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The weeds that strewed the victor’s way,

Feed on his dust to shroud his name,

Green where his proudest towers decay.

A Roman Aqueduct.

Вероятно, язык будет формироваться под воздействием более крупных сил, чем фонография и составление словарей. Вы можете перекапывать океан сколько угодно и боронить его после, если сможете, но луна все равно будет управлять приливами, а ветры будут формировать их поверхность. — Профессор за завтраком.

Joy smiles in the fountain,

Health flows in the rills,

As their ribbons of silver

Unwind from the hills.

Song for a Temperance Dinner.

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.

Born there? Don’t say so! I was too.

Parson Turrell’s Legacy.

Let each unhallowed cause that brings

The stern destroyer cease,

Thy flaming angel fold his wings

And seraphs whisper Peace!

Parting Hymn.

Многие идеи растут лучше, будучи пересаженными в другой ум, чем в том, где они возникли. То, что было сорняком в одном интеллекте, становится цветком в другом. Цветок, с другой стороны, может измельчать до простого сорняка при таком же изменении. — Поэт за завтраком.

None wept,—none pitied;—they who knelt

At morning by the despot’s throne

At evening dashed the laureled bust

And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.

The Dying Seneca.

Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling,

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;

As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,

Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

Lexington.

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance

Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,

And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread

Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime.

To a Caged Lion.

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her?

What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her?

Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.

Iris, Her Book.

Rain me sweet odors on the air

And wheel me up my Indian chair,

And spread some book not overwise

Flat out before my sleepy eyes.

Midsummer.

Scenes of my youth! awake, its slumbering fire!

Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!

Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,

Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year.

A Metrical Essay.

Деревья, какими мы их видим, любим, обожаем в полях, где они живы, держа свои зеленые зонтики над нашими головами, разговаривая с нами своими сотнями тысяч шепчущих языков, глядя на нас с той сладкой кротостью, которая присуща огромным, но ограниченным организмам. — Автократ завтрака.

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street

Whose narrow gaps afford

A pathway for her bleeding feet,

To seek her absent lord.

Agnes.

Virtue—the guide that men and nations own;

And Law—the bulwark that protects her throne;

And Health—to all its happiest charm that lends,—

These and their servants, man’s untiring friends.

A Modest Request.

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf

To me looks more than deadly pale,

Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—

A poem or a tale.

To a Blank Sheet of Paper.

«Не стоит смазывать ось купоросом», — сказал Член. — Поэт за завтраком.

Ye know not,—but the hour is nigh;

Ye will not heed the warning breath;

No vision strikes your clouded eye,

To break the sleep that wakes in death.

The Last Prophecy of Cassandra.

“By Zhorzhe!” as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,

You tell me they’re dead, but I know it’s a lie;

Is Jackson not President? What was’t you said?

It can’t be; you’re joking; what,—all of ’em dead?

Once More.

Под вязом Вашингтона, Кембридж.

27 апреля 1861 г.

Eighty years have passed, and more,

Since under the brave old tree

Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore

They would follow the sign their banners bore,

And fight till the land was free.

Half of their work was done,

Half is left to do,—

Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!

When the battle is fought and won,

What shall be told of you?

Hark!—’tis the south-wind moans,—

Who are the martyrs down?

Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bones

That sprinkled with blood the cursèd stones

Of the murder-haunted town!

What if the storm-clouds blow?

What if the green leaves fall?

Better the crashing tempest’s throe

Than the army of worms that gnawed below;

Trample them one and all!

Then, when the battle is won,

And the land from traitors free,

Our children shall tell of the strife begun

When Liberty’s second April sun

Was bright on our brave old tree!

Два потока.

Behold the rocky wall

That down its sloping sides

Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall

In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run

Turned by a pebbled edge,

Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun

Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed,

But for the slanting stone,

To evening’s ocean, with the tangled braid

Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will

Life’s parting stream descends,

And, as a moment turns its slender rill,

Each widening torrent bends,—

From the same cradle’s side,

From the same mother’s knee,—

One to long darkness and the frozen tide,

One to the Peaceful Sea.

Международная ода.

ЗЕМЛЯ НАШИХ ОТЦОВ.

Исполнено в унисон двенадцатью сотнями детей государственных школ во время визита принца Уэльского в Бостон, 18 октября 1860 г. Мелодия «Боже, храни королеву».

God bless our Fathers’ Land!

Keep her in heart and hand

One with our own!

From all her foes defend,

Be her brave People’s Friend,

On all her realms descend,

Protect her Throne!

Father, with loving care

Guard Thou her kingdom’s Heir,

Guide all his ways:

Thine arm his shelter be,

From him by land and sea

Bid storm and danger flee,

Prolong his days!

Lord, let War’s tempest cease,

Fold the whole Earth in peace

Under thy wings!

Make all Thy nations one,

All hearts beneath the sun,

Till thou shalt reign alone,

Great King of kings!

Фестиваль в честь дня рождения Джеймса Рассела Лоуэлла.

We will not speak of years to-night,

For what have years to bring

But larger floods of love and light,

And sweeter songs to sing.

Enough for him the silent grasp

That knits us hand in hand,

And he the bracelet’s radiant clasp

That locks our circling band.

Strength to his hours of manly toil,

Peace to his starlit dreams!

Who loves alike the furrowed soil,

The music-haunted streams!

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright

The sunshine on his lips,

And faith that sees the ring of light

Round nature’s last eclipse.

ГЕНРИ УОДСВОРТ ЛОНГФЕЛЛО.

Родился 27 февраля 1807 г. Умер 24 марта 1882 г.

Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло.

Уильям У. Стори.

A pure sweet spirit, generous and large

Was thine, dear poet. Calm, unturbulent,

Its course along Life’s varying ways it went,

Like some broad river on whose happy marge

Are noble groves, lawns, towns—which takes the charge

Of peaceful freights from inward regions sent

For human use and help and heart’s content,

And bears Love’s sunlit sails and Beauty’s barge.

So brimming, deepening ever to the sea

Through gloom and sun, reflecting inwardly

The ever-changing heavens of day and night,

Thy life flowed on, from all low passions free,

Filled with high thoughts, charmed into Poesy

To all the world a solace and delight.

