威廉。华兹华斯

在这里你可以找到长诗老坎伯兰乞丐威廉·华兹华斯的作品

老坎伯兰乞丐

.我在路上看见一个上了年纪的乞丐;他坐在公路旁,在一座巨大山脚下的一座低矮的粗糙的砖石建筑上,这样那些牵着马走陡峭崎岖道路的人就可以安心地爬上去。老人把他的手杖放在那块宽阔光滑的石头上;他从一个全是面粉的袋子里,从村姑们的救济中,一个接一个地取出他的残羹剩饭;用一种呆滞而严肃的眼神扫视着它们。在阳光下,在那小堆的第二级台阶上,四周是荒无人烟的群山,他坐在那里,孤独地吃着他的食物。他那麻痹的手里不时地撒下面包屑,尽管他还在努力防止浪费,但还是束手无策,面包屑如雨点般落在地上。小山鸟还不敢啄它们注定要吃的食物,在他一半手杖的长度范围内靠近。我从小就认识他;然后他那么老了,他现在看起来并不老; He travels on, a solitary Man, So helpless in appearance, that from him The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, Watches the aged Beggar with a look Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned, The old Man does not change his course, the boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. He travels on, a solitary Man; His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground, He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road,--in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet Disturb the summer dust; he is so still In look and motion, that the cottage curs, Ere he has passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not A burden of the earth! 'Tis Nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul, to every mode of being Inseparably linked. Then be assured That least of all can aught--that ever owned The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed, So low as to be scorned without a sin; Without offence to God cast out of view; Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement Worn out and worthless. While from door to door, This old Man creeps, the villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity, Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares, Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels The acts of love; and habit does the work Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, Doth find herself insensibly disposed To virtue and true goodness. Some there are By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness,