Родился 17 марта 1777 г. в графстве Даун (Ирландия), первым из 10 детей в семье батрака, ремонтника заборов и строителя дорог, Хью Бранти (Hugh Brunty), англиканца и Элинор Элис Макклори, ирландской католички. Семья была «большой и очень бедной», владела четырьмя книгами (включая два экземпляра Библии) и существовала на «каше, картофеле, пахте и хлебе», которые «дали Патрику пожизненное несварение желудка».

Он обучался разным профессиям (кузнечное дело, торговля льном, ткацкое производство), пока не стал учителем в 1798 г. В 1802 г. переехал в Англию, выиграв стипендию для изучения теологии в колледже Святого Иоанна в Кембридже и в 1806 г. получил степень бакалавра.

Позже, во взрослом возрасте, сменил написание фамилии на Бронте. Одной из возможных причин смены называют подражание титулу герцога Бронте, пожалованному в 1799 г. Фердинандом I адмиралу Нельсону, к коему он относился с большим почтением.

В том же 1806 г. рукоположен в дьяконы Церкви Англии, а в 1807 г. в священники. В Эссексе он служит в церкви Св. Марии Магдалины в Уэтерсфилде. В 1809 г. назначен помощником викария в Веллингтоне (Шропшир), а уже в декабре этого же года переезжает в Дьюсбери, где начинает деятельность викария в церкви Всех Святых. Здесь он преподаёт чтение и письмо в воскресной школе Дьюсбери.

В 1811—1815 гг. служит помощником викария в церкви Св. Петра в Хартсхеде, дочерней церкви Дьюсбери. В этот же период (1812) назначен школьным экзаменатором в Уэслианской академии. В 1815 г. переходит на должность постоянного викария в Торнтоне.

В 1812 г. женится на Марии Бренуэлл (1783 — 1821). В этом браке рождается шестеро детей. В июне 1819 г. становится постоянным викарием церкви Св. Михаила и Всех ангелов в Хауорте, и перевозит туда семью в апреле 1820 г.

Своё первое произведение опубликовал в 1809 г. на посту священника в Веллингтоне. Это было эссе «Winter Evening Thoughts», опубликованное в местной газете. Далее, в 1811 г. и 1813 г. последовали сборники нравоучительных стихотворений «Cottage Poems» и «The Rural Minstrel» соответственно.

Также его перу принадлежат роман «The Maid of Killarney» (1818) и повесть «The Cottage in the Wood» (1816). В повести Патрик Бронте пишет, что единственное решение найти богатство и счастье — обратиться к Богу и обеспечить себе образование. А в романе критикует всё, что, так или иначе, шло вразрез с тогдашней религиозной моралью: католическая эмансипация, война, реформы законодательства, развлечения (такие как театр, танцы, карты и др.), образованные женщины, присяжные, ирландские тайные общества, атеизм и др.

Во время работы над составлением данного сборника были использованы следующие издания:

1. «Cottage Poems» (1811, Лондон, издательство «P.K. Holden»)

2. «The Rural Minstrel: A Miscellany of Descriptive Poems» (1813, Лондон, издательство «P.K. Holden»)

В настоящем сборнике собраны все стихотворения Патрика Бронте, расположенные в хронологическом порядке. На русский язык стихотворения и проза Патрика Бронте не переводились.

В. Щербаков

Poems by reverend Patrick Brontё

Epistle to the Rev. J*** B***, (Vicar of Dewsbury) whilst journeying for the Recovery of his Health

When warm’d with zeal, my rustic muse,

Feels fluttering-fain, to tell her news,

And paint her simple, lowly views,

With all her art,

And, though, in genius but obtuse,

May touch the heart.

Of palaces, and courts of kings,

She thinks but little, never sings,

But wildly strikes her uncouth strings

In some poor cot,

Spreads o’er the poor her fostering wings,

And sooth’s their lot.

Well pleased is she, to see them smile,

And uses every honest wile,

To mend their hearts, their cares beguile,

With rhyming story;

And lead them to their God, the while,

And endless glory.