Да, мы были близкими друзьями. Он был восхитительным человеком и великим поэтом. Готорн, Эмерсон, Лонгфелло и я всегда были друзьями. Между нами не было ревности, и каждый гордился работой и успехами другого. Мы обменивались заметками о наших произведениях, и если один видел добрый отзыв о другом, он всегда вырезал его и посылал ему. — Джон Г. Уиттьер.

Магнетизм прикосновения Лонгфелло заключается в широкой человечности его симпатии, которая рекомендует его поэзию всеобщему сердцу. Его художественное чувство настолько изысканно, что каждое из его стихотворений является ценным литературным исследованием. Ум Лонгфелло по-детски просто воспринимает жизнь. Его восхитительное знакомство с чистой литературой всех языков и времен должно поставить его в ряд ученых поэтов. — Джордж Уильям Кертис.

Удивительный факт, что Лонгфелло более популярен в Англии, чем Теннисон, поэт-лауреат. И все же, возможно, это не так уж удивительно. Он поет, как тот, чье сердце было согрето у домашнего очага. Едва ли найдется строка у него, которая не рифмовалась бы со стрекотом сверчка; сердца есть сердца, какой бы кровью они ни питались, и он коснулся сердца, как никакой другой поэт его дня. Есть ли кто-нибудь, чья жизнь могла бы напомнить нам более убедительно о величии терпения, истины, чистоты и всех добродетелей, чем жизнь Генри Уодсворта Лонгфелло? — Ричард Генри Стоддард.

Поэтическая атмосфера, аромат витали вокруг Лонгфелло, как ни вокруг одного из наших поэтов. Он ассоциировался с воспоминаниями о ранних годах республики; с живописной эпохой нашего национального существования; с рассветом демократических институтов, с сияющей надеждой, которая окрашивала небо, когда молодая нация так сердечно предалась вере в человека. Его имя редко произносилось иначе, как в связи с благотворительностью и доброй волей. И когда он умер, скорбь величайших и малейших была одинаково искренней. — Преподобный Октавиус Б. Фротингем.

Может ли быть, что такой человек умер? Я не могу в это поверить. Как жаворонок, который поет и парит, и все еще поет, исчезая из виду в синих небесах. Я не могу поверить, что он ушел, потому что он исчез из нашего поля зрения. Его жизнь была завершенной; его работа была сделана. Куда он ушел? Мы, возможно, еще не знаем. Что касается нас, он ушел, цитируя его собственные слова, «в безмолвную страну». Мы будем радоваться тому, что он оставил после себя слова, которые будут петь свою песню доверия и надежды еще многие годы. — Преподобный Майнот Дж. Сэвидж.

Лонгфелловская азбука.

Awake! arise! the hour is late!

Angels are knocking at thy door!

They are in haste and cannot wait,

And once departed come no more.

A Fragment.

Bear a lily in thy hand;

Gates of brass cannot withstand

One touch of that magic wand.

Maidenhood.

Closed was the teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces

Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,

Downward to kiss that reverend hand.

Children of the Lord’s Supper.

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Resignation.

Each heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent moonlight falls!

On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

There are whispers along the walls!

The Haunted Chamber.

“Farewell!” the portly landlord cried;

“Farewell!” the parting guests replied,

But little thought that never more

Their feet would pass that threshold o’er.

Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Gone are all the barons bold,

Gone are all the knights and squires;

Gone the abbot, stern and cold,

And the brotherhood of friars.

Oliver Basselin.

How many centuries has it been

About those deserts blown!

How many strange vicissitudes has seen,

How many histories known!

Sand of the Desert.

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace,

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up and shake it like a fleece.

The Lighthouse.

Just above yon sandy bar,

As the day grows faint and dimmer,

Lonely and lovely, a single star

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer.

Chrysaor.

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children, a crucifix fastened

High on the trunk of the tree. This was their rural chapel.

Evangeline.

Left to myself, I wander as I will,

And as my fancy leads me, through this house;

Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete,

Were I indeed the goddess that he deems me.

The Masque of Pandora.

Month after month passed away, and in autumn the ships of the merchants

Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims.

The Courtship of Miles Standish.

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,

Came from their convent on the shining heights

Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,

To dwell among the people at its base.

The Nine Muses.

“O Cæsar, we who are about to die

Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry

In the arena, standing face to face

With death and with the Roman populace.

Morituri Salutamus.

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands,

Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves,

Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac.

Elegiac Verse.

Quiet, close, and warm,

Sheltered from all molestation,

And recalling by their voices

Youth and travel.

To an Old Danish Song-book.

River! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea!

To the River Charles.

Sudden and swift, a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall,

And for a moment my blood grew chill.

Killed at the Ford.

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domains.

Autumn.

Up soared the lark into the air,—

A shaft of song, a winged prayer,

As if a soul, released from pain,

Were flying back to heaven again.

The Sermon of St. Francis.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

The Belfry of Bruges.

Whereunto is money good?

Who has it not wants hardihood;

Who has it has much trouble and care;

Who once has had it has despair.

Poetic Aphorisms.

“Excelsior!”

Excelsior.

Youth is lovely, age is lonely,

Youth is fiery, age is frosty;

You bring back the days departed,

And the beautiful Wenonah.

Hiawatha.

Zeal was stronger than fear or love.

Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Размышления.

[Раннее стихотворение, обычно не публикуется.]

I sat by my window one night,

And watched how the stars grew high,

And the earth and skies were a splendid sight

To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down,

With a gentle and mellow ray,

And beneath, the crowded roofs of the town

In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,

And mainland and island too,

Till a haze came over the lowland lea,

And shrouded the beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn wood

Its crimson scarf unrolled,

And the trees like a splendid army stood,

In a panoply of gold!

I saw them waving their banners high,

As their crests to the night wind bowed;

And a distant sound on the air went by,

Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my windows how fast

The lights around me fled,

As the wearied man to his slumber passed,

And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one; that burned

With a distant and steady light;

But that, too, went out, and I turned

When my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die;

Yes, the brightest from earth we win;

Till each turns away, with a sigh,

To the lamp that burns brightly within.

