Отец мой бедный! Все твои друзья Ушли из жизни, и помочь едва ль Могла мне мужа мертвого семья. На них и не рассчитывала я. К труду была я тоже не годна. Часами, слезы горькие лия, Сидела у дороги я, одна, Безвыходной тоской угнетена. И, небеса в жестокости виня, Кормилась я лишь милостью полей Да тем, что оставляло для меня Небрежное сочувствие людей. Поля постелью сделались моей. Но гордая душа средь этих бед Оскорблена была всего больней. И чистой веры ясных юных лет В добро и правду в ней давно уж нет. Уже три года так скитаюсь я, Сквозь слезы наблюдая всякий раз, Как уплывает солнце в те края, Где первая беда со мной стряслась. Скажи, куда мне путь держать сейчас? Нет у меня ни близких, ни друзей! …Заплакав, прервала она рассказ. И нечего сказать уж было ей О неизбывной горести своей.
THE FEMALE VAGRANT
By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, (The Woman thus her artless story told) One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. My father was a good and pious man, An honest man by honest parents bred, And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. The staff I yet remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd; My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd. The suns of twenty summers danced along, — Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, And cottage after cottage owned its sway, No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray Through pastures not his own, the master took; My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; He loved his old hereditary nook, And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold. His troubles grew upon him day by day, Till all his substance fell into decay.
