Читать книгу The Tatler - Joseph Addison - Страница 58

According to our late design in the applauded verses on the Morning,¹⁸⁷ which you lately had from hence, we proceed to improve that just intention, and present you with other labours, made proper to the place in which they were written. The following poem comes from Copenhagen, and is as fine a winter-piece as we have ever had from any of the schools of the most learned painters. Such images as these give us a new pleasure in our sight, and fix upon our minds traces of reflection, which accompany us whenever the like objects occur. In short, excellent poetry and description dwell upon us so agreeably, that all the readers of them are made to think, if not write, like men of wit. But it would be injury to detain you longer from this excellent performance, which is addressed to the Earl of Dorset by Mr. Philips,¹⁸⁸ the author of several choice poems in Mr. Tonson's new Miscellany.¹⁸⁹

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

From frozen climes, and endless tracks of snow,

From streams that northern winds forbid to flow;

What present shall the muse to Dorset bring;

Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing?

The hoary winter here conceals from sight

All pleasing objects that to verse invite.

The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,

The flowery plains, and silver streaming floods,

By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie,

And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring,

No birds within the desert region sing.

The ships unmoved the boisterous winds defy,

While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.

The vast leviathan wants room to play,

And spout his waters in the face of day.

The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,

And to the moon in icy valleys howl.

For many a shining league the level main

Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:

There solid billows of enormous size,

Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen e'en here,

The winter in a lovely dress appear;

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,

Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow.

At evening a keen eastern breeze arose;

And the descending rain unsullied froze.

Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,

The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view

The face of nature in a rich disguise,

And brightened every object to my eyes.

For every shrub, and every blade of grass,

And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass,

In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,

While through the ice the crimson berries glow.

The thick-sprung reeds the watery marshes yield,

Seem polished lances in a hostile field.

The stag in limpid currents with surprise,

Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.

The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,

Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.

The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,

That wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise,

The brittle forest into atoms flies:

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,

And in a spangled shower the prospect ends.

Or if a southern gale the region warm,

And by degrees unbind the wintry charm;

The traveller a miry country sees,

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees.

Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads

Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious meads;

While here enchanted gardens to him rise,

And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,

His wandering feet the magic paths pursue;

And while he thinks the fair illusion true,

The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,

And woods and wilds, and thorny ways appear:

A tedious road the weary wretch returns,

And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.