Binsey Poplars

Binsey Poplars

Gerard Manley Hopkins

The poplars were felled in 1879. My Latin..
Binsey Poplars
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew — Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene. [Campaigning against a housing estate that would have scarred the view of Highgate from Hampstead Heath, I wrote: 'Witan, the ancient council. Hurst, a wooded hill. Not since the Binsey Poplars, those Hopkins-harrowing topplers, Fell or were felled by the fiend of eld that wishes old England ill, And the trains stopped stopping at Adlestrop, and at Grantchester time stood still, Has anything worse been heard in verse, including, if you will, The nefarious, unhilarious, Dissolution of Halnaker Mill.' ...]
Binsey Poplars
o quantum amatae vos mihi populi! Titana textis frondibus obrui ~~vidi refrenarique in auris; ~~~~praecipites cecidistis omnes, haud una sospes caede trucissima. intactus ordo duplicis agminis ~~occisus, umbrosis puellas ~~~~vel pueros recreare alutis gnarus, per agros, flumina, flamina, ventos vagantes, litora, harundines ~~per prata procurvas, per undas ~~~~nantibus his, aliis caducis. o stirps molesti nescia criminis, prompta ad fodendum, scindere promptior! ~~~torquemus increscens, virescens ~~~~ dilaniamus, in omne damnum. rus tenue tactu, rus tenerum ambitu! levis videndi fixus acu globus: ~~ instanter, heu! non est ocellus. ~~~~sic etiam reparare nisi pala et securi, deruimus modo saltus amoenos : nesciet advena ~~quantum venustatis fuisset: ~~~~undecimus decimusve tantum stragi sat ictus: conficit eripit prospectum agrestem, gaudia rustica ~~dejecta: prospectum placentem ~~~~destruit egregium, placentem.
Classical Verse Challenge for April 2024.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins...

A White Castle

Ein weißes Schloß

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Ein weißes Schloß
Ein weißes Schloß in weißer Einsamkeit. In blanken Sälen schleichen leise Schauer. Todkrank krallt das Gerank sich an die Mauer, und alle Wege weltwärts sind verschneit. Darüber hängt der Himmel brach und breit. Es blinkt das Schloß. Und längs den weißen Wänden hilft sich die Sehnsucht fort mit irren Händen ... Die Uhren stehn im Schloß: es starb die Zeit.
A White Castle
A castle, white, in a white solitude. Light rains go seeping through its empty halls, Sick creepers close to death claw at the walls, And all the paths towards the world are snowed. The sky hangs over it, inert and wide, The castle glitters. With uncertain hands Feeling along white walls, fond hopes advance… The castle’s clocks have halted. Time has died.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Rainer Maria Rilke...

St Helena

Ste-Hélène

Victor Hugo (1802-85)