Perchance, my poor neglected muse,

Unfit to harass, or amuse,

Escaping praise, and loud abuse,

Unheard, unknown,

May feed the moths, and wasting dews

As some have done.

Her aims are good, howe’er they end —

Here, comes a foe, and there, a friend,

These point the dart, and those defend,

Whilst, some deride her;

But, God, will sweetest comforts blend,

Whate’er betide her.

Thus, heaven-supported, forth she goes,

Midst flatterers, critics, friends, and foes;

Secure, since He who all things knows,

Approves her aim,

And kindly fans, or fostering blows

Her sinking flame.

Hence, when she shews her honest face

And tells her tale, with awkward grace,

Importunate to gain a place

Amongst your friends;

To ruthless critics leave her case,

And hail her ends.

To all, my heart is kind, and true,

But glows with ardent love for you;

Though absent, still you rise in view,

And talk, and smile,

Whilst heavenly themes, for ever new,

Our cares beguile.

The happy seasons oft return,

When love our melting hearts did burn,

As we through heavenly themes were borne,

With heaven-ward eyes,

And Faith this empty globe would spurn,

And sail the skies.

Or, when the rising sun shines bright,

Or, setting, leaves the world in night,

Or, dazzling, sheds his noon-day light,

Or, cloudy hides;

My fancy, in her airy flight,

With you resides.

Where, far you wander down the vale,

When balmy scents perfume the gale,

And purling rills, and linnets hail

The King of kings,

To muse with you, I never fail,

On heavenly things.

Where dashing cataracts astound,

And foaming shake the neighbouring ground,

And, spread a hoary mist around,

With you I gaze! —

And think, amidst the deaf’ning sound,

On wisdom’s ways!

Where rocky mountains prop the skies,

And, round, the smiling landscape lies,

Whilst you look down with tearful eyes,

On groveling man;

My sympathetic fancy flies,

The scene to scan.

From Pisgah’s top we then survey

The blissful realms of endless day,

And all the short, but narrow way,

That lies between,

Whilst faith emits a heavenly ray,

And cheers the scene.

With you, I wander on the shore,

To hear the angry surges roar,

Whilst foaming through the sands they pour

With constant roll;

And meditations, heaven-ward soar,

And charm the soul.

On life’s rough sea, we’re tempest driven,

In crazy barks, our canvas riven;

Such is the lot, to mortals given,

Where sins resort,

But he, whose anchor’s fixed in heaven,

Shall gain the port.

Though, swelling waves oft beat him back,

And tempests, make him, half a wreck,

And passions strong, with dangerous tack

Retard his course,

Yet, Christ the pilot, all will check,

And quell their force.

So, talk we, as we thoughtful stray,

Along the coast, where dashing spray,

With rising mist, o’erhangs the day,

And wets the shore;

And, thick, the vivid flashes play,

And thunders roar!

Whilst passing o’er this giddy stage,

A pious, and a learned sage,

Resolved eternal war to wage

With passions fell:

How oft, you view, with holy rage,

These imps of hell!

See! with what madd’ning force they sway

The human breast, and lead astray,

Down the steep, broad, destructive way,

The giddy throng;

Till, grisly death sweeps all away,

The fiends among!

As when the mad tornado flies,

And sounding mingles earth and skies,

And wild confusion ’fore the eyes,

In terror’s dressed,

So, passions fell, in whirlwinds rise,

And rend the breast!

But, whilst this direful tempest raves,

And many barks are dashed to staves,

I see you tower above the waves,

Like some tall rock,

Whose base, the harmless ocean laves,

Without a shock!

«Tis He who calmed the raging sea,

Who bids the waves, be still in thee,

And keeps you, from all dangers free,

Amidst the wreck;

All sin, and care, and dangers flee,

E’en at his beck.

And on that great, and dreadful day,

When heaven and earth shall pass away,

Each soul, to bliss, he will convey,

That knows his name;

And give the giddy world a prey,

To quenchless flame.

So, oft when Sabbaths bade us rest,

And heavenly zeal inspired your breast,

Obedient to the high behest,

You preached to all,

Whilst God, your zealous efforts blessed,

And owned your call.