Город и море.

The panting City cried to the Sea,

“I am faint with heat,—O breathe on me!”

And the Sea said, “Lo, I breathe! but my breath

To some will be life, to others death!”

As to Prometheus, bringing ease

In pain, come the Oceanides,

So to the City, hot with flame

Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came.

It came from the heaving breast of the deep,

Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep.

Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be,

O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea?

Потеря и приобретение.

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware

How many days have been idly spent;

How like an arrow the good intent

Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare

To measure loss and gain in this wise?

Defeat may be victory in disguise;

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Чарльз Самнер.

Garlands upon his grave,

And flowers upon his hearse,

And to the tender heart and brave

The tribute of this verse.

His was the troubled life,

The conflict and the pain,

The grief, the bitterness of strife,

The honor without stain.

Death takes us by surprise,

And stays our hurrying feet;

The great design unfinished lies,

Our lives are incomplete.

But in the dark unknown

Perfect their circles seem,

Even as a bridge’s arch of stone

Is rounded in the stream.

Were a star quenched on high,

For ages would its light,

Still traveling downward from the sky,

Shine on our mortal sight.

So when a great man dies,

For years beyond our ken

The light he leaves behind him lies

Upon the paths of men.

ДЖЕЙМС РАССЕЛ ЛОУЭЛЛ.

Родился 22 февраля 1819 г.

Джеймс Рассел Лоуэлл.

[СТИХОТВОРЕНИЕ НА ВЫПУСКНОМ ВЕЧЕРЕ В ГАРВАРДЕ.]

Оливер Уэнделл Холмс.

This is your month, the month of perfect days,

Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze;

Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes,

Spreads every leaflet, every bower in wreaths;

Carpets her paths for your returning feet,

Puts forth her best your coming steps to greet;

And Heaven must surely find the earth in tune

When Home, sweet Home, exhales the breath of June.

These blessed days are waning all too fast,

And June’s bright visions mingling with the past;

Lilacs have bloomed and faded, and the rose

Has dropped its petals, but the clover blows

And fills its slender tubes with honeyed sweets;

The fields are pearled with milk-white margarites;

The dandelion, which you sang of old,

Has lost its pride of place, its crown of gold,

But still displays its feathery-mantled globe,

Which children’s breath or wandering winds unrobe.

These were your humble friends; your opened eyes

Nature had trained her common gifts to prize;

Not Cam or Isis taught you to despise

Charles, with his muddy margin, and the harsh,

Plebeian grasses of the reeking marsh.

New England’s home-bred scholar, well you knew

Her soil, her speech, her people, through and through,

And loved them ever with the love that holds

All sweet, fond memories in its fragrant folds.

Though far and wide your winged words had flown,

Your daily presence kept you all our own,

Till with a sorrowing sigh, a thrill of pride,

We heard your summons, and you left our side

For larger duties and for tasks untried.

Atlantic Monthly.

Мы время от времени вынуждены были говорить некоторые неприятные истины об американской литературе; и с искренним удовольствием мы теперь можем признать, что британцы были на данный момент полностью и, по-видимому, безнадежно побеждены янки в одном важном отделе поэзии. Тирания вульгарного общественного мнения и шарлатанство, которое является ценой политической власти, — это мишени для стрел сатирика, которым европейские поэты могут вполне позавидовать мистеру Лоуэллу. — North British Review.

Хотя выдающийся и способный во многих отношениях, Лоуэлл остается абсолютно поэтом по чувству. Его природный гений был взращен ассоциациями необычайно красивого дома; вскормлен работами драматургов, идеальными картинами поэтов и романистов, нежной торжественностью речей его отца, а также Чэннинга и других друзей его отца. Хотя он не был рифмующим вундеркиндом, как Поуп, лепечущим стихами, его первые излияния по мере взросления были в поэтической форме. — Фрэнсис Х. Андервуд.

Лоуэлл — замечательный человек и поэт. Что он один из первых поэтов этого века, никто не будет отрицать. Он искренне реформатор; его симпатии полностью на стороне угнетенных и попранных. Некоторые из его стихов необычайно красивы, в то время как другие полны великих мыслей, которые ударяют по слуху и сердцу, как грохот пушечного выстрела, возвещающий о том, что страстно желаемый конфликт начался. — Дэвид У. Бартлетт.

Самое характерное и самое существенное качество стиля мистера Лоуэлла оказывается самым заметным. Это остроумие, которое вездесуще и неутомимо, как само электричество. Эффект совершенно неописуем. Мы уверены, что никакое другое равное количество литературы не могло бы быть создано, которое дало бы при компетентном анализе больший чистый результат чистого остроумия. В целом дух этого остроумия гуманен и любезен. — У. К. Уилкинсон.

Мистер Лоуэлл где-то говорит, что искусство письма во многом состоит в том, чтобы знать, что оставить в чернильнице. Сколько томов прозаических работ Лоуэлла, если не в корзине для мусора, почти так же эффективно похоронены в газетах и журналах? То, что его рабочая жизнь дала миру, даст читателю некоторое представление о том, чего мир не получил, и послужит для привлечения внимания к сжатому богатству, содержащемуся в «Среди моих книг» и «Моих окнах в кабинет». — Преподобный Г. Р. Хавейс.

Лоуэлловская азбука.

Another star ’neath Time’s horizon dropped

To gleam o’er unknown lands and seas;

Another heart that beat for freedom stopped,—

What mournful words are these!

To the Memory of Hood.

Bowing then his head, he listened

For an answer to his prayer;

No loud burst of thunder followed,

Not a murmur stirred the air.

A Parable.

Care, not of self, but of the common weal,

Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead

A look of patient power and iron will.

A Glance behind the Curtain.

Dear, common flower, that grow’st beside the way

Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May.

To the Dandelion.

Each man is some man’s servant; every soul

Is by some other’s presence quite discrowned;

Each owes the next through all the imperfect round.

The Pioneer.

For mankind are one in spirit,

And an instinct bears along,

Round the earth’s electric circle,

The swift flash of right or wrong.

The Present Crisis.

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be

Fresh, changeful, constant,

Upward, like thee!

The Fountain.

