On a Major London Crossing
Lines Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Lines Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
On a Major London Crossing
World, you just can’t show anything so fair!
What kind of dismal spirit could pass by
a sight so touching? Such nobility!
This City now has clothing on. Such flair!
A matutinal glory, for our Mayor –
cupolas, atria, auditoria, high
sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky,
shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air.
Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking
in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill;
I don’t know anything so worry-slaking!
Our liquid history rolls on at will.
O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking,
and that prodigious pump is lying still.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by William Wordsworth...
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
World, you just can’t show anything so fair!
What kind of dismal spirit could pass by
a sight so touching? Such nobility!
This City now has clothing on. Such flair!
A matutinal glory, for our Mayor –
cupolas, atria, auditoria, high
sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky,
shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air.
Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking
in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill;
I don’t know anything so worry-slaking!
Our liquid history rolls on at will.
O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking,
and that prodigious pump is lying still.
Ballad of the Moor who Lost Alhama
Romance del moro que perdió Alhama
Anon
Romance del moro que perdió Alhama
Paseábase el rey moro
por la ciudad de Granada
desde la puerta de Elvira
hasta la de Vivarrambla.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Cartas le fueron venidas
que Alhama era ganada.
Las cartas echó en el fuego
y al mensajero matara,
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Descabalga de una mula,
y en un caballo cabalga;
por el Zacatín arriba
subido se había al Alhambra.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Como en el Alhambra estuvo,
al mismo punto mandaba
que se toquen sus trompetas,
sus añafiles de plata.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Y que las cajas de guerra
apriesa toquen el arma,
porque lo oigan sus moros,
los de la vega y Granada.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Los moros que el son oyeron
que al sangriento Marte llama,
uno a uno y dos a dos
juntado se ha gran batalla.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Allí fabló un moro viejo,
de esta manera fablara:
—¿Para qué nos llamas, rey,
para qué es esta llamada?
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
—Habéis de saber, amigos,
una nueva desdichada:
que cristianos de braveza
ya nos han ganado Alhama.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Allí fabló un alfaquí
de barba crecida y cana:
—Bien se te emplea, buen rey,
buen rey, bien se te empleara.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Mataste los Bencerrajes,
que eran la flor de Granada,
cogiste los tornadizos
de Córdoba la nombrada.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Por eso mereces, rey,
una pena muy doblada:
que te pierdas tú y el reino,
y aquí se pierda Granada.
—¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Ballad of the Moor who Lost Alhama
The Moorish King was passing
through the city of Granada
From the gate of Elvira
to that of Vivarrambla.
To him had come despatches
that Alhama had been taken.
He threw them on the fire
and put to death the bearer.
Dismounting from the jenny
and riding on a warhorse,
Up through the Zacatín
he came to the Alhambra.
On reaching the Alhambra
he straightway gave an order:
He bade them sound the trumpets,
the añafils of silver,
To open up the war-chests
and quickly arm for battle,
That all the Moors should hear it
in the plain and in Granada.
The Moors who heard the tocsin
that called to bloody combat
One by one, two by two
joined in a great battalion.
An aged Moor gave voice
and spoke up in this manner:
‘Why do you call us, King?
What reason for the summons?’
‘This you must know, my friends,
new tidings of misfortune:
That daring Christian men
have taken our Alhama.’
Then spoke a learned doctor,
his beard well-grown and hoary:
‘Good King, you are well served,
good King, you are served fairly.
‘You slew the Abencerrajes,
once the flower of Granada,
You seized the renegades
of Cordova the renowned.
For this, King, you deserve
a penalty redoubled:
You and your kingdom lost,
and lost alike Granada.’
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Anon...
The Pyrenees
Les Pyrénées
Guillaume, Sieur du Bartas (1544-90)
Les Pyrénées
François, arreste–toi, ne passe la campagne
Que Nature mura de rochers d’un costé,
Que l’Auriège entrefend d’un cours précipité;
Campagne qui n’a point en beauté de compagne.
Passant, ce que tu vois n’est point une montagne:
C’est un grand Briarée, un géant haut monté
Qui garde ce passage, et défend, indomté,
De l’Espagne la France, et de France l’Espagne.