The very thought, my soul inspires,

And kindles bright, her latent fires;

My muse feels heart-warm fond desires,

And spreads her wing,

And aims to join the angelic choirs,

And sweetly sing.

May rosy health with speed return,

And all your wonted ardour burn,

And sickness buried in his urn,

Sleep many years!

So, countless friends who loudly mourn,

Shall dry their tears!

Your wailing flock will all rejoice,

To hear their much-loved shepherd’s voice

And long will bless the happy choice

Their hearts have made,

And tuneful mirth will swell the noise,

Through grove and glade.

Your dearer Half, will join with me,

To celebrate the jubilee,

And praise the Great Eternal Three,

With throbbing joy,

And taste those pleasures pure and free,

Which never cloy.

1810

The Happy Cottagers

One sunny morn of May,

When dressed in flowery green,

The dewy landscape, charmed

With nature’s fairest scene,

In thoughtful mood,

I slowly strayed

O’er hill and dale,

Through bush, and glade.

Throughout the cloudless sky,

Of light unsullied blue,

The larks their matius raised,

Whilst on my dizzy view,

Like dusky motes,

They winged their way

Till vanished in

The blaze of day.

The linnets sweetly sung,

On every fragrant thorn,

Whilst from the tangled wood,

The blackbirds hailed the morn;

And, through the dew,

Ran here and there,

But half afraid,

The startled hare.

The balmy breeze, just kissed

The countless dewy gems,

Which decked the yielding blade,

Or gilt the sturdy stems;

And, gently o’er

The charmed sight,

A deluge shed,

Of trembling light.

A sympathetic glow,

Ran through my melting soul,

And calm, and sweet delight,

O’er all my sense stole;

And through my heart,

A greatful flood

Of joy, rolled on

To nature’s God.

Time, flew unheeded by,

Till wearied, and oppressed,

Upon a flowery bank,

I laid me down to rest;

Beneath my feet

A purling stream,

Ran glittering, in

The noon-tide beam.

I turned me round, to view

The lovely, rural scene;

And, just at hand, I spied

A cottage on the green;

The street was clean,

The walls were white,

The thatch was neat,

The window bright.

Bold chanticleer, arrayed

In velvet plumage gay,

With many an amorous dame,

Fierce, strutted o’er the way,

And motley ducks,

Were waddling seen,

And drake, with neck

Of glossy green.

The latch I gently raised,

And, ope’d the humble door;

An oaken stool was placed

On the neat sanded floor;

An aged man,

Said with a smile,

«You’re welcome, sir,

Come, rest a while.»

His coarse attire, was clean,

His manner, rude yet kind,

His air, his words, and looks,

Shewed a contented mind;

Though mean and poor,

Thrice happy he,

As by our tale,

You soon shall see.

But, don’t expect to hear

Of deeds of martial fame,

Or that our peasant mean,

Was born of rank or name,

And soon will strut,

As in romance,

A knight, and all

In armour glance.

I sing of real life;

All else, is empty show:

To those who read, a source

Of much unreal woe:

Pollution, too,

Through novel-veins,

Oft fills the mind,

With guilty stains.

Our pleasant long was bred,

Afflictions meager child,

Yet, gratefully resigned,

Loud hymning praises, smiled,

And like a tower,

He stood unmoved,

Supported by

The God he loved.

His loving wife, long since,

Was numbered with the dead;

His son, a martial youth,

Had for his country bled;

And now remained,

One daughter fair,

And only she,

To sooth his care.

The aged man, with tears,

Spoke of the lovely maid;

How, earnestly she strove

To lend her father aid,

And, as he ran

Her praises o’er,

She gently ope’d

The cottage door.

With vegetable store,

The table soon she spread,

And pressed me to partake;

Whilst blushes, rosy-red,

Suffused her face —

The old man smiled,

Well pleased to see

His darling child.