He could believe the promise of to-morrow

And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day;

He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow

Than the world’s seeming loss could take away.

Ode.

It is God’s day. It is Columbus’s,

A lavish day! One day, with life and heart,

Is more than time enough to find a world.

Columbus.

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving.

The Vision of Sir Launfal.

Knew you what silence was before?

Here is no startle of dreaming bird

That sings in his sleep, or strives to sing.

Pictures from Appledore.

Life may be given in many ways,

And loyalty to Truth be sealed

As bravely in the closet as the field.

Commemoration Ode.

My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree,

Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud,

Saw its white double in the stream below.

Under the Willows.

Not always unimpeded can I pray,

Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim.

Sea-weed.

O realm of silence and of swart eclipse,

The shapes that haunt thy gloom

Make signs to us, and move thy withered lips

Across the gulf of doom.

To the Past.

Pan leaps and pipes all summer long,

The fairies dance each full-mooned night,

Would we but doff our lenses strong,

And trust our wiser eyes’ delight.

The Foot-path.

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree,

And, listening fearfully, he heard once more

The low voice murmur “Rhoecus,” close at hand.

Rhoecus.

Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be,

But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don’t make a tree.

A Fable for Critics.

Since first I heard our North wind blow,

Since first I saw Atlantic throw

On our fierce rocks his thunderous snow,

I loved thee, Freedom!

Ode to France.

Thine is music such as yields

Feelings of old brooks and fields,

And, around this pent-up room,

Sheds a woodland, free perfume.

To Perdita, Singing.

Untremulous in the river clear,

Towards the sky’s image, hangs the imaged bridge;

So still the air that I can hear

The slender clarion of the unseen midge.

Summer Storm.

Violet! sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears;

Are they wet

Even yet

With the thought of other years?

Song.

Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right

To the firm center lays its moveless base.

Prometheus.

Extemp’ry mammoth turkey-chick fer a Fejee Thanksgivin’.

The Biglow Papers.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily

Above that she forgets her ties to earth.

Irene.

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown

An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,

An’ there sot Huldy all alone

’Ith no one nigh to hender.

The Courtin’.

Первый снегопад.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new roof’d with Carrara

Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow;

The stiff sails were softened to swan’s down,

And still flutter’d down the snow.

I stood and watch’d by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little head-stone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”

And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I look’d at the snow-fall,

And thought of the leaden sky

That arch’d o’er our first great sorrow,

When that mound was heap’d so high.

I remember’d the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our deep-plung’d woe.

And again to the child I whisper’d,

“The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!”

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss’d her;

And she, kissing back, could not know

That my kiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

Авраам Линкольн.

Nature, they say, doth dote,

And cannot make a man

Save on some worn-out plan,

Repeating us by rote.

For him her Old World molds aside she threw,

And, choosing sweet clay from the breast

Of the unexhausted West,

With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,

Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.

How beautiful to see

Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,

Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;

One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,

Not lured by any cheat of birth,

But by his clear-grained human worth,

And brave old wisdom of sincerity!

They knew that outward grace is dust;

They could not choose but trust

In that sure-footed mind’s unfaltering skill,

And supple-tempered will,

That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind—

Broad prairie, rather, genial, level-lined,

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind.

Here was a type of the true elder race,

And one of Plutarch’s men talked with us face to face.

Уэнделл Филлипс.

He stood upon the world’s broad threshold; wide

The din of battle and of slaughter rolled;

He saw God stand upon the weaker side,

That sank in seeming loss before its foes;

Many there were who made great haste and sold

Unto the cunning enemy their swords.

He scorned their gifts of fame, and flower, and gold,

And underneath their soft and flowery words

Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went

And humbly joined him to the weaker part.

Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content

So he could be the nearer to God’s heart,

And feel its solemn pulses sending blood

Through all the wide-spread veins of endless good.

Свобода.

Men!—whose boast it is that ye

Come of fathers brave and free,

If there breathe on earth a slave,

Are ye truly free and brave?

If ye do not feel the chain

When it works a brother’s pain,

Are ye not base slaves indeed—

Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Is true Freedom but to break

Fetters for our own dear sake,

And, with leathern hearts, forget

That we owe mankind a debt?

No!—true freedom is to share

All the chains our brothers wear,

And with heart and hand to be

Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak

For the fallen and the weak;

They are slaves who will not choose

Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink

From the truth they needs must think.

They are slaves who dare not be

In the right with two or three.

ДЖОН ГРИНЛИФ УИТТЬЕР.

Родился 17 декабря 1807 г.

Джону Г. Уиттьеру.

Джеймс Рассел Лоуэлл.

New England’s poet, rich in love as years,

Her hills and valleys praise thee, and her brooks

Dance to thy song; to her grave sylvan nooks

Thy feet allure us, which the wood-thrush hears

As maids their lovers, and no treason fears.

Through thee her Merrimacks and Angloochooks,

And many a name uncouth, win loving looks,

Sweetly familiar to both England’s years.

Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake

The lily’s anchorage which no eyes behold

Save those of stars, yet for thy brother’s sake

That lay in bonds, thou blew’st a blast as bold,

As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake

Far heard through Pyrennean valleys cold.

Если есть кто-то в наш век, о ком все люди признают, что он родился поэтом, так это Уиттьер. Он меньше обязан искусству, схоластической культуре, влиянию литературного общения, чем любой из его собратьев. Он пламенный апостол человеческого братства и распевал анафемы против войны и всякой формы жестокости и суеверия. Он в высшей степени национальный поэт. Его ум находится в полном сочувствии с прогрессивными идеями Нового Света. — Фрэнсис Х. Андервуд.

Большая часть работы Уиттьера была в форме вкладов в журналы, которые он редактировал, и два тома, которые сейчас составляют его собранные прозаические сочинения, были собраны из этих случайных статей. Сам будучи квакерского происхождения и веры, он мягко, но твердо коснулся меняющейся жизни дня, которая достигла кульминации в заблуждении о колдовстве и проявилась в преследовании квакеров. Безразличие к литературной славе, которое проявил Уиттьер, можно отнести к искренности его преданности тому, на что влияет литература, и он писал и пел от сердца, очень стремящегося предложить некоторую помощь, или из удовольствия от своей работы. Внимательный исследователь его сочинений всегда будет ценить прежде всего целостность его жизни. — Гораций Э. Скаддер.

