Coventry Patmore (Ковентри Патмор (Пэтмор))
The Woodman’s Daughter
In Gerald's Cottage by the hill, Old Gerald and his child, Innocent Maud, dwelt happily; He toil'd, and she beguiled The long day at her spinning-wheel, In the garden now grown wild. At Gerald's stroke the jay awoke; Till noon hack follow'd hack, Before the nearest hill had time To give its echo back; And evening mists were in the lane Ere Gerald's arm grew slack. Meanwhile, below the scented heaps Of honeysuckle flower, That made their simple cottage-porch A cool, luxurious bower, Maud sat beside her spinning-wheel, And spun from hour to hour. The growing thread thro' her fingers sped; Round flew the polish'd wheel; Merrily rang the notes she sang At every finish'd reel; From the hill again, like a glad refrain, Follow'd the rapid peal. But all is changed. The rusting axe Reddens a wither'd bough; A spider spins in the spinning-wheel, And Maud sings wildly now; And village gossips say she knows Grief she may not avow. Her secret's this: In the sweet age When heaven's our side the lark, She follow'd her old father, where He work'd from dawn to dark, For months, to thin the crowded groves Of the old manorial Park. She fancied and he felt she help'd; And, whilst he hack'd and saw'd, The rich Squire's son, a young boy then, Whole mornings, as if awed, Stood silent by, and gazed in turn At Gerald and on Maud. And sometimes, in a sullen tone, He offer'd fruits, and she Received them always with an air So unreserved and free, That shame-faced distance soon became Familiarity. Therefore in time, when Gerald shook The woods, no longer coy, The young heir and the cottage-girl Would steal out to enjoy The sound of one another's talk, A simple girl and boy. Spring after Spring, they took their walks Uncheck'd, unquestion'd; yet They learn'd to hide their wanderings By wood and rivulet, Because they could not give themselves A reason why they met. Once Maud came weeping back. ‘Poor Child!’ Was all her father said: And he would steady his old hand Upon her hapless head, And think of her as tranquilly As if the child were dead. But he is gone: and Maud steals out, This gentle day of June; And having sobb'd her pain to sleep, Help'd by the stream's soft tune, She rests along the willow-trunk, Below the calm blue noon. The shadow of her shame and her Deep in the stream, behold! Smiles quake over her parted lips: Some thought has made her bold; She stoops to dip her fingers in, To feel if it be cold. 'Tis soft and warm, and runs as 'twere Perpetually at play: But then the stream, she recollects, Bears everything away. There is a dull pool hard at hand That sleeps both night and day. She marks the closing weeds that shut The water from her sight; They stir awhile, but now are still; Her arms fall down; the light Is horrible, and her countenance Is pale as a cloud at night. Merrily now from the small church-tower Clashes a noisy chime; The larks climb up thro' the heavenly blue, Carolling as they climb: Is it the twisting water-eft That dimples the green slime? The pool reflects the scarlet West With a hot and guilty glow; The East is changing ashy pale; But Maud will never go While those great bubbles struggle up From the rotting weeds below. The light has changed. A little since You scarcely might descry The moon, now gleaming sharp and bright, From the small cloud slumbering nigh; And, one by one, the timid stars Step out into the sky. The night blackens the pool; but Maud Is constant at her post, Sunk in a dread, unnatural sleep, Beneath the skiey host Of drifting mists, thro' which the moon Is riding like a ghost.
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