Тема 5. эПИЧЕСКИЙ СТИХ ЭДМУНДА СПЕНСЕРА И Джона Милтона
Пьянова Н. М. «Королева фей» Э.Спенсера // Из истории реализма в литературе Англии. Пермь, 1980. С. 5–13.
Бочоришвили Н. К. Слово в поэзии Э. Спенсера // Вестн. МГУ. Сер. 9. Филология. 1986. №4. С. 143–148.
Самарин Р. М. Творчество Джона Мильтона. М., 1964 (обратить внимание на с. 19–22, 26–32, 36–45, 54, 58, 62–74, 82–89, 100–102, 105–108, 200–212, 331–359, 359–363, 404–405).
Элиот Т.С. Милтон // Элиот Т. С. Избранное: Религия, культура, литература. М., 2004. С. 590–619.
Edmund Spenser (1552–1599)
The Faery Queen. Book 1. Canto 1
1
A Gentle Knight was pricking[2] on the plaine,
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shield,
Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine,
The cruell markes of many a bloudy fielde;
Yet armes till that time he did never wield:
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
As much disdaining to the curbe to yield:
Full jolly[3] knight he seemd, and faire did sitt
As one for knightly giusts[4] and fierce encounters fitt.
2
But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead as living ever him adored:
Upon his shield the like was also scored,
For soveraine[5] hope, which in his helpe he had:
Right faithful true he was in deede and word,
But of his cheere[6] did seeme too solemne sad;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad[7].
3
Upon a great adventure he did bond,
That greatest Gloriana to him gave,
That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie Lond,
To winne him worship[8], and her grace to have,
Which of all earthly things he most did crave;
And ever as he rode, his hart did yearne
To prove his puissance in battell brave
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne;
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne.
4
A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside,
Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow,
Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide
Under a vele, that wimpled[9] was full low,
And over all a blacke stole she did throw,
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As one that inly mournd: so was she sad,
And heavie sat upon her palfrey slow:
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had,
And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad.
5
So pure an innocent, as that same lambe,
She was in life and every vertuous lore,
And by descent from Royall lynage came
Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of yore
Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore,
And all the world in their subjection held;
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore
Forwasted[10] all their land, and them expeld:
Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far compeld.
6
Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag,
That lasie seemd in being ever last,
Or wearied with bearing of her bag
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past,
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast,
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine
Did poure into his Lemans[11] lap so fast,
That every wight to shrowd it did constrain,
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain.
7
Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand,
A shadie grove not far away they spide,
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand:
Whose loftie trees yclad with sommers pride,
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide,
Not perceable[12] with power of any starre:
And all within were pathes and alleies wide,
With footing worne, and leading inward farre:
Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they entred arre.
8
And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led,
Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony,
Which therein shrouded from the tempest dred,
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky.
Much can they prayse the trees so straight and hy,
The sayling Pine, the Cedar proud and tall,
The vine-prop Elme, the Poplar never dry,
The builder Oake, sole king of forrests all,
The Aspine good for staves, the Cypresse funerall.
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9
The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours
And Poets sage, the Firre that weepeth still,
The Willow worne of forlorne Paramours,
The Eugh obedient to the benders will,
The Birch for shaftes, the Sallow for the mill,
The Mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter wound,
The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill,
The fruitfull Olive, and the Platane round,
The carver Holme, the Maple seeldom inward sound.
10
Led with delight, they thus beguile the way,
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne;
When weening to returne, whence they did stray,
They cannot finde that path, which first was showne,
But wander too and fro in wayes unknowne,
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene,
That makes them doubt, their wits be not their owne:
So many pathes, so many turnings seene,
That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been.
JONH MILTON (1608–1674)
Paradise Lost
Book 6 (extract)
Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt,
Unnam'd in Heav'n, now plenteous, as thou seest
These Acts of hateful strife, hateful to all,
Though heaviest by just measure on thy self
And thy adherents: how hast thou disturb'd
Heav'ns blessed peace, and into Nature brought
Miserie, uncreated till the crime
Of thy Rebellion? how hast thou instill'd
Thy malice into thousands, once upright
And faithful, now prov'd false. But think not here
To trouble Holy Rest; Heav'n casts thee out
From all her Confines. Heav'n the seat of bliss
Brooks not the works of violence and Warr.
Hence then, and evil go with thee along
Thy ofspring, to the place of evil, Hell,
Thou and thy wicked crew; there mingle broiles,
Ere this avenging Sword begin thy doome,
Or som more sudden vengeance wing'd from God
Precipitate thee with augmented paine.
So spake the Prince of Angels; to whom thus
The Adversarie. Nor think thou with wind
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Of airie threats to aw whom yet with deeds
Thou canst not. Hast thou turnd the least of these
To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise
Unvanquisht, easier to transact with mee
That thou shouldst hope, imperious, & with threats
To chase me hence? erre not that so shall end
The strife which thou call'st evil, but wee style
The strife of Glorie: which we mean to win,
Or turn this Heav'n it self into the Hell
Thou fablest, here however to dwell free,
If not to reign: mean while thy utmost force,
And join him nam'd ALMIGHTIE to thy aid,
I flie not, but have sought thee farr and nigh.
