Избранная лирика

                         Отчаянью покорен,
                         Киркой, дрожавшею в руках,
                         Рубил он крепкий корень.

                         'О, милый Саймон, — молвил я, —
                         Позволь, тебе я помогу!'
                         И, облегченья не тая,
                         Он мне отдал кирку.
                         И узловатый корень враз
                         С размаху сокрушил я,
                         Одним ударом завершив
                         Столь долгие усилья.

                         Тут слез не удержал старик,
                         И благодарность, и восторг
                         С внезапной силой в тот же миг
                         Он из души исторг.
                         Увы, сердечностью такой
                         Мне редко отвечали.
                         От благодарности людской
                         Я чаще был в печали.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT

                   I have a boy of five years old,
                   His face is fair and fresh to see;
                   His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
                   And dearly he loves me.

                   One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
                   Our quiet house all full in view,
                   And held such intermitted talk
                   As we are wont to do.

                   My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
                   I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
                   Our pleasant home, when spring began,
                   A long, long year before.

                   A day it was when I could bear
                   To think, and think, and think again;
                   With so much happiness to spare,
                   I could not feel a pain.

                   My boy was by my side, so slim
                   And graceful in his rustic dress!
                   And oftentimes I talked to him,
                   In very idleness.

                   The young lambs ran a pretty race;
                   The morning sun shone bright and warm;
                   'Kilve,' said I, 'was a pleasant place,
                   And so is Liswyn farm.'

                   'My little boy, which like you more,'
                   I said and took him by the arm —
                   'Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
                   Or here at Liswyn farm?'

                   'And tell me, had you rather be,'
                   I said and held him by the arm,
                   'At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
                   Or here at Liswyn farm?'

                   In careless mood he looked at me,
                   While still I held him by the arm,
                   And said, 'At Kilve I'd rather be
                   Than here at Liswyn farm.'

                   'Now, little Edward, say why so;
                   My little Edward, tell me why;'
                   'I cannot tell, I do not know.'
                   'Why, this is strange,' said I.

                   'For, here are woods and green-hills warm;
                   There surely must some reason be
                   Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
                   For Kilve by the green sea.'

                   At this, my boy, so fair and slim,