“‘The living seeds I have dropped remain
In the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”
Отрывок из письма.
Уильям Вирт.
Я хочу открыть вам секрет. Способ стать приятным для других — показать, что вы заботитесь о них. Мир похож на мельника из Мэнсфилда, «которому не было дела ни до кого, нет, не было, потому что никому не было дела до него». И весь мир будет поступать с вами так же, если вы дадите им ту же причину. Пусть каждый, следовательно, увидит, что вы действительно заботитесь о них, показывая им то, что Стерн так удачно называет «маленькими, милыми любезностями», в которых нет парада; чей голос — успокаивать, облегчать; и которые проявляются в нежных и ласковых взглядах и маленьких добрых актах внимания, отдавая предпочтение другим во всяком маленьком удовольствии за столом, в поле, при ходьбе, сидении или стоянии.
Береговая охрана.
Эмили Хантингтон Миллер.
Do you wonder what I am seeing,
In the heart of the fire, aglow
Like cliffs in a golden sunset,
With a summer sea below?
I see, away to the eastward,
The line of a storm-beat coast,
And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves
Like the tramp of the mailèd host.
And up and down in the darkness,
And over the frozen sand,
I hear the men of the coast-guard
Pacing along the strand,
Beaten by storm and tempest,
And drenched by the pelting rain,
From the shores of Carolina
To the wind-swept bays of Maine.
No matter what storms are raging,
No matter how wild the night,
The gleam of their swinging lanterns
Shines out with a friendly light.
And many a shipwrecked sailor
Thanks God, with his gasping breath,
For the sturdy arms of the surfmen
That drew him away from death.
And so, when the wind is wailing,
And the air grows dim with sleet,
I think of the fearless watchers
Pacing along their beat.
I think of a wreck, fast breaking
In the surf of a rocky shore,
And the life-boat leaping onward
To the stroke of the bending oar.
I hear the shouts of the sailors,
The boom of the frozen sail,
And the creak of the icy halyards
Straining against the gale.
“Courage!” the captain trumpets,
“They are sending help from land!”
God bless the men of the coast-guard,
And hold their lives in His hand!
Турецкая традиция.
’Tis said the Turk, when passing down
An Eastern street,
If any scrap of paper chance
His eyes to greet,
Will never look away, like us,
Unheedingly,
Or pass the little fragment thus
Regardless by,
But stop to pick it up because,
Oh, lovely thought!
The name of God may thereupon
Perchance be wrought.
In every human soul remains,
However dim,
Some image of the Deity,
Some trace of Him.
And how can we, then, any scorn
As foul and dark,
That bear, though frail and lowly, still
That holy mark?
And since His impress is upon
All nature seen,
How can we aught disdain as common
Or unclean?
Interior.
«Глаза, которые не видят».
Элла Джуэтт.
They tell us in the land of song,
Where stately tower and palace rise,
Though marbles breathe and canvas glows,
Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies,
The peasant, without thought or care,
Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare.
We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he!
How destitute of mind and heart!
’Twere worth a fortune once to view
Italia’s treasured gems of art!”
Behold the landscape at our feet!
Was ever painting more complete?
No need to search for noble souls,
Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song;
A hundred heroes in our midst
Have learned to suffer and be strong,—
Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known,
Princes without a crown and throne.
Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chide
The dwellers in far Italy,
But rather draw the veil aside
From our own eyes, that we may see,
Lo! all that seemed but commonplace,
Adorned with beauty and with grace!
Плач легких.
Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day!
The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay.
It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supply
Of proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy;
But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grown
That, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own.
Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform,
And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm.
So down the window-sashes go and up the stoves, until
We starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill.
Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tent
Within some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent;
But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons do
To those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew.
For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage,
And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage.
We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for more
The surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore.
Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries,
And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes.
But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raft
Let in a little air, forthwith somebody feels a draught.
And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can;
Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man.
Phrenological Journal.
Хорошо читать на английском языке, писать быстро аккуратным, разборчивым почерком и владеть первыми правилами арифметики, чтобы сразу и точно решать любой вопрос с цифрами, возникающий на практике — я называю это хорошим образованием. А если добавить к этому умение писать на чистом грамматически правильном английском, я считаю это отличным образованием. Это инструменты. Вы можете многое сделать с ними, но вы беспомощны без них. Это фундамент; и если вы не начнете с этого, все ваши броские достижения, немного геологии и все прочие «ологии» и «ософии» — это показной мусор. — Эдвард Эверетт.
Маяк.
High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and far
To the westward hills and the eastward sea,
I shift my light like a twinkling star,
With ever a star’s sweet constancy.
They wait for me when the night comes down,
And the slow sun falls in his death divine,
Then braving the black night’s gathering frown,
With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine!
There is war at my feet where the black rocks break,
The thunderous snows of the rising sea;
There is peace above when the stars are awake,
Keeping their night-long watch with me.
I care not a jot for the roar of the surge,
The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine!
As over its breadth to the furthest verge,
Unwavering and untired—I shine!
