For all unhelmeted, alone,
You proved a ploughman’s honest claim
To battle in the lists of fame;
You earned it as a warrior earns
His laurels fighting for his land,
And died,—it was your right to go.
O eloquence of silent woe!
The Master leaning reached a hand,
And whispered, “It is finished, Burns!”	

  O sad, sweet singer of a Spring!
Yours was a chill, uncheerful May,
And you knew no full days of June;
You ran too swiftly up the way,
And wearied soon, so over-soon!
You sang in weariness and woe;
You faltered, and God heard you sing,
Then touched your hand and led you so,
You found life’s hill-top low, so low,
You crossed its summit long ere noon.
Thus sooner than one would suppose
Some weary feet will find repose.

1. Don't Stop at the Station Despair
2. Dead in the Sierras
3. The Sierra Nevadas
4. Twilight at the Heights
5. California on the Passing of Tennyson

Fitz-Greene Halleck (Фиц-Грин Халлек) Burns ("WILD ROSE of Alloway! my thanks")

Тема стихотворения (Poem Theme): Robert Burns (Роберт Бернс)

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1635

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