With venerable air,

He then looked up to God:

A blessing craved on all,

And on our daily food;

Then kindly begged,

I would excuse

Their humble fare,

And not refuse. —

The table-cloth, though coarse,

Was of a snowy white,

The vessels, spoons, and knives,

Were clean, and dazzling bright;

So, down we sat,

Devoid of care,

Nor envied kings,

Their dainty fare.

When nature was refreshed,

And we familiar grown;

The good old man exclaimed,

«Around Jehovah’s throne,

«Come, let us all,

«Our voices raise,

«And sing our Great

«Redeemer’s praise!»

Their artless notes were sweet,

Grace ran through every line;

Their breasts with rapture swelled,

Their looks were all divine:

Delight, o’er all

My sense stole,

And heaven’s pure joy,

O’erwhelmed my soul.

When we had praised our God,

And knelt around his throne,

The aged man began,

In deep, and zealous tone,

With hands upraised,

And heaven-ward eye,

And prayed loud,

And fervently.

He prayed, that for His sake,

Whose guiltless blood, was shed

For guilty ruined man;

We might that day, be fed

With that pure bread,

Which cheers the soul;

And living stream

Where pleasures roll.

He prayed long for all;

And for his daughter dear,

That she, preserved from ill,

Might lead for many a year,

A spotless life,

When he’s no more;

Then follow him

To Canaan’s shore.

His faultering voice then fell,

His tears were dropping fast,

And muttering praise to God,

For all his mercies past,

He closed his prayer

Midst heavenly joys,

And tasted bliss

Which never cloys.

In sweet discourse, we spent

The fast declining day:

We spoke of Jesus’ love

And of that narrow way,

Which, leads through care,

And toil below,

To streams, where joys

Eternal flow.

The wonderous plan of Grace,

Adoring, we surveyed,

The birth of heavenly skill —

In Love Eternal, laid —

Too deep, for clear

Angelic ken,

And far beyond

Dim-sighted men.

To tell you all that passed,

Would far exceed my power;

Suffice it, then, to say,

Joy winged the passing hour,

Till, ere we knew,

The setting day,

Had clad the world,

In silver gray.

I kindly took my leave,

And blessed the happy lot,

Of those I left behind,

Lodged in their humble cot

And pitied some

In palace-walls,

Where pride torments,

And pleasure palls.

The silver moon, now, shed

A flood of trembling light,

On tower, and tree, and stream;

The twinkling stars shone bright:

Nor misty stain,

Nor cloud was seen,

O’er all the deep

Celestial green.

Mild was the lovely night;

Nor stirred a whispering breeze;

Smooth was the glassy lake;

And still the leafy trees;

No sound, in air

Was heard afloat,

Save Philomel’s

Sweet warbling note.

My thoughts were on the wing;

And back, my fancy fled,

To where contentment dwelt,

In the neat humble shed,

To shining courts,

From thence it ran,

Where restless pride

Oppresses man.

In fame, some search for bliss,

Some seek content, in gain,

In search of happiness,

Some give the slackened rein,

To passions fierce,

And down the stream,

Through giddy life,

Of pleasures dream.

These all, mistake the way,

As many more, have done;

The narrow path of bliss,

Through God’s Eternal Son,

Directly tends;

And only he,

Who treads this path,

Can happy be.

Who, anchors all above,

Has still a happy lot,

Though deemed for life to dwell

E’en in a humble cot,

And when he lays

This covering down,

He’ll wear a bright

Immortal crown.

1810

The Rainbow

The shower is past, and the sky,

O’er head, is both mild and serene,

Save, where a few drops from on high,

Like gems, twinkle over the green:

And glowing fair, in the black North,

The Rainbow o’er-arches the cloud;

The sun, in his glory comes forth,

And larks, sweetly warble alond.

That dismally grim northern sky,

Says, God in his vengeance, once frowned,

And opened his flood-gates, on high,

Till obstinate sinners were drowned:

The lively bright south, and that bow,

Say, all this dread vengeance is o’er,

These colours that smilingly glow,

Say, we shall be deluged no more.

Ever blessed be those innocent days,

Ever sweet their remembrance to me;

When. Often, in silent amaze,

Enraptured, I’d gaze upon thee!