First on my brow comes the pearly light,
Dimming my lamp in the new-born day,
One long, last look to left and right,
And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-way
Grows bright with the smile and blush of the sky,
All incandescent and opaline.
I rest—but the loveliest day will die—
Again in its last wan shadows—I shine!
When the night is black, and the wind is loud,
And danger is hidden, and peril abroad,
The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud;
His eye is on me, and his hope in God!
Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eye
Meets his, and he hauls his groping line.
“A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry;
He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine!
While standing alone in the summer sun
Sometimes I have visions and dreams of my own,
Of long-life voyages just begun,
And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown;
And I would that men and women would mark
The duty done by this lamp of mine;
For many a life is lost in the dark,
And few on earth are the lights that shine!
Good Words.
Шведское стихотворение.
It matters little where I was born,
If my parents were rich or poor;
Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn,
Or walked in the pride of wealth secure;
But whether I live an honest man,
And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,
I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am,
It matters much!
It matters little how long I stay
In a world of sorrow and care;
Whether in youth I’m called away,
Or live till my bones and pate are bare;
But whether I do the best I can
To soften the weight of adversity’s touch
On the faded cheek of my fellow-man,
It matters much!
It matters little where is my grave,
On the land or on the sea;
By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave,
It matters little or naught to me;
But whether the angel Death comes down,
And marks my brow with his loving touch
As one that shall wear the victor’s crown,
It matters much!
Демон на крыше.
Жозефина Поллард.
’Twas an ancient legend they used to tell
Within the glow of the kitchen hearth,
When a sudden silence upon them fell,
And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth:
That whenever a dwelling was building new,
There were demons ready to curse or bless
The noble structure, that daily grew
Perfect in shape and comeliness.
And when the sound of the tools had ceased,
Hammer and nails, and plane and saw,
Ere yet the dwelling could be released
From the evil spirits,—there was a law
No master-mechanic could be found
Able or willing to disobey—
That a ladder be left upon the ground
For their enjoyment, a night and a day.
And when the chimneys begin to roar,
And voices harsh as the wintry wind
Howl and mock at the outer door,
The ancient legend is brought to mind,
And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon,
Not fearing the master’s stern reproof,
Has taken the ladder away too soon
And left a demon upon the roof.
And in every dwelling where joy comes not,
And the buds of promise forget to bloom,
Be it a palace or be it a cot,
Amply splendid or scant of room,
We may be sure that a demon elf,
Fiendishly cruel and full of spite,
Is sitting and grinning away to himself
Up on the ridge-pole, out of sight.
But let it ever be borne in mind
By those who often this legend quote,
That with every evil some good we find,
For every ill there’s an antidote.
And if we use but the magic spell,
And hearts draw near that were kept aloof,
Good angels then in our homes will dwell,
Despite the demon upon the roof.
Только немного.
Дора Гудейл.
A bird has little—only a feather
Plucked, it may be, from a tender breast,
Only a thread to bind together
The delicate fabric of his nest;
Yet he sings, “The wide, free air is mine,
The dews of earth, the clouds of heaven!”
He sits and swings with the swinging vine,
And all he looks on to him is given.
A child has little—only a blossom
Caught at random from fields of bloom.
Only the love in a tender bosom,
Freed from the shadow of care and gloom;
Yet he laughs all day from the deeps of lightness,
And feels his joy in the joy of heaven,
He loses himself in a world of brightness,
And all he asks for to him is given.
A man has little—only a longing
Higher than labors of sword or pen,
Only a vision whose lights are thronging
Over the tumult and toil of men.
Yet wealth is his from the wealth of being,
His are the glories of Earth and Heaven,
He feels a beauty too deep for seeing,
And all he dreams of to him is given.
Моя доля.
Карлотта Перри.
Very little good have I,
Wealth and station have passed me by;
But something sweet in my life I hold
That I would not exchange for place or gold.
Beneath my feet the green earth lies,
Above my head are the tender skies;
I look between two heavens; my eyes
Look out to where, serene and sweet,
At the worlds fair rim the two heavens meet.
I hear the whispering of the breeze,
The sweet, small tumults amid the trees;
And many a message comes to me
On the wing of bird, in the hum of bee,
From the mountain peak and the surging sea.
E’en the silence speaks a voice so clear,
I lean my very heart to hear,
And all above me and all around
Light and darkness and sight and sound,
To soul and sense such meanings bring,
I thrill with a rapturous wondering.
And I know by many a subtle sign
That the very best of life is mine;
And yet, as I spell each message o’er,
I look and long for a deeper lore;
I long to see and I long to hear,
With a clearer vision, a truer ear;
And I pray with keenest of all desire
For lips that are touched by the altar fire.
Patience, O soul! From a little field
There cometh often a gracious yield;
Who touches His garment’s hem is healed.
Саксонская твердость.
Преподобный Роберт Коллиер.
Worn by the battle, by Stamford town,
Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay;
Harold, the Saxon’s sun, went down
When the acorns were falling one autumn day.
Then the Norman said: “I am lord of the land,
By tenure of conquest here I sit;
I will rule you now with the iron hand;”
But he had not thought of the Saxon grit.
