Т.В. Артеменко, Е.В. Кривощекова, Е.В. Кравченко, Н.Е. Николаева - Reader in Language and Culture (1098538), страница 17
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Today his study and the gardens at ‘The Elm’ arepreserved by the Rottingdean Preservation Society, and Bateman’s is held by theNational Trust. The Kipling Society was founded in 1927. From his poem“Recessional”—Lest we forget is now a popular epitaph used by many includingthe Commonwealth War Graves Commission (est.1917) which Kipling worked asliterary adviser for during World War I.114IfIf you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you;If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with triumph and disasterAnd treat those two imposters just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breath a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: "Hold on";If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,115Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!An AmericanThe American Spirit speaks:If the Led Striker call it a strike,Or the papers call it a war,They know not much what I am like,Nor what he is, My Avatar.Through many roads, by me possessed,He shambles forth in cosmic guise;He is the Jester and the Jest,And he the Text himself applies.The Celt is in his heart and hand,The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;Where, cosmopolitanly planned,He guards the Redskin's dry reserveHis easy unswept hearth he lendsFrom Labrador to Guadeloupe;Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.116Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:Blatant he bids the world bow down,Or cringing begs a crust of praise;Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.His hands are black with blood -- his heartLeaps, as a babe's, at little things.But, through the shift of mood and mood,Mine ancient humour saves him whole -The cynic devil in his bloodThat bids him mock his hurrying soul;That bids him flout the Law he makes,That bids him make the Law he flouts,Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakesThe drumming guns that -- have no doubts;That checks him foolish-hot and fond,That chuckles through his deepest ire,That gilds the slough of his despondBut dims the goal of his desire;Inopportune, shrill-accented,The acrid Asiatic mirthThat leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,The scandal of the elder earth.117How shall he clear himself, how reachYour bar or weighed defence prefer -A brother hedged with alien speechAnd lacking all interpreter?Which knowledge vexes him a space;But, while Reproof around him rings,He turns a keen untroubled faceHome, to the instant need of things.Enslaved, illogical, elate,He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fearsTo shake the iron hand of FateOr match with Destiny for beers.Lo, imperturbable he rules,Unkempt, desreputable, vast -And, in the teeth of all the schools,I -- I shall save him at the last!The English WayAfter the fight at Otterburn,Before the ravens came,The Witch-wife rode across the fernAnd spoke Earl Percy's name."Stand up-stand up, Northumberland!I bid you answer true,118If England's King has under his handA Captain as good as you?"Then up and spake the dead PercyOh, but his wound was sore!"Five hundred Captains as good," said he,"And I trow five hundred more."But I pray you by the lifting skies,And the young wind over the grass,That you take your eyes from off my eyes,And let my spirit pass.""Stand up-stand up, Northumberland!I charge you answer true,If ever you dealt in steel and brand,How went the fray with you?""Hither and yon," the Percy said;"As every fight must go;For some they fought and some they fled,And some struck ne'er a blow."But I pray you by the breaking skies,And the first call from the nest,That you turn your eyes away from my eyes,And let me to my rest.""Stand up-stand up, Northumberland!I will that you answer true,119If you and your men were quick again,How would it be with you?""Oh, we would speak of hawk and hound,And the red deer where they rove,And the merry foxes the country round,And the maidens that we love."We would not speak of steel or steed,Except to grudge the cost;And he that had done the doughtiest deedWould mock himself the most."But I pray you by my keep and tower,And the tables in my hall,And I pray you by my lady's bower(Ah, bitterest of all!)"That you lift your eyes from outen my eyes,Your hand from off my breast,And cover my face from the red sun-rise,And loose me to my rest!"She has taken her eyes from out of his eyesHer palm from off his breast,And covered his face from the red sun-rise,And loosed him to his rest."Sleep you, or wake, NorthumberlandYou shall not speak again,120And the word you have said 'twixt quick and deadI lay on Englishmen."So long as Severn runs to WestOr Humber to the East,That they who bore themselves the bestShall count themselves the least."While there is fighting at the ford,Or flood along the Tweed,That they shall choose the lesser wordTo cloke the greater deed."After the quarry and the killThe fair fight and the fameWith an ill face and an ill graceShall they rehearse the same."Greater the deed, greater the needLightly to laugh it away,Shall be the mark of the English breedUntil the Judgment Day!"Emily BronteEmily Bronte was born on 30 July 1818 at 74 Market Street in Thornton,Bradford, Yorkshire, England.
She was the fourth daughter of Maria Branwell(1783-1821), who died of cancer when Emily was just three years old, and Irishclergyman Patrick Bronte (1777-1861). After her youngest sister Anne (1820-1211849) was born the Bronte’s moved to the village of Haworth where Patrick hadbeen appointed rector. Emily had four older siblings; Maria (1814-1825), Elizabeth(1815-1825), Charlotte (1816-1855) and Patrick Branwell “Branwell” (18171848). Emily’s “Aunt [Elizabeth] Branwell” (1776-1842) had moved in to theParsonage after her sister Maria’s death to help nursemaids Nancy and Sarah Garsraise the six young children.In 1824, Emily, with her four sisters entered the Clergy Daughter’s School atCowan Bridge, near Kirkby Lonsdale. When Maria and Elizabeth died there a yearlater of tuberculosis, she and Charlotte returned home to Haworth.
Their father wasa quiet man and often spent his spare time alone, so, the motherless childrenentertained themselves reading the works of William Shakespeare, Virgil, JohnMilton, and the Bible and played the piano, did needlepoint, and told each otherstories. The four often ‘paired up’; Charlotte and Branwell started writing of theirimaginary world ‘Angria’, Emily and Anne writing of its rival, ‘Gondal’.
Penningtheir kingdoms’ histories and developing characters to populate them, the youngBronte girls found a creative outlet in writing stories and poetry. Emily wasbecoming an independent and opinionated young woman as her poem “The OldStoic” reveals;And if I pray, the only prayerThat moves my lips for meIs, ‘Leave the heart that now I bear,And give me liberty!’In 1835 Emily enrolled at Miss Wooler's school at Roe Head, Mirfield whereCharlotte was teaching, but she soon returned home when she became profoundlyhomesick and ill. After a few years as governess at Law Hill Hall in Halifax, WestYorkshire, Emily and her sisters Charlotte and Anne travelled to Brussels, Belgiumin 1842. There at the Pensionnat Heger under teacher Constantin Heger theyimmersed themselves in the study of French, German and literature with the aim ofstarting their own school someday. When their Aunt Branwell died Emily alone122returned to Haworth for her funeral and stayed on there, just her and her father.
Shehelped around the home and continued writing and editing her poems. By 1845 hersisters had given up their dream of starting their own school and the three weretogether at Haworth again. It was Charlotte’s idea to publish the poems of Currer,Ellis and Acton Bell in 1846. The following year Wuthering Heights was publishedto mixed reviews, although it was soon lauded as an original and innovative tragicromance. Tragedy loomed large in Emily’s life as well: her brother Branwell hadbecome an alcoholic and addicted to opium and the family were constantly dealingwith his depressions and at times mad ravings.
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