Whilst arching a-down the black sky,

Thy colours glowed on the green hill,

To catch thee, as lightning I’d fly

But, aye, you eluded my skill.

From hill unto hill, your gay scene,

You shifted — whilst crying aloud,

I ran, till at length from the green,

You shifted, at once, to the cloud!

So, vain worldly phantoms betray,

The youths who too eager pursue;

When ruined, and far led astray,

Th’ illusion escapes from their view.

Those peaceable days knew no care,

Except what arose from my play,

My favourite lambkin and hare,

And cabin I built o’er the way.

No cares, did I say? Ah! I’m wrong:

Even childhood from cares is not free:

Far distant, I see a grim throng,

Shake horrible lances at me!

One day, I remember it still,

For pranks I had played on the clown,

Who lives on the neighbouring hill,

My cabin was trod to the ground.

Who, ever felt grief such as I,

When crushed by this terrible blow!

Not Priam, the monarch of Troy,

When all his proud towers lay low.

And grief upon grief was my lot:

Soon after, my lambkin was slain;

My hare, having strayed from its cot,

Was chased by the hounds o’er the plain.

What countless calamities teem

From memory’s page on my view! —

How trifling soever you seem,

Yet, once, I have wept over you.

Then, cease foolish heart, to repine,

No stage is exempted from care:

If you would true happiness find,

Come follow! and I’ll shew you where.

But, first, let us take for our guide,

The Word which Jehovah has penned;

By this, the true path is descried,

Which leads to a glorious end.

How narrow this path to our view!

How steep an ascent lies before!

Whilst foolish fond heart laid for you,

Are dazzling temptations all o’er.

What by-ways with easy descent,

Invite us through pleasures to stray!

Whilst Satan, with hellish intent.

Suggests that we ought to obey.

But trust not the father of lies,

He tempts you with vanity’s dream;

His pleasure, when touched, quickly dies,

Like bubbles that dance on the stream,

Look not on the wine, when it glows,

All ruddy, in vessels of gold,

At last, it will sting your repose,

And death at the bottom unfold.

But lo! an unnatural night,

Pours suddenly down on the eye;

The sun has withdrawn all his light,

And rolls a black globe o’er the sky!

And hark! what a cry rent the air!

Immortal the terrible sound! —

The rocks split with horrible tear,

And fearfully shakes all the ground!

The dead from their slumbers awake,

And leaving their mouldy domain;

Make poor guilty mortals to quake —

As pallid they glide o’er the plain!

Sure, nature’s own God is oppressed,

And nature, in agony cries; —

The sun in his mourning is dressed,

To tell the sad news through the skies!

Yet, surely some victory’s gained,

Important, and novel, and great;

Since death, has his captives unchained,

And widely thrown open his gate!

Yes, victory great as a God

Could gain over hell, death, and sin,

This moment’s achieved by the blood

Of Jesus, our crucified King.

But all the dread conflict is o’er,

Lo! cloud, after cloud, rolls away;

And heaven, serene as before,

Breaks forth in the splendor of day;

And all the sweet landscape around,

Emerged from the ocean of night;

With groves, woods, and villages crowned,

Astonish and fill with delight!

But, see! where that crowd melts away:

Three crosses, sad spectacles shew!

Our Guide has not led us astray;

Heart! this is the secret you’d know —

Two thieves, and a crucified God,

Hangs awfully mangled between!

Whilst, fast from his veins, spouting blood,

Runs, dyeing with purple the green!

Behold! the red flood rolls along,

And forming a bason below,

Is termed in Emanuel’s song,

The fount for uncleanness and woe.

Immerged in that precious tide,

The soul quickly loses its stains,

Though, deeper than crimson they’re dyed,

And scapes from its sorrows and pains.

This fountain is opened for you:

Go, wash, without money or price;

And instantly formed anew,

You’ll lose all your woes in a trice.

Then cease, foolish heart, to repine,

No stage is exempted from care;

If you would true happiness find,

«Tis on Calvary, seek for it there.

