Patrick Brontë (Патрик Бронте)

The Happy Cottagers

One sunny morn of May,
   When dressed in flowery green
The dewy landscape, charmed
   With Nature's fairest scene,
      In thoughtful mood
         I slowly strayed
      O'er hill and dale,
         Through bush and glade.

Throughout the cloudless sky
   Of light unsullied blue,
The larks their matins raised,
   Whilst on my dizzy view,
      Like dusky motes,
         They winged their way
      Till vanished in
         The blaze of day.

The linnets sweetly sang
   On every fragrant thorn,
Whilst from the tangled wood
   The blackbirds hailed the morn;
      And through the dew
         Ran here and there,
      But half afraid,
         The startled hare.

The balmy breeze just kissed
   The countless dewy gems
Which decked the yielding blade
   Or gilt the sturdy stems,
      And gently o'er
         The charmed sight
      A deluge shed
         Of trembling light.

A sympathetic glow
   Ran through my melting soul,
And calm and sweet delight
   O'er all my senses stole;
      And through my heart
         A grateful flood
      Of joy rolled on
         To Nature's God.

Time flew unheeded by,
   Till wearied and oppressed,
Upon a flowery bank
   I laid me down to rest;
      Beneath my feet
         A purling stream
      Ran glittering in
         The noontide beam.

I turned me round to view
   The lovely rural scene;
And, just at hand, I spied
   A cottage on the green;
      The street was clean,
         The walls were white,
      The thatch was neat,
         The window bright.

Bold chanticleer, arrayed
   In velvet plumage gay,
With many an amorous dame,
   Fierce strutted o'er the way;
      And motley ducks
         Were waddling seen,
      And drake with neck
         Of glossy green.

The latch I gently raised,
   And oped the humble door;
An oaken stool was placed
   On the neat sanded floor;
      An aged man
         Said with a smile,
      "You're welcome, sir:
         Come rest a while."

His coarse attire was clean,
   His manner rude yet kind:
His air, his words, and looks
   Showed a contented mind;
      Though mean and poor,
         Thrice happy he,
      As by our tale
         You soon shall see.

But don't expect to hear
   Of deeds of martial fame,
Or that our peasant mean
   Was born of rank or name,
      And soon will strut,
         As in romance,
      A knight and all
         In armour glance.

I sing of real life;
   All else is empty show--
To those who read a source
   Of much unreal woe:
      Pollution, too,
         Through novel-veins,
      Oft fills the mind
         With guilty stains.

Our peasant long was bred
   Affliction's meagre child,
Yet gratefully resigned,
   Loud hymning praises, smiled,
      And like a tower
         He stood unmoved,
      Supported by
         The God he loved.

His loving wife long since
   Was numbered with the dead
His son, a martial youth,
   Had for his country bled;
      And now remained
         One daughter fair,
      And only she,
         To soothe his care.

The aged man with tears
   Spoke of the lovely maid;
How earnestly she strove
   To lend her father aid,
      And as he ran
         Her praises o'er,
      She gently oped
         The cottage-door.

With vegetable store
   The table soon she spread,
And pressed me to partake;
   Whilst blushes rosy-red
      Suffused her face--
         The old man smiled,
      Well pleased to see
         His darling child.

With venerable air
   He then looked up to God,
A blessing craved on all,
   And on our daily food;
      Then kindly begged
         I would excuse
      Their humble fair,
         And not refuse.--

The tablecloth, though coarse,
   Was of a snowy white,
The vessels, spoons, and knives
   Were clean and dazzling bright;
      So down we sat
         Devoid of care,
      Nor envied kings
         Their dainty fare.

When nature was refreshed,
   And we familiar grown;
The good old man exclaimed,
   "Around Jehovah's throne,
      Come, let us all
         Our voices raise,
      And sing our great
         Redeemer's praise!"

Their artless notes were sweet,
   Grace ran through every line;
Their breasts with rapture swelled,
   Their looks were all divine:
      Delight o'er all
         My senses stole,
      And heaven's pure joy
         O'erwhelmed my soul.

When we had praised our God,
   And knelt around His throne,
The aged man began
   In deep and zealous tone,
      With hands upraised
         And heavenward eye,
      And prayed loud
         And fervently:

He prayed that for His sake,
   Whose guiltless blood was shed
For guilty ruined man,
   We might that day be fed
      With that pure bread
         Which cheers the soul,
      And living stream,
         Where pleasures roll.

He prayed long for all,
   And for his daughter dear,
That she, preserved from ill,
   Might lead for many a year
      A spotless life
         When he's no more;
      Then follow him
         To Canaan's shore.

His faltering voice then fell,
   His tears were dropping fast,
And muttering praise to God
   For all His mercies past,
      He closed his prayer
         Midst heavenly joys,
      And tasted bliss
         Which never cloys.

In sweet discourse we spent
   The fast declining day:
We spoke of Jesus' love,
   And of that narrow way
      Which leads, through care
         And toil below,
      To streams where joys
         Eternal flow.

The wondrous plan of Grace,
   Adoring, we surveyed,
The birth of heavenly skill--
   In Love Eternal laid--
      Too deep for clear
         Angelic ken,
      And far beyond
         Dim-sighted men.

To tell you all that passed
   Would far exceed my power;
Suffice it, then, to say,
   Joy winged the passing hour,
      Till, ere we knew,
         The setting day
      Had clad the world
         In silver grey.

I kindly took my leave,
   And blessed the happy lot
Of those I left behind
   Lodged in their humble cot;
      And pitied some
         In palace walls,
      Where pride torments,
         And pleasure palls.

The silver moon now shed
   A flood of trembling light
On tower, and tree, and stream;
   The twinkling stars shone bright,
      Nor misty stain
         Nor cloud was seen
      O'er all the deep
         Celestial green.

Mild was the lovely night,
   Nor stirred a whispering breeze.
Smooth was the glassy lake,
   And still the leafy trees;
      No sound in air
         Was heard afloat,
      Save Philomel's
         Sweet warbling note.

My thoughts were on the wing,
   And back my fancy fled
To where contentment dwelt
   In the neat humble shed;
      To shining courts
         From thence it ran,
      Where restless pride
         Oppresses man.

In fame some search for bliss,
   Some seek content in gain,
In search of happiness
   Some give the slackened rein
      To passions fierce,
         And down the stream
      Through giddy life,
         Of pleasures dream.

These all mistake the way,
   As many more have done:
The narrow path of bliss
   Through God's Eternal Son
      Directly tends;
         And only he
      Who treads this path
         Can happy be.

Who anchors all above
   Has still a happy lot,
Though doomed for life to dwell
   E'en in a humble cot,
      And when he lays
         This covering down
      He'll wear a bright
         Immortal crown.

1. To the Rev. J. Gilpin, on His Improved Edition of the ”Pilgrim'S Progress”
2. The Cottager's Hymn
3. Epistle to the Rev. J--- B---, Whilst Journeying for the Recovery of His Health
4. Epistle to the Labouring Poor
5. Verses Sent to a Lady on Her Birthday

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