William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

Processions

Suggested on a Sabbath Morning 
in the Vale of Chamouny

TO appease the gods, or public thanks to yield,
Or to solicit knowledge of events
Which in her breast Futurity concealed,
And that the Past might have its true intents
Feelingly told by living monuments,—
Mankind of yore were prompted to devise
Rites such as yet Persepolis presents
Graven on her cankered walls, solemnities
That moved in long array before admiring eyes.
 
The Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state
Thick boughs of palm, and willows from the brook,
Marched round the altar, to commemorate
How, when their course they through the desert took,
Guided by signs which ne’er the sky forsook,
They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low;
Green boughs were borne, while, for the blast that shook
Down to the earth the walls of Jericho,
Shouts rise, and storms of sound from lifted trumpets blow!

And thus, in order, mid the sacred grove
Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells,
The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove
Provoked responses with shrill canticles;
While, in a ship begirt with silver bells,
They round his altar bore the hornéd God,
Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells
Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode,
When universal sea the mountains overflowed.

Why speak of Roman pomps? the haughty claims
Of chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars;
The feast of Neptune,—and the Cereal Games,
With images, and crowns, and empty cars;
The dancing Salii,—on the shields of Mars
Smiting with fury; and a deeper dread
Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars
Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head
Of Cybelé was seen, sublimely turreted!
 
At length a spirit more subdued and soft
Appeared to govern Christian pageantries:
The cross, in calm procession borne aloft,
Moved to the chant of sober litanies.
Even such, this day, came wafted on the breeze
From a long train,—in hooded vestments fair
Enwrapt,—and winding, between Alpine trees
Spiry and dark, around their house of prayer,
Below the icy bed of bright Argentiere.	

Still in the vivid freshness of a dream,
The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes!
Still, with those white-robed shapes,—a living stream,—
The glacier pillars join in solemn guise
For the same service, by mysterious ties;
Numbers exceeding credible account
Of number, pure and silent votaries
Issuing or issued from a wintry fount;
The impenetrable heart of that exalted mount!

They, too, who send so far a holy gleam	
While they the church engird with motion slow,
A product of that awful mountain seem,
Poured from his vaults of everlasting snow;
Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row,
Not swans descending with the stealthy tide,
A livelier sisterly resemblance show,
Than the fair forms, that in long order glide,
Bear to the glacier band,—those shapes aloft descried.
 
Trembling, I look upon the secret springs
Of that licentious craving in the mind
To act the God among external things,
To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind;
And marvel not that antique Faith inclined
To crowd the world with metamorphosis,
Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned;
Such insolent temptations wouldst thou miss,
Avoid these sights, nor brood o’er fable’s dark abyss!

1. Сыновьям Бернса после посещения могилы их отца • To the Sons of Burns
2. Monument of Mrs. Howard
3. The Glen of Loch Etive
4. In the Sound of Mull
5. Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm

Lewis Morris (Льюис Моррис) Processions ("To and fro, to and fro")

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