1810

Winter-Night Meditations

Rude winter’s come, the sky’s o’ercast,

The night is cold, and loud the blast,

The mingling snow, comes driving down,

Fast whitening o’er the flinty ground.

Severe their lots, whose crazy sheds,

Hang tottering o’er their trembling heads:

Whilst blows through walls and chinky door,

The drifting snow across the floor:

Where, blinking embers scarcely glow,

And rushlight, only serves to shew

What well may move the deepest sigh,

And force a tear from pity’s eye.

You there may see a meagro pair,

Worn out with labour, grief and care:

Whose naked babes, in hungry mood,

Complain of cold, and cry for food;

Whilst tears bedew the mother’s cheek,

And sighs the father’s grief bespeak;

For, fire, or raiment, bed, or board,

Their dreary shed, cannot afford.

Will no kind hand, confer relief;

And wipe away the tear of grief?

A little boon, it well might spare,

Would kindle joy, dispel their care:

Abate the rigour of the night,

And warm each heart — achievement bright!

Yea, brighter far, than such as grace

The annals of a princely race;

Where kings bestow a large domain,

But to receive as much again,

Or e’en corrupt the purest laws,

Or fan the breath of vain applause.

Peace to the man, who stoops his head

To enter the most wretched shed,

Who, with his condescending smiles,

Poor diffidence and awe beguiles:

Till all encouraged, soon disclose

The different causes of their woes —

The moving tale dissolves his heart;

He liberally bestows a part

Of God’s donation. From above,

Approving heaven, in smiles of love.

Looks on, and through the shining skies,

The Great Recording Angel flies,

The doors of mercy to unfold,

And write the deed in lines of gold;

There, if a fruit of Faith’s fair tree,

To shine throughout eternity,

In honour of that Sovereign dread,

Who had no place to lay his head,

Yet opened wide sweet mercy’s door,

To all the desolate and poor,

Who stung with guilt, and hard oppressed,

Groaned to be with him, and at rest.

Now, pent within the city wall,

They throng to theatre and hall,

Where gesture, look, and words conspire,

To stain the mind, the passions fire;

Whence sin-polluted streams around,

That whelm the country all around.

Ah! Modesty, should you be here,

Close up the eye, and stop the ear;

Oppose your fan, nor peep beneath,

And blushing shun their tainted breath.

Here, every rake, exerts his art,

T’ensnare the unsuspecting heart.

The prostitute with faithless smiles,

Remorseless plays her tricks and wiles,

Her gesture bold, and ogling eye,

Obtrusive speech, and pert reply,

And brazen front, and stubborn tone,

Shew all her native virtue’s flown.

By her, the thoughtless youth is ta’en,

Improverished, disgraced, or slain:

Through her, the marriage vows are broke,

And Hymen proves a galling yoke.

Diseases come, destructions dealt,

Where’er her poisonous breath is felt;

Whilst she, poor wretch, dies in the flame,

That runs through her polluted frame.

Once she was gentle, fair and kind,

To no seducing schemes inclined,

Would blush to hear a smutty tale,

Nor ever strolled o’er hill or dale,

But lived a sweet domestic maid,

To lend her aged parents aid —

And oft they gazed, and oft they smiled

On this their loved, and only child:

They thought they might in her be blest;

And she would see them laid at rest.

A blithesome youth, of courtly mien,

Oft called to see this rural queen:

His oily tongue, and wily art,

Soon gained Maria’s yielding heart.

The aged pair, too, liked the youth,

And though him nought but love and truth

The village feast, at length is come;

Maria by the youth’s undone —

The youth is gone; so is her fame;

And with it, all her sense of shame;

And, now, she practices the art,

Which snared her unsuspecting heart;

And vice, with a progressive sway,

More hardened makes her every day.

Averse to good, and prone to ill.

And dexterous in seducing skill;

To look, as if her eyes would melt;

T’affect a love, she never felt;

To half suppress the rising sigh;

Mechanically to weep and cry;

To vow eternal truth, and then

To break her vow, and vow again.

Her ways, are darkness, death and hell;

Remorse, and shame, and passions fell;

18+

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