Samuel Johnson: Все стихи поэта

Все стихи Оригиналы Переводы

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 › »

Winter

No more the morn with tepid rays

Unfolds the flower of various hue;

Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distills the dew.

The lingering hours prolong the night,

Usurping darkness shares the day;

Her mists restrain the force of light,

And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.

Samuel Johnson

The Young Author

When first the peasant, long inclined to roam,

Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,

Pleas'd with the scene the smiling ocean yields,

He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields;

Then dances jocund o'er the watery way,

While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play;

Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,

And future millions lift his rising soul;

Samuel Johnson

The Natural Beauty

To Stella:

Whether Stella's eyes are found

Fix'd on earth or glancing round,

If her face with pleasure glow,

If she sigh at others' woe,

If her easy air express

Conscious worth, or soft distress,

Stella's eyes and air and face

Samuel Johnson

On Seeing a Bust of Mrs Montague

Had this fair figure, which this frame displays,

Adorn'd in Roman time the brightest days,

In every dome, in every sacred place,

Her statue would have breathed an added grace,

And on its basis would have been enroll'd,

"This is Minerva, cast in Virtue's mould."

Samuel Johnson

From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book III Metre 5

The man who pants for ample sway,

Must bid his passions all obey;

Must bid each wild desire be still,

Nor yoke his reason with his will:

For though beneath thy haughty brow

Warm India's supple sons should bow,

Though northern climes confess thy sway,

Which erst in frost and freedom lay,

Samuel Johnson

On the Death of Stephen Grey, FRS

The Electrician

Long hast thou borne the burden of the day,

Thy task is ended, venerable Grey!

No more shall art thy dexterous hand require,

To break the sleep of elemental fire:

To rouse the powers that actuate Nature's frame,

The momentaneous shock, th' electric flame;

The flame, which at first, weak pupil of thy lore,

Samuel Johnson

To Miss --,

{On her playing upon the harpsichord in

a room hung with flower-pieces of her own painting}.

When Stella strikes the tuneful string

In scenes of imitated Spring,

Where beauty lavishes her powers

On beds of never-fading flowers,

And pleasure propagates around

Each charm of modulated sound;

Samuel Johnson

Horace: Book II Ode 9

Clouds do not always veil the skies,

Nor showers immerse the verdant plain;

Nor do the billows always rise,

Or storms afflict the ruffled main.

Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores

Do the chain'd waters always freeze;

Not always furious Boreas roars,

Or bends with violent force the trees.

Samuel Johnson

From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book II Metre 4

Wouldst thou to some steadfast seat,

Out of Fortune's power retreat?

Wouldst thou, when fierce Eurus blows,

Calmly rest in safe repose?

Wouldst thou see the foaming main,

Tossing rave, but rave in vain?

Shun the mountain's airy brow,

Shun the sea-sapp'd sand below;

Samuel Johnson

Horace: Book IV Ode 7

The snow dissolv'd, no more is seen;

The fields and woods, behold! are green;

The changing year renews the plain,

The rivers know their banks again;

The sprightly nymph and naked grace

The mazy dance together trace.

The changing year's successive plan

Proclaims mortality to man.

Samuel Johnson

From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book II Metre 2

Though countless as the grains of sand

That roll at Eurus' loud command;

Though countless as the lamps of night

That glad us with vicarious light;

Fair plenty, gracious queen, should pour

The blessings of a golden shower,

Not all the gifts of fate combin'd

Would ease the hunger of the mind,

Samuel Johnson

Horace: Book 1, Ode 22

The man, my friend, whose conscious heart

With virtue's sacred ardour glows,

Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,

Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:

Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,

Or horrid Afric's faithless sands;

Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads

His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.

Samuel Johnson