Читать книгу Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2 - William Wordsworth - Страница 4

  In this still place, remote from men,

  Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;

  In this still place, where murmurs on

  But one meek Streamlet, only one:

  He sang of battles, and the breath

  Of stormy war, and violent death;

  And should, methinks, when all was past,

  Have rightfully been laid at last

  Where rocks were sudely heap'd, and rent

  As by a spirit turbulent;

  Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

  And every thing unreconciled;

  In some complaining, dim retreat,

  For fear and melancholy meet;

  But this is calm; there cannot be

  A more entire tranquillity.

  Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

  Or is it but a groundless creed?

  What matters it? I blame them not

  Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

  Was moved; and in this way express'd

  Their notion of it's perfect rest.

  A Convent, even a hermit's Cell

  Would break the silence of this Dell:

  It is not quiet, is not ease;

  But something deeper far than these:

  The separation that is here

  Is of the grave; and of austere

  And happy feelings of the dead:

  And, therefore, was it rightly said

  That Ossian, last of all his race!

  Lies buried in this lonely place.