Читать книгу Fringilla - R. D. Blackmore, Richard Doddridge Blackmore - Страница 1

    Thou feeble implement of mind,

      Wherewith she strove to scrawl her

        name;

    But, like a mitcher, left behind

      No signature, no stroke, no claim,

        No hint that she hath pined—

    Shall ever come a stronger time,

        When thou shalt be a tool of skill,

      And steadfast purpose, to fulfil

    A higher task than rhyme?

    Thou puny instrument of soul,

      Wherewith she labours to impart

    Her efforts at some arduous goal;

      But fails to bring thy coarser art

        Beneath a fine control—

      Shall ever come a fairer day,

        When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,

        To soar, where clearer suns illume,

      And fresher breezes play?

     Thou weak interpreter of heart,

       So impotent to tell the tale

     Of love's delight, of envy's smart,

       Of passion, and ambition's bale,

         Of pride that dwells apart—

       Shall I, in length of time, attain

         (By walking in the human ways,

          With love of Him, who made and sways)

       To ply thee, less in vain?

     If so, thou shalt be more to me

       Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;

     With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,

       Despising gold, and sham renown;

         But truthful, kind, and free—

       Then come; though now a pithless quill,

         Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,—

         In time, thou shalt be taught to write,

       By patience, and good-will.