Il tend à l’une l’un, à l’autre l’autre bras,
Il porte sur son chef l’antique faix d’Atlas,
Dans deux contraires mers il pose ses deux plantes.
Les espaisses forests sont ses cheveux espais;
Les rochers sont ses os; les rivières bruyantes
L’éternelle sueur que luy cause un tel faix.
François, arreste–toi, ne passe la campagne
Que Nature mura de rochers d’un costé,
Que l’Auriège entrefend d’un cours précipité;
Campagne qui n’a point en beauté de compagne.
Passant, ce que tu vois n’est point une montagne:
C’est un grand Briarée, un géant haut monté
Qui garde ce passage, et défend, indomté,
De l’Espagne la France, et de France l’Espagne.
Il tend à l’une l’un, à l’autre l’autre bras,
Il porte sur son chef l’antique faix d’Atlas,
Dans deux contraires mers il pose ses deux plantes.
Les espaisses forests sont ses cheveux espais;
Les rochers sont ses os; les rivières bruyantes
L’éternelle sueur que luy cause un tel faix.
The Pyrenees
published in Outposts:
Frenchman, hold hard, nor pass beyond that land
That nature fortified with rocky walls,
That Ariège thrusts through with headlong falls,
Land garlanded, most gallant and most grand.
What thou seest, passing here, is no high–land;
Rather a mighty Briareus, a giant
Set high to guard this passage, and, defiant,
Spain’s way to France, France’s to Spain command.
One arm to France, t’other to Spain is spread;
Upon his crest sits Atlas’ ancient weight;
His feet the two opposing seas betread.
The thickets are the thick hairs of his head;
The rocks his bones; the roaring mountain–spate,
The sweat his burthen ever makes him shed.
published in Modern Poetry in Translation:
FRENCH NATIONALS STOP HERE. NO TRANSIT through
The Ariège (Dept. no. 9).
A natural break: cascade, scarp, anticline.
No contest: champion country. Get that view!
VISITORS
THIS IS NOT A MOUNTAIN CHAIN.
You’re looking at a brontosaurus which
Has got across the middle of the pitch
Showing a No Way card to France and Spain.
Ne passez pas. No pase el paso usted.
His spiky neck is what jacks up the sky;
Feet in the Bay of Biscay and the Med;
The forest canopy tops out his head;
His bones are rocks. The long–term power supply?
Sweat, leached from stress–points on the watershed.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Guillaume, Sieur du Bartas...
Seven Hills of Rome
CELLE QUI DE SON CHEF...
Joachim du Bellay (1522-60)
CELLE QUI DE SON CHEF...
Celle qui de son chef les étoiles passait,
Et d'un pied sur Thétis, l'autre dessous l'Aurore,
D'une main sur le Scythe, et l'autre sur le More,
De la terre et du ciel la rondeur compassait:
Jupiter ayant peur, si plus elle croissait,
Que l'orgueil des Géants se relevât encore,
L'accabla sous ces monts, ces sept monts qui sont ore
Tombeaux de la grandeur qui le ciel menaçait.
II lui mit sur le chef la croupe Saturnale,
Puis dessus l'estomac assit la Quirinale,
Sur le ventre il planta l'antique Palatin,
Mit sur la dextre main la hauteur Célienne,
Sur la senestre assit l'échine Exquilienne,
Viminal sur un pied, sur l'autre l'Aventin.
Seven Hills of Rome
She whose head higher than the stars was crowned,
One foot on ocean, one beneath the Dawn,
One hand on Moor and one on Scythian,
Compassed the earth and then the heavens round.
Jupiter, fearing for his menaced heaven,
And lest the Giants' pride should rise again,
Crushed her beneath those hills that yet remain
As tombs of her great might, in number seven.
Upon her head he heaped the Saturnal,
Upon her stomach set the Quirinal,
Upon her belly, storied Palatine:
The Coelian upon her dexter hand,
Steep Esquiline upon the left doth stand:
On the feet, Viminal and Aventine.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joachim du Bellay...