Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! IX. O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction; not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: παιδίον, ἰσχύϊ θάλλον ἐλευθερίης θεοφάντῳ ζωῆς ἐν κορυφῇσι, τὶ δὴ χρόνον ὧδέ σ ̓ ἀνάγκῃς ἐνζεύξαι σπεύδων κέλεαι σπεύδοντα καὶ αὐτόν, ὧδε μάτην σῇς αὐτὸς ἐϋτυχίῃς πολεμίζων; δέξεαι ὡς ναύτης φρεσὶ μόρσιμον αὐτίκα φόρτον, καὶ τὸ νομιζόμενόν σοι ἐπέσσεται, ἄχθεί βρῖθον ὡς παγετός, ζωῆς δ ̓ ὅσον οὐχ ὑπὸ βένθεα δῦνον. ὦ βροτοὶ εὐτυχέες, τῶν ἐν φρεσὶ δαιμονίη φλὸξ οὐδὲ καταψυχθεῖσά περ ἔφθιται, ἀλλὰ πέφυκεν ἐς βραχὺ παρμείνασα μακρὸν πόθον ἐγκαταθεῖναι. ἢ θεὸν εὐλογίῃσιν ἐποίχομαι, εὖτε βίοιο τοῦ πρὶν ἔχω μνήμην· οὐ μὴν τόσον εἵνεκα κείνων ὧν τις ἔμελλε μάλιστ ̓, οὐ τέρψιος αὐτονόμοιο, οὐδὲ νόου παίδων εὐηθέος οἷς φιλοέργοις εἴτ ̓ ἀργοῖς κέαρ ἐλπὶς ὑπόπτερος ἄρτι πατάσσει Nor for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; To perish never : Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, οὐ διὰ κεῖν ̓ ἀνέβη παιὰν ἐμὸς ἀλλ ̓ ἐπὶ τούτοις, οὖνεκ ̓, ὅσ ̓ αἰσθήσει τις φράζεται, οὐκ ἀποκάμνει ταῦτ ̓ ἐς ἔλεγχον ἄγων, κεἰ κάρτα πεφυκότ ̓ ἀπορρεῖν πρὶν καταληφθῆναι φροῦδ' οἴχεται· οὖνεκά θ ̓ αὑτῷ πᾶς τις ἄπιστος ἀλᾶται ἀμήχανος, ἀμφιπολεύων ληπτὰ μὲν οὐ περίληπτα δ', ἀνήρ τ ̓ ἐπὶ θεῖα προβαίνων ταῦτ ̓ ἄγαμαι καὶ τοῦτό γ', ὁθούνεκα γιγνομένοισιν τοῖος ἔρως ἰδέας ἀψευδέας αἰὲν ἐόντων ἐν φρεσὶν οὐκέτ ̓ ἔπειτ ̓ ἀφανιζομένας ἀναφαίνει· καὶ τόνδ ̓ οὐκ ἀμέλει, οὐκ οἰστροδόνητος ἐφορμή, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. X. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! |