Гений Уиттьера — еврейский, более чем у любого другого поэта, использующего сейчас английский язык. Он — цветок морального чувства в его мужской строгости, взбирающийся, как лесная сосна. В этом отношении он связан с Вордсвортом и, возвращаясь дальше, с Мильтоном, чей стержневой корень был еврейским. Человек и поэт — одно и то же. — Преподобный Дэвид А. Уоссон.

Уиттьер в некоторых отношениях самый американский из всех американских поэтов. Можно с уверенностью сказать, что на него меньше повлияли другие литературы, чем на любого из наших поэтов, за исключением, пожалуй, Брайанта. Любящая простота натуры Уиттьера видна в стихах, которые он адресовал своим личным друзьям и тем, чьи жизненные занятия проходили в тех же руслах, что и его собственные моральные симпатии. — Ричард Генри Стоддард.

Я не видел Джона Гринлифа Уиттьера, но я вел с ним переписку и питаю к нему большую привязанность. Во время американской войны выдающийся гражданин Массачусетса сказал мне, что, по его мнению, не было человека в Соединенных Штатах, чьи сочинения в то время и за несколько лет до этого имели бы такое большое влияние на общественное мнение, как сочинения Уиттьера. Если Бог дает настоящего поэта народу в такое время, разве Он не говорит истинно народу и не просит их вернуться к путям милосердия и праведности? — Джон Брайт.

Уиттьеровская азбука.

A cottage hidden in the wood,

Red through its seams a light is glowing,

On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude

A narrow luster throwing.

Mogg Megone.

But welcome, be it old or new,

The gift which makes the day more bright,

And paints upon the ground of cold

And darkness warmth and light.

Flowers in Winter.

Cheerily then, my little man,

Live and laugh as boyhood can!

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

The Barefoot Boy.

Down on my native hills of June

And home’s green quiet, hiding all,

Fell sudden darkness like the fall

Of midnight upon noon!

The Rendition.

Early hath the spoiler found thee,

Brother of our love,

Autumn’s faded earth around thee,

And its storms above!

On the Death of S. O. Torrey.

Father, to Thy suffering poor

Strength and grace and faith impart,

And with Thy own love restore

Comfort to the broken heart.

The Familists’ Hymn.

God’s stars and silence taught thee

As His angels only can,

That the one sole sacred thing beneath

The cope of heaven is Man.

The Branded Hand.

How hushed the hiss of party hate,

The clamor of the throng!

How old, harsh voices of debate

Flow into rhythmic song!

My Birthday.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round

Of uneventful years;

Still o’er and o’er I sow the spring

And reap the autumn ears.

My Playmate.

Just then I felt the deacon’s hand

In wrath my coat-tail seize on;

I heard the priest cry, “Infidel!”

The lawyer mutter, “Treason!”

A Sabbath Scene.

Know we not our dead are looking

Downward with a sad surprise,

All our strife of words rebuking

With their mild and loving eyes?

A Visit to Washington.

Lift again the stately emblem

On the Bay State’s rusted shield;

Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree

On our banner’s tattered field.

The Pine Tree.

More than clouds of purple trail

In the gold of setting day;

More than gleams of wing or sail

Beckon from the sea-mist gray.

The Vanishers.

No perfect whole can our nature make,

Here or there the circle will break;

The orb of life as it takes the light

On one side, leaves the other in night.

The Preacher.

O friends whose hearts still keep their prime,

Whose bright example warms and cheers,

Ye teach us how to smile at Time,

And set to music all his years.

The Laurels.

Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown

Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone

Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand.

Trust.

Quiet and calm, without a fear

Of danger darkly lurking near,

The weary laborer left his plow,

The milkmaid caroled by her cow.

Pentucket.

Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,

By dawn or sunset shone across,

When the ebb of the sea has left them free

To dry their fringes of gold-green moss.

The Wreck of Rivermouth.

So shall the Northern Pioneer go joyful on his way

To wed Penobscot’s waters to San Francisco’s bay.

The Crisis.

Thank God that I have lived to see the time

When the great truth begins at last to find

An utterance from the deep heart of mankind,

Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime!

Abolition of the Gallows.

Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame

Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same;

Though we sink in the darkness, His arms break our fall,

And in death as in life He is Father of all!

The Quaker Alumni.

Vain pride of star-lent genius!—vain

Quick fancy and creative brain,

Unblest by prayerful sacrifice,

Absurdly great or weakly wise!

The Chapel of the Hermits.

Wherever Freedom shivered a chain God speed, quoth I;

To Error amidst her shouting train I gave the lie.

My Soul and I.

Ximena, speak and tell us

Who has lost, and who has won?

Nearer came the storm and nearer,

Rolling fast and frightful on.

The Angels of Buena Vista.

Yon mountain’s side is black with night,

While, broad-orbed, o’er its gleaming crown,

The moon, slow rounding into sight,

On the hushed, inland sea looks down.

Summer by the Lakeside.

Zephyr-like o’er all things going

When the breath divine is flowing,

All my yearnings to be free

Are as echoes answering Thee.

Hymn from the French.

Моральная война.

Джон Г. Уиттьер.

When Freedom on her natal day

Within her war-rocked cradle lay,

An iron race around her stood,

Baptized her infant brow in blood;

And through the storm which round her swept

Their constant ward and watching kept.

Then, where our quiet herds repose

The roar of baleful battle rose,

And brethren of a common tongue

To mortal strife as tigers sprung;

And every gift on Freedom’s shrine

Was man for beast, and blood for wine!

Our fathers to their graves have gone:

Their strife is past—their triumph won;

But sterner trials wait the race

Which rises in their honored place—

A moral warfare with the crime

And folly of an evil time.

So let it be. In God’s own might

We gird us for the coming fight,

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours,

In conflict with unholy powers,

We grasp the weapon He has given—

The light, and truth, and love of heaven.