They ended parle, and both addrest for fight
Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue
Of Angels, can relate, or to what things
Liken on Earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such highth
Of Godlike Power: for likest Gods they seemd,
Stood they or mov'd, in stature, motion, arms
Fit to decide the Empire of great Heav'n.
Now wav'd thir fierie Swords, and in the Aire
Made horrid Circles; two broad Suns thir Shields
Blaz'd opposite, while expectation stood
In horror; from each hand with speed retir'd
Where erst was thickest fight, th' Angelic throng,
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion, such as to set forth
Great things by small, If Natures concord broke,
Among the Constellations warr were sprung,
Two Planets rushing from aspect maligne
Of fiercest opposition in mid Skie,
Should combat, and thir jarring Sphears confound.
Together both with next to Almightie Arme,
Uplifted imminent one stroke they aim'd
That might determine, and not need repeate,
As not of power, at once; nor odds appeerd
In might or swift prevention; but the sword
Of MICHAEL from the Armorie of God
Was giv'n him temperd so, that neither keen
Nor solid might resist that edge: it met
The sword of SATAN with steep force to smite
Descending, and in half cut sheere, nor staid,
But with swift wheele reverse, deep entring shar'd
All his right side; then SATAN first knew pain,
And writh'd him to and fro convolv'd; so sore
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The griding sword with discontinuous wound
Pass'd through him, but th' Ethereal substance clos'd
Not long divisible, and from the gash
A stream of Nectarous humor issuing flow'd
Sanguin, such as Celestial Spirits may bleed,
And all his Armour staind ere while so bright.
Forthwith on all sides to his aide was run
By Angels many and strong, who interpos'd
Defence, while others bore him on thir Shields
Back to his Chariot; where it stood retir'd
From off the files of warr; there they him laid
Gnashing for anguish and despite and shame
To find himself not matchless, and his pride
Humbl'd by such rebuke, so farr beneath
His confidence to equal God in power.
Yet soon he heal'd; for Spirits that live throughout
Vital in every part, not as frail man
In Entrailes, Heart or Head, Liver or Reines,
Cannot but by annihilating die;
Nor in thir liquid texture mortal wound
Receive, no more then can the fluid Aire:
All Heart they live, all Head, all Eye, all Eare,
All Intellect, all Sense, and as they please,
They Limb themselves, and colour, shape or size
Assume, as likes them best, condense or rare.
Тема 6. Поэзия английского классицизма И СЕНТИМЕНТАЛИЗМА
История английской литературы: В 3 т. Т. 1, вып. 2. М.; Л., 1945. С. 235–246, 301–314.
Сидорченко Л. В. Александр Поуп и художественные искания в английской литературе первой четверти XVIII века. СПб., 1992.
Шайтанов И. О. Английская поэзия XVIII века в культурном контексте раннего Просвещения // Изв. АН СССР, Сер. лит. и яз. 1988. Т. 47, №1.
Соловьева Н. А. У истоков английского романтизма. М., 1988.
Соловьева Н. А. История зарубежной литературы. Предромантизм. М., 2005.
Жирмунский В. М. Поэзия английского сентиментализма // Жирмунский В. М. Из истории западноевропейских литератур. Л., 1981.
Шайтанов И. О. «Открытие природы» и английская рефлективная поэзия XVIII века // Переходные эстетические явления в литературном процессе XVIII–XX веков. М., 1981. С. 51–65.
Есаулов Н. Н. К проблеме метода в английской поэзии XVIII века // Зарубежная литература. Проблемы метода. Л., 1984. Вып. 2
Alexander Pope (1688–1744)
Epistle to Miss Blount,
On Her Leaving the Town after the Coronation (1715)
As some fond Virgin, whom her mother’s care
Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their Pleasures caus’d her discontent,
She sigh’d not that they stay’d, but that she went.
She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old fashion’d halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Op’ra, Park, Assembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and pray’rs three hours a day;
To part her time ‘twixt reading and bohea;
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
Or o’er old coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after sev’n,
There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heav’n.
Some Squire, perhaps you take delight to rack;
Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack;
Who visits with a Gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, – ‘No words!’
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nodds, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things – but his horse.
In some fair ev’ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancy’d scene,
See Coronations rise on ev’ry green;
Before you pass th’ imaginary sights
Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter’d Knights,
While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls.
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your Slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagu’d with head-aches, or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my sight,
Vex’d to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a Tune, as you may now.
JAMES THOMSON (1700–1748)
The Seasons: Summer (Excerpt)
‘Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun
Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.
O’er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye
Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all,
From pole to pole, is undistinguish’d blaze.
In vain the sight, dejected to the ground,
Stoops for relief; thence hot-ascending streams
And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root
Of vegetation parch’d, the cleaving fields
And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose,
Blast fancy’s blooms, and wither even the soul.
Echo no more returns the cheerful sound
Of sharpening scythe: the mower, sinking, heaps
O’er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum’d;
And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard
Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants;
The very streams look languid from afar;
Or, through th’ unshelter’d glade, impatient, seem
To hurl into the covert of the grove.
Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!
Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks!
Ye ashes wild, resounding o’er the steep!
Delicious in your shelter to the soul,
As to the hunted hart the sallying spring,
Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides
Laves, as he floats along the herbag’d brink.
Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides;
The heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye
And ear resume their watch; the sinews knit;
And life shoots swift through all the lighten’d limbs.
Thomas Gray (1716–1771)
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