He took the land, and he took the men,
And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne;
Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen;
Ate up the corn and drank the wine.
From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar,
Our life shall not be by the king’s permit,—
We will fight for the right; we want no more.
Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit.
For slow and sure as the oaks had grown
From the acorns falling that autumn day,
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town
To a nobler nature grew alway.
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Standing by law and the human right;
Many times failing, never once quailing,
So the new day came out of the night.
Then rising afar in the western sea
A new world stood in the morn of the day,
Ready to welcome the brave and free,
Who would wrench out the heart, and march away
From the narrow, contracted, dear old land,
Where the poor are held by a cruel bit,
To ampler spaces for heart and hand;
And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.
Steadily steering, eagerly peering,
Trusting in God, your fathers came,
Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers,
Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame,
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter,
And hiding their freedom in holy writ,
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy,
And made a new Moses of Saxon grit,
They whittled and waded through forest and fen,
Fearless as ever of what might befall,
Pouring out life for the nurture of men
In the faith that by manhood the world views all.
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines,
Great with the rifle, and great with the ax,
Sending their notions over the oceans
To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs;
Swift to take chances that end in the dollar,
Yet open of hand when the dollar is made;
Maintaining the meeting, exalting the scholar,
But a little too anxious about a good trade.
This is young Jonathan, son of old John,
Positive, peaceable, firm in the right.
Saxon men all of us, may we be one,
Steady for freedom and strong in her might.
Then slow and sure, as the oaks have grown
From the acorns that fell on the dim old day,
So this new manhood, in city and town,
To a nobler stature will grow alway.
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Slow to contention and slower to quit,
Now and then failing, but never once quailing,
Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.
Маленький свет.
The light shone dim on the headland,
For the storm was raging high;
I shaded my eyes from the inner glare,
And gazed on the wet, gray sky.
It was dark and lowering; on the sea
The waves were booming loud,
And the snow and the piercing winter sleet
Wove over all a shroud.
“God pity the men on the sea to-night!”
I said to my little ones,
And we shuddered as we heard afar
The sound of the minute-guns.
My good man came in, in his fishing-coat
(He was wet and cold that night),
And he said, “There’ll lots of ships go down
On the headland rocks to-night.”
“Let the lamp burn all night, mother,”
Cried little Mary then;
“’Tis but a little light, but still
It might save drowning men.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried her father
(He was tired and cross that night),
“The Highland light-house is enough,”
And he put out the light.
That night, on the rocks below us,
A noble ship went down;
But one was saved from the ghastly wreck,
The rest were left to drown.
“We steered by a little light,” he said,
“’Till we saw it sink from view:
If they’d only left that light all night,
My mates might be here, too!”
Then little Mary sobbed aloud,
Her father blushed for shame,
“’Twas our light that you saw,” he said,
“And I’m the one to blame.”
’Twas a little light—how small a thing!
And trifling was its cost;
Yet, for want of it a ship went down,
And a hundred souls were lost.
Ветер и море.
Бэйард Тейлор.
The sea is a jovial comrade,
He laughs wherever he goes;
His merriment shines in the dimpling lines
That wrinkle his hale repose;
He lays himself down at the feet of the sun,
And shakes all over with glee;
And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore
In the mirth of the mighty sea.
But the wind is sad and restless,
And cursed with an inward pain;
You may hark as you will by valley or hill,
But you hear him still complain.
He wails on the barren mountains,
And shrieks on the watery sea;
He sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine,
And quakes through the aspen tree.
Welcome are both their voices;
And I know not which is best,
The laughter that slips from ocean’s lips,
Or the comfortless wind’s unrest.
There’s a pang in all rejoicing,
A joy in the heart of pain;
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the self-same strain.
Счастье.
Мэгги Б. Пик.
I followed a bird to the north and south,
I followed it east and west,
With the longing to call it at last my own,
And hide it within my breast:
But the bird flew on, and I sought in vain,
Through sunshine and wind, through the storm and rain.
I went to the city, to find it, where
The restless crowd surged by;
But the bird I sought, with its snowy wings
Had flown to the upper sky,—
And the crowds surged on, with their ceaseless din,
Their waves of sorrow and folly and sin.
I went to the forest, where all day long
A hush that was sweet fell down,
And I watched for my bird with its magical song,
But the shadows gave only a frown;
So I knew that I never should find it there,
And I gave up the chase in sullen despair.
I entered the lists of the busy world:
I took up its burden of care,
Its wrongs to be righted, its sorrows to lift,
Its mountains of trouble to bear;
And wearied, I laid me at last to rest.
I awoke,—and the bird was within my breast.
Озаренный текст.
The gray monk, rising, with a loving pride
Laid the long task of patient months aside,
The simple story of the gospels told
In lettering of crimson and of gold;
On its rich pages streamed the setting sun,
And now his life waned and his work was done.
He pushed away the heavy oaken door,
And stood within the sunset calm once more.
Above the narrowing round of life he knew
A sense of beauty and of wonder grew.
The text his art had copied, “God is Love,”
Came to him like the home-returning dove.
As the wind whistled in the bearded grain;