Недавно группа школьников из Жирара, штат Пенсильвания, написала письмо Джону Г. Уиттьеру, поэту-квакеру, сообщив ему, что они научились декламировать «Босоногого мальчика», «Сборщиков кукурузы» и «Мод Мюллер», и закончив так: «Если это не составит большого труда, пожалуйста, напишите для нас стих — что-то, что мы могли бы выучить и всегда помнить как написанное вами специально для нас». В ответ он прислал следующее:

“Faint not and falter not, nor plead

Your weakness. Truth itself is strong;

The lion’s strength, the eagle’s speed,

Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.

“Your nature, which, through fire and blood,

To place or gain can find its way,

Has power to seek the highest good,

And duty’s holiest call obey.”

Моя страна.

Land of the forest and the rock,

Of dark-blue lake and mighty river,

Of mountains reared aloft to mock

The storm’s career, the lightning’s shock;

My own green land forever!

O never may a son of thine,

Where’er his wandering steps incline,

Forget the skies which bent above

His childhood like a dream of love.

Джон Г. Уиттьер посетил встречу своих одноклассников в Хейверилле, штат Массачусетс, 10 сентября 1885 г. Он был из выпуска 27-го года. Он написал стихотворение для этого случая, которое было прочитано его кузеном. Оно озаглавлено «1827-1885» и гласит следующее:

The gulf of seven and fifty years

We stretch our welcoming hand across;

The distance but a pebble’s toss

Between us and our youth appears.

For in life’s school we linger on,

The remnant of a once full list;

Conning our lessons, undismissed,

With faces to the setting sun.

And some have gone the unknown way,

And some await the call to rest;

Who knoweth whether it is best

For those who went or us who stay?

And yet, despite of loss and ill,

If faith and love and hope remain,

Our length of days is not in vain,

And life is well worth living still.

Still to a gracious Providence

The thanks of grateful hearts are due

For blessings when our lives were new—

For all the good vouchsafed us since.

The pain that spared us sorer hurt;

The wish denied, the purpose crossed;

And pleasure, fond occasions lost,

These mercies to our small desert.

’Tis something that we wander back,

Gray pilgrims, to the ancient ways,

And tender memories of old days

Walk with us by the Merrimac.

That even in life’s afternoon

A sense of youth comes back again,

As though this cool September rain

The still green woodlands dream of spring.

The eyes, grown dim to present things,

Have keener sight for by-gone years,

And sweet and clear in deafening ears

The bird that sang at morning sings.

Dear comrades, scattered wide and far

Send from their homes their kindly word;

And dearer ones, unseen, unheard,

Smile on us from some heavenly star.

For life and death with God are one;

Unchanged by seeming change, His care

And love are round us here and there;

He breaks no thread His hands have spun.

Soul touches soul; the muster-roll

Of life eternal has no gaps;

And after half a century’s lapse

Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.

Hail and farewell! We go our way

Where shadows end, we trust, in light;

The star that ushers in the night

Is herald also of the day.

Свет, который чувствуется.

A tender child of summers three,

Seeking her little bed at night,

Paused on the dark stair timidly.

“O mother; take my hand,” said she,

“And then the dark will all be light.”

We older children grope our way

From dark behind to dark before;

And only when our hands we lay,

Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,

And there is darkness nevermore.

Reach downward to the sunless days

Wherein our guides are blind as we,

And faith is small and hope delays;

Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,

And let us feel the light of Thee.

ДЕНЬ ПАМЯТИ ПАВШИХ.

День памяти павших.

Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло.

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest

On this Field of the Grounded Arms,

Where foes no more molest,

Nor sentry’s shot alarms!

Ye have slept on the ground before,

And started to your feet

At the cannon’s sudden roar,

Or the drum’s redoubling beat.

But in this camp of Death

No sound your slumber breaks;

Here is no fevered breath—

No wound that bleeds and aches.

All is repose and peace;

Untrampled lies the sod;

The shouts of battle cease:

It is the Truce of God!

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!

The thoughts of men shall be

As sentinels to keep

Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of green

We deck with fragrant flowers;

Yours has the suffering been,

The memory shall be ours.

Между могил.

Харриет Прескотт Споффорд.

Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand,

On every sod throughout the land

The silver showers slip softly down;

On every sod some growing stem

Lifts to the light a shining crown.

For underneath her bending blue,

With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew,

Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom,

Nor asks what passions stirred the dust

Through which her pulses spring to bloom.

While from the gardens of the South,

Like blessings blown from some warm mouth,

The wooing wind steals all day long—

Steals lingeringly from grave to grave,

With breath of blossom, breath of song.

A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers,

Are weaving all these sunny hours,

Where broken hearts and hopes are hid,

And the great mother on each bed

Lays it, a fragrant coverlid.

You, who with garlands go about,

As the tree-tilting bird pours out

O’er either mound his singing bliss,

Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave

A flower on that grave, and on this!

For, lo, the eternal truce of death

Was called upon the passing breath,

And all the phantom hates, that shed

Their shadows round us as they stalked,

Have no remembrance with the dead!

Красный, белый и синий.

Харриет Макьюэн Кимбалл.

Red Cypress! unto him who grieves,

Reading sad legends in thy leaves,

And finding in thy flower

An emblem of the heart that bleeds,

Say: The red blossom which I bear

Doth symbolize

The sacrifice

Of that sublimest hour

When Love fulfilled all human needs;

Bound Death, the Victor, as a slave;

Flung wide the sealed gates of the grave,

And set His angels, warders, there.

White Rose! to him who gathers thee

The Flower of Consolation be—

Unfolding peace, and not despair.

With sharpest thorns set round,

Teach him how Life may wear

Sharp griefs, and yet be crowned!

Blue Harebell! that dost tremble

To the weird breath of Sorrow,

Be to the mourning one Faith’s symbol;—

Since thou dost borrow

The same soft hue

Her eyes have won with constant looking up;

God filleth thine inverted cup

With heaven’s own blue;

So shall His sweet assurance fill

The heart bowed meekly to His will.

День героев.

Through the long bending grass

The white-robed maidens pass,

With tender faces, and with footsteps soft and slow,

Upon each lowly grave,

Where sleeps the true and brave,

Dropping red roses and wan lilies as they go.

