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Çàðàç íà ñàéò³ - 1
Ïåðñîíàëüíûé ×ÀÒ Gudzyk
Ïîøóê

Ïåðåâ³ðêà ðîçì³ðó




Walter Raleigh

Ïðî÷èòàíèé : 136


Òâîð÷³ñòü | Á³îãðàô³ÿ | Êðèòèêà

THE PASSIONATE MAN'S PILGRIMAGE

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet,
       My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon,
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet,
       My  bottle  of  salvation,
My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gage;
And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage.

Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer,
       No  other  balm  will  there  be  given;
Whilst  my  soul,  like  a  quiet  palmer,
       Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  heaven;
Over  the  silver  mountains,
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains:
                     There  will  I  kiss
                     The  bowl  of  bliss;
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill
Upon  every  milken  hill:
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before;
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more.
Then  by  that  happy  blestful  day,
       More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see,
That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay,
       And  walk  apparelled  fresh  like  me.
               I'll  take  them  first
               To  quench  their  thirst,
And  taste  of  nectar  suckets,
               At  those  clear  wells
               Where  sweetness  dwells
Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets.

And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we
Are  filled  with  immortality,
Then  the  blessed  paths  we'll  travel,
Strowed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel;
Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors,
High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers.
From  thence  to  heavens's  bribeless  hall,
Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl;
No  conscience  molten  into  gold,
No  forged  accuser  bought  or  sold,
No  cause  deferred,  nor  vain-spent  journey;
For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney,
Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees,
And  he  hath  angels,  but  no  fees.
And  when  the  grand  twelve-million  jury
Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury,
'Gainst  our  souls  black  verdicts  give,
Christ  pleads  his  death,  and  then  we  live.

Be  thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader,
Unblotted  lawyer,  true  proceeder!
Thou  giv'st  salvation  even  for  alms;
Not  with  a  bribèd  lawyer's  palms.
And  this  is  my  eternal  plea
To  him  that  made  heaven,  earth,  and  sea,
That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon,
And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon,
Just  at  the  stroke,  when  my  veins  start  and  spread,
Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head.
Then  am  I  ready,  like  a  palmer  fit;
To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I  writ.


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