Читать книгу The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14 - Robert Louis Stevenson - Страница 62

The year runs through her phases; rain and sun,

Spring-time and summer pass; winter succeeds;

But one pale season rules the house of death.

Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease

By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep

Toss gaping on the pillows.

But O thou!

Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow,

Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring

The swallows follow over land and sea.

Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes,

Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees

His flock come bleating home; the seaman hears

Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!

Youth, love, and roses blossom; the gaunt ward

Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out,

Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond

Of mountains.

Small the pipe; but O! do thou,

Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein

The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick,

These dying, sound the triumph over death.

Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy

Unknown before, in dying; for each knows

A hero dies with him – though unfulfilled,

Yet conquering truly – and not dies in vain.

So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house

Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again —

O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard

And the deliverer, touch the stops again!