Flowers for the patriot band

Who loved their native land:

Sweet rosemary, and purple pansies, and pale pinks;

Green leaves from budding trees

Make sweet the passing breeze—

Sweet as the elegy the grateful nation thinks.

For who would not prolong

With flowers and scent and song

The memory of those who fell in freedom’s fight?

From the sweet month of May,

Then choose the fairest day,

And crown it for the honored dead with all things bright.

Then say: “O singing birds,

Echo these tender words:

While bosoms nobly throb, and women’s eyes are wet,

While roses bud and blow,

While stars at evening glow,

While daylight breaks for us, we never will forget.

“As long as men shall stand

For home and native land,

And while our starry flag flies o’er the true and free,

Honor and love and truth

Shall give immortal youth,

And we’ll remember you upon the land and sea.”

Harper’s Weekly.

Гимн памяти павших.

Уильям Х. Рэндалл.

Soldiers! who freely for our country’s glory

Upheld our flag on Southern hill and plain,

Long may your deeds be told in grateful story,

Ye have not lived in vain!

Brothers! who fought for more than empty honor

That all our land united might be free,

May shine for evermore upon our banner

Each star for liberty.

Heroes! who toiled through all the dusty marches,

And life surrendered on those shot-plowed fields,

To ye who fled where the blue sky o’erarches,

Tribute a nation yields.

Your spirits, watching from out heaven’s dominions,

Shall not see lost what ye so dearly bought;

The shackles that once clogged the eagle’s pinions

Shall not again be wrought.

And now with garlands decorate each dwelling

Where all that earth could claim serenely sleeps;

While love, like perfume from the flower upwelling

Grateful remembrance keeps.

Цветы для храбрых.

Селия Тэкстер.

Here bring your purple and gold,

Glory of color and scent!

Scarlet of tulips bold,

Buds blue as the firmament.

Hushed is the sound of the fife

And the bugle piping clear:

The vivid and delicate life

In the soul of the youthful year.

We bring to the quiet dead,

With a gentle and tempered grief;

O’er the mounds so mute we shed

The beauty of blossoms and leaf.

The flashing swords that were drawn

No rust shall their fame destroy!

Boughs rosy as rifts of dawn,

Like the blush on the cheek of joy.

Rich fires of the gardens and meads,

We kindle these hearts above.

What splendor shall match their deeds;

What sweetness can match our love?

День поминовения.

Маргарет Сидни.

A little window-garden plot,

Blooming in dusty street,

Adown which poured the travel

Of many weary feet;

A cheery spot of brightness

Blooming for all to see.

Oh, that was Blossom’s garden-bed,

Who loved it tenderly.

At morn, at noon, at even,

She dealt out faithful care;

And many buds and flowerets sweet

Came out with fragrance rare.

And now, this May-day morning,

She stood in wealth of bloom

That beautified and perfumed all

The quaint, old-fashioned room.

When suddenly the door was thrown

Ajar, and there stood Ray.

“Give us your flowers, do, Blossom, do,

For Decoration Day.”

She looked around with pretty flush

Of hurt surprise: “Ah, no;

You know not what you ask, if you

Would wish to rob me so.”

“To rob you?” Master Ray in scorn

Flashed out, then turned away;

“The soldiers gave their all for you:

You owe them flowers to-day.”

“I ‘owe them flowers.’ Ah, true, indeed!

Dear brother, please forgive.

Those brave men died on battle-fields

That we at home might live;

And I not lay a flower upon

Their graves in memory sweet!

Oh, selfish heart! I have to mourn

Ingratitude complete.

Forgive me, Lord. They shall have all;

Yes, glad I am to make

My buds and blossoms into wreaths

For those dear patriots’ sake.”

The May-day sun shone brilliantly;

All Nature smiled to see

The honors given to those who died

In the cause of Liberty;

But the sweetest gift from loving hands

Was the bud, and flower, and spray,

From the little child who gave her all

On that Memorial Day.

ДЕНЬ БЛАГОДАРЕНИЯ.

День благодарения.

Только во время поздней гражданской войны этот день стал в каком-либо смысле национальным. До того времени его празднование ограничивалось почти исключительно Новой Англией. Но прокламация президента Джонсона от 2 ноября 1865 г., назначающая день национального благодарения, была поддержана аналогичными прокламациями губернаторов всех штатов, не входивших в состав бывшей Конфедерации, и с тех пор праздник неуклонно растет в народной популярности, хотя многие южные штаты медленно его принимали. Теперь, когда его назначение исходит от президента-демократа — первого, когда-либо изданного из такого источника, — вероятно, что он будет более широко почитаться, чем когда-либо прежде в нашей истории. И это один из добрых знаков времени. Хорошо, что один день в году отдается воссоединению семей, сбору разбросанных друзей и ликованию по поводу щедрот Провидения. — The Advance.

День благодарения у греков.

Греки проводили самый грандиозный праздник всего года в честь Деметры, богини урожая; и римляне, которые заимствовали большинство своих обычаев у греков, также проводили грандиозное празднование в честь той же богини, чье имя они изменили на Цереру. Они ходили длинными процессиями на поля, где участвовали в деревенских играх и украшали всех своих домашних богов цветами. Оба этих праздника проводились в сентябре.

День благодарения у евреев.

Три тысячи лет назад состоялся еврейский праздник Кущей с его великолепными ритуалами, мелодичными хорами и живописными празднествами. В течение восьми дней люди прекращали свою работу, чтобы «есть, пить и веселиться». В это время миллионы собирались в Иерусалиме и его окрестностях на несколько дней, живя в шалашах, сформированных из ветвей оливы, сосны, мирта и пальмы, и украшенных фруктами и цветами. Проводились грандиозные публичные шествия, и в дополнение к этому в каждом доме было свое поклонение, свое жертвоприношение и свой банкет.

Первый английский День благодарения в Нью-Йорке.

Но голландцы ушли, а англичане пришли — и они пришли, чтобы остаться. При владении Новыми Нидерландами англичанами, когда Эдмунд Андрос был губернатором, Совет, заседавший 7 июня 1675 г., постановил:

«Чтобы среда, 23-е число сего месяца, была назначена по всему правительству днем Благодарения и Молитв Всемогущему Богу за все Его прошлые Избавления и Благословения и Настоящие Милости к нам, и Молиться о продолжении и Умножении их».

