George Crabbe (Джордж Крэбб)

Solitude

  [September, 1772.]

  Free from envy, strife and sorrow,
    Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears;
  Free from thoughts of what to-morrow
    May o'er-charge the soul with cares--

  Live I in a peaceful valley,
    By a neighbouring lonely wood;
  Giving way to melancholy,
    (Joy, when better understood).

  Near me ancient ruins falling
    From a worn-out castle's brow;
  Once the greatest [chiefs] installing,
    Where are all their honours now?

  Here in midnight's gloomy terror
    I enjoy the silent night;
  Darkness shews the soul her error,
    Darkness leads to inward light.

  Here I walk in meditation,
    Pond'ring all sublunar things,
  From the silent soft persuasion,
    Which from virtue's basis springs.

  What, says truth, are pomp and riches?
    Guilded baits to folly lent;
  Honour, which the soul bewitches,
    When obtain'd, we may repent.

  By me plays the stream meand'ring
    Slowly, as its waters glide;
  And, in gentle murmurs wand'ring,
    Lulls to downy rest my pride.

  Silent as the gloomy graves are
    Now the mansions once so loud;
  Still and quiet as the brave, or
    All the horrors of a croud.

  This was once the seat of plunder,
    Blood of heroes stain'd the floor;
  Heroes, nature's pride and wonder,
    Heroes heard of now no more.

  Owls and ravens haunt the buildings,
    Sending gloomy dread to all;
  Yellow moss the summit yielding,
    Pellitory decks the wall.

  Time with rapid speed still wanders,
    Journies on an even pace;
  Fame of greatest actions squanders,
    But perpetuates disgrace.

  Sigh not then for pomp or glory;
    What avails a heroe's name?
  Future times may tell your story,
    To your then disgrace and shame.

  Chuse some humble cot as this is,
    In sweet philosophic ease;
  With dame Nature's frugal blisses
    Live in joy, and die in peace.

          G. EBBARE.

1. To a Lady, on Leaving Her at Sidmouth
2. Lines Written at Warwick
3. On the Death of William Springall Levett
4. Concluding Lines of Prize Poem on Hope
5. Cupid

Archibald Lampman (Арчибальд Лампмен) Solitude ("HOW still it is here in the woods. The trees")

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