Third poem in L'Expiation, following Moscow and Waterloo. All published by The Napoleonic Society of America, and in Translation and Literature (Edinburgh U.P.)
Ste-Hélène
Il croula. Dieu changea la chaîne de l’Europe. Il est, au fond des mers que la brume enveloppe, Un roc hideux, débris des antiques volcans. Le Destin prit des clous, un marteau, des carcans, Saisit, pâle et vivant, ce voleur du tonnerre, Et, joyeux, s’en alla sur le pic centenaire Le clouer, excitant par son rire moqueur Le vautour Angleterre à lui ronger le cœur. Évanouissement d’une splendeur immense ! Du soleil qui se lève à la nuit qui commence, Toujours l’isolement, l’abandon, la prison, Un soldat rouge au seuil, la mer à l’horizon, Des rochers nus, des bois affreux, l’ennui, l’espace, Des voiles s’enfuyant comme l’espoir qui passe, Toujours le bruit des flots, toujours le bruit des vents ! Adieu, tente de pourpre aux panaches mouvants, Adieu, le cheval blanc que César éperonne ! Plus de tambours battant aux champs, plus de couronne, Plus de rois prosternés dans l’ombre avec terreur, Plus de manteau traînant sur eux, plus d’empereur ! Napoléon était retombé Bonaparte. Comme un romain blessé par la flèche du Parthe, Saignant, morne, il songeait à Moscou qui brûla. Un caporal anglais lui disait : halte-là ! Son fils aux mains des rois ! sa femme aux bras d’un autre ! Plus vil que le pourceau qui dans l’égout se vautre, Son sénat qui l’avait adoré l’insultait. Au bord des mers, à l’heure où la bise se tait, Sur les escarpements croulant en noirs décombres, Il marchait, seul, rêveur, captif des vagues sombres. Sur les monts, sur les flots, sur les cieux, triste et fier, L’œil encore ébloui des batailles d’hier, Il laissait sa pensée errer à l’aventure. Grandeur, gloire, ô néant ! calme de la nature ! Les aigles qui passaient ne le connaissaient pas. Les rois, ses guichetiers, avaient pris un compas Et l’avaient enfermé dans un cercle inflexible. Il expirait. La mort de plus en plus visible Se levait dans sa nuit et croissait à ses yeux Comme le froid matin d’un jour mystérieux. Son âme palpitait, déjà presque échappée. Un jour enfin il mit sur son lit son épée, Et se coucha près d’elle, et dit : « C’est aujourd’hui » On jeta le manteau de Marengo sur lui. Ses batailles du Nil, du Danube, du Tibre, Se penchaient sur son front, il dit : « Me voici libre ! Je suis vainqueur ! je vois mes aigles accourir ! » Et, comme il retournait sa tête pour mourir, Il aperçut, un pied dans la maison déserte, Hudson Lowe guettant par la porte entrouverte. Alors, géant broyé sous le talon des rois, Il cria : « La mesure est comble cette fois ! Seigneur ! c’est maintenant fini ! Dieu que j’implore, Vous m’avez châtié ! » La voix dit : Pas encore !
St Helena
He fell; and God changed Europe's iron bands. Far in the fog-bound seas a vile rock stands, Belched up by old volcanoes. Destiny Took nails and clamps and neck-irons, gleefully, Seized him who stole the thunder, living, pale, And dragged him to the grizzled peak, to nail Him down, and with a mocking laugh to start The vulture England gnawing at his heart. * Immeasurable splendour, passed away! From earliest sunrise till the end of day Ever alone, abandoned, caged in prison; A redcoat near; beyond, the sea's horizon. Bare rocks, grim woods, depression, emptiness: Sails passing, fleeing into hopelessness. The sound of winds and waves for evermore! Farewell, white horse that Caesar spurs to war, Farewell the pounding drums, the stratagem, The purple tent, the plumes, the diadem! No quaking prostrate kings inferior; No robe trailed over them; no emperor. Napoleon was reduced to Bonaparte. He thought of Moscow burning, sick at heart As Roman bleeding from the Parthian bolt: An English corporal, to bid him Halt! Kings held his son; his wife was spoken for; Worse than a pig that wallows in a sewer, His senate cursed him, worshipping no more. When ocean winds fall still, he walked the shore On cliffs that crumbled in black heaps of stone, The dark waves' captive, dreaming and alone. As bygone battles still amazed his eye, With rueful pride on hill and sea and sky He cast his thoughts, to stray on high adventure. Grandeur and glory, void! the calm of nature! Eagles pass by, not knowing who he is. The kings, his jailers, took their compasses And closed him in a ring inflexible. He sickened. Death more and more visible Rose in the night and grew before his eyes, Like the cold breaking of a strange sunrise. His soul, that fluttered still, was almost fled. At last he laid his sword upon his bed, And took his place, and said `This is the day'. The greatcoat of Marengo on him lay. Nile, Danube, Tiber: battles on his brow Gathered. Said he: `I am unfettered now! I am victorious! Come, my eagles, fly!' And as he turned his head aside to die, Intruding in the empty house he saw Hudson Lowe watching through the half-closed door. The kings beneath their heel had trampled him! `Full measure!' cried the giant; `to the brim! Now it is finished! God whom I implore, Thy chastening's done!' The voice said, `There is More!'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Victor Hugo...

Worldly Power

Mirskaya Vlast (Мирская власть).

Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837)

Pushkin has seen two armed guards in front of a large crucifixion, or an image of it. This poem could not pass the censor during his lifetime.
Mirskaya Vlast (Мирская власть).
Когда великое свершалось торжество, И в муках на кресте кончалось божество, Тогда по сторонам животворяща древа Мария-грешница и пресвятая дева, Стояли две жены, В неизмеримую печаль погружены. Но у подножия теперь креста честнаго, Как будто у крыльца правителя градскаго, Мы зрим - поставлено на место жён святых В ружьё и кивере два грозных часовых. К чему, скажите мне, хранительная стража? - Или распятие казённая поклажа, И вы боитеся воров или мышей? - Иль мните важности придать царю царей? Иль покровительством спасаете могучим Владыку, тернием венчанного колючим, Христа, предавшего послушно плоть свою Бичам мучителей, гвоздям и копию?Мирская власть Иль опасаетесь, чтоб чернь не оскорбила Того, чья казнь весь род Адамов искупила, И, чтоб не потеснить гуляющих господ, Пускать не велено сюда простой народ?
Worldly Power
When the grand, when the solemn celebration was in train And the Lord on the cross was expiring in His pain, At the side of the life-giving Rood Sinful Mary, and the Virgin most holy and good, A pair of women, stood; Who could reckon up their anguish? No-one could. But to-day at the foot of the hallowed Rood, As it might be the city governor’s entry, We see not women but men: not saints, But with rifles and shakos, two fearsome sentries. Say, why the custodial vigilance? Is the Crucifixion a Treasury fief? Were you nervous of mice, or perhaps of a thief? Would you add to the glory of the Tsar of Tsars? Or are you the master’s rescuers, A security force for the thorn-crowned Christ Who subjects his flesh to the nails and spears And the flails of his executioners? Is the common herd not sufficiently nice For the one who saved mankind by His sacrifice, And the sauntering scions of the civilised class? Will you suffer not the people in freedom to pass?
Published in Modern Poetry in Translation, 2001.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Alexander Pushkin...