Как пилигримы возносили благодарность.

Отцы-пилигримы, после десяти месяцев болезней и страданий, собрали свой первый урожай, который состоял из двадцати акров кукурузы и шести акров ячменя и гороха — достаточно, чтобы обеспечить их пищей на предстоящий год. За это они благоговейно поблагодарили Бога и сделали приготовления к пиру. Охотники были посланы, чтобы добыть обед благодарения, и вернулись с водоплавающими птицами, дикой индейкой и олениной. Затем был приготовлен пир, и Массасойт и девяносто его воинов присутствовали на нем. В следующем году была такая долгая засуха, что кукуруза и ячмень были низкорослыми, и голод, казалось, смотрел им в лицо. Был назначен день поста и молитвы, и в течение девяти часов люди молились непрестанно. К вечеру солнце зашло в облаках, поднялся ветерок, а утром лил дождь. Урожай ожил, и был обильный сбор. За это губернатором Брэдфордом был назначен день благодарения.

История этого первого благодарения записана следующим образом:

«Наш урожай был собран, наш губернатор послал четырех человек на охоту за птицей, чтобы мы могли, особым образом, порадоваться вместе после того, как получили плоды нашего труда. Они четверо за один день убили столько птиц, что с небольшой помощью послужили компании почти неделю. В то время, среди прочих развлечений, мы упражнялись в оружии, многие индейцы приходили к нам, и среди прочих их величайший король, Массасойт, с девяноста людьми, которых мы три дня развлекали и угощали, и они вышли и убили пять оленей, которых принесли на плантацию и даровали нашему губернатору, капитану и другим. И хотя не всегда так обильно, как было в это время у нас, все же по благости Божьей мы так далеки от нужды, что часто желаем вам быть причастниками нашего изобилия».

Первый национальный День благодарения.

Непосредственным поводом для первого благодарения была капитуляция генерала Бергойна генералу Гейтсу осенью 1777 г. Четверг, 18 декабря, был назначен, и в соответствии с приказом Конгресса армия в Вэлли-Фордж должным образом соблюдала этот день — армия, которая проложила свой путь в крови. Это было приказано Континентальным конгрессом.

Прокламация Вашингтона.

Вашингтон, как президент Соединенных Штатов, издал свою первую прокламацию о соблюдении дня благодарения в городе Нью-Йорке 3 октября 1789 г., назначив четверг, 26-й день ноября того года, «быть посвященным народом этих штатов служению тому великому и славному Существу, которое является благодетельным Автором всего добра, которое было, есть или будет» и т. д. Его вторая прокламация, датированная городом Филадельфия, 1 января 1795 г., назначила четверг, 26 ноября, днем, который должен соблюдаться для всеобщего благодарения народом Соединенных Штатов.

Губернатор Джон Джей из Нью-Йорка был такого высокого мнения о Дне благодарения, что решил устроить свой собственный и, соответственно, назначил четверг, 26 ноября 1795 г.

Первый бостонский День благодарения — июль 1630 г.

[Для хоровой и сольной декламации.]

Хезекия Баттерворт.

Solo. “Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-day

That rises on our ears

Rolls from the hills of Boston Bay

Through five times fifty years—

When Winthrop’s fleet from Yarmouth crept

Out to the open main,

And through the widening waters swept

In April sun and rain,

Concert. “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”

The leader shouted, “pray;”

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As fadeth Yarmouth Bay.

Solo. They passed the Scilly Isles that day,

And May days came, and June,

And thrice upon the ocean lay

The full orb of the moon.

And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,

Ere England sunk from view,

While yet the rippling Solent lay

In April skies of blue,

Concert. “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”

Each morn was shouted, “pray;”

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Solo. Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,

Through Maytime morns and June,

Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,

Low, ’neath the summer moon;

And as Cape Ann arose to view,

And Norman’s Woe they passed,

The wood-doves came the white mist through

And circled round each mast.

Concert. “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”

Then called the leader, “pray;”

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Solo. The white wings folded, anchors down,

The sea-worn fleet in line;

Fair rose the hills where Boston town

Should rise from clouds of pine;

Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,

And placid lay the sea.

“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;

“Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.

Concert. “Give thanks to God with fervent lips,

Give thanks to God to-day.”

The anthem rose from all the ships,

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Solo. That psalm our fathers sung we sing,

That psalm of peace and wars,

While o’er our heads unfolds its wing,

The flag of forty stars;

And while the nation finds a tongue

For nobler gifts to pray,

’Twill ever sing the song they sung

That first Thanksgiving Day:

Concert. “Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,

Praise ye the Lord to-day.”

So rose the song from all the ships,

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Concert. Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,

Ho! ships of Boston Bay,

Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide

To this Thanksgiving Day!

We pray to God with fervent lips,

We praise the Lord to-day,

As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,

But psalms from Boston Bay.

Благодарение за свой дом.

Роберт Геррик (1591-1674).

Lord, thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell,

A little house whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

Under the sparres of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep

Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my doore

Is worn by th’ poore,

Who hither come, and freely get

Good words, or meat.

’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearth

With guiltlesse mirthe,

And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That soiles my land

And givest me for my bushel sown

Twice ten for one;

Thou makest my teeming hen to lay

Her egg each day.

All these, and better, thou dost send

Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resigne

As wholly Thine:

But the acceptance, that must be,

O Lord, by Thee.

Благодарение.

Уильям Д. Хоуэллс.

Lord, for the erring thought

Not into evil wrought!

Lord, for the wicked will

Betrayed and baffled still!

For the heart from itself kept,

Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were

Broken to our blind prayer;

For pain, death, sorrow, sent

Unto our chastisement;

For all loss of seeming good,

Quicken our gratitude.

Harper’s Magazine.

Ода благодарения.

Джон Г. Уиттьер.

Once more the liberal year laughs out

O’er richer stores than gems or gold;

Once more with harvest-song and shout

Is nature’s bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,

Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;

Her lap is full of goodly things,