«La tumba»: Robert Blair; poema y análisis.
La tumba (The Grave) es un poema gótico del escritor escocés Robert Blair (1699-1746), publicado en 1743.
La tumba, uno de los mejores poemas de Robert Blair, pertenece a un estilo que se anticipó las características del romanticismo; hablamos de los poemas de cementerio, donde proliferan las referencias a la muerte, los ataúdes, cementerios, camposantos, lápidas y tumbas.
En este sentido, La tumba es una obra esencial para comprender la transición entre los grandes poetas de cementerio y la poesía del romanticismo.
El narrador de La tumba, nada menos que Robert Blair, nos ubica en un viejo cementerio en ruinas, o tal vez en un camposanto, poblado de árboles sombríos y penumbras furtivas; allí comenzará a reflexionar sobre el olvido y la memoria, y a meditar sobre destino de ambas, el mismo que nos aguarda a todos: la muerte, la soledad, la quietud insoportable de la tumba [ver: El arte de la poesía sepulcral: análisis de «La Tumba» de Robert Blair]
La tumba.
The Grave; Robert Blair (1699-1746)
Mientras algunos sufren el sol, otros la sombra,
Unos huyen a la ciudad, otros a la eremita;
Sus objetivos son tantos como los caminos que toman
En la jornada de la vida; y esta tarea es la mía:
Pintar los sombríos horrores de la tumba;
El lugar designado para la cita,
Donde todos estos peregrinos se encuentran.
¡Tu socorro imploro, Rey Eterno! cuyo brazo
Fuerte sostiene las llaves del infierno y la muerte,
De aquella cosa temible, la Tumba.
Los hombres tiemblan cuando Tú los convocas:
La Naturaleza horrorizada se despoja de su firmeza
¡Ah, Cuán oscuros son tus extensos reinos,
Creciendo largo tiempo en deshechos pesarosos!
Donde sólo reina el silencio y la noche, la oscura noche,
Oscura como lo era el caos antes de que el sol
Comenzara a rodar, o de que sus rayos intentaran
Azotar la penumbra de tu profundidad.
La vela enferma, resplandeciendo tenuemente
A través de las bajas y brumosas bóvedas,
(Acariciando el lodo y la humedad mohosa)
Deja escapar un horror inabarcable,
Y sólo sirve para hacer tu noche más funesta.
Bien te conozco en la forma del Tejo,
¡Árbol triste y maligno! Que adora habitar
Entre los cráneos y ataúdes, epitafios y gusanos:
Donde rápidos fantasmas y sombras visionarias,
Bajo la pálida, fría luna (como es bien sabido)
Encapuchados realizan sus siniestras rondas,
¡Ninguna otra alegría tienes, árbol embotado!
Observad aquel santo templo, la piadosa labor
De nombres una vez célebres, ahora dudosos u olvidados,
Enterrados en la ruina de las cosas que fueron;
Allí yace sepultado el muerto más ilustre.
¡Escuchad, el viento se alza! ¡Escuchad cómo aulla!
Creo que nunca escuché un sonido tan triste:
Puertas que crujen, ventanas agitadas,
Y el pájaro hediondo de la noche,
Estafado en las espinas, gritando en los pasos sombríos
Su ronda negra y rígida, colgando
Con los fragmentos de escudos y armas andrajosas,
Enviando atrás sus sonidos, cargando el aire pesado
De los nichos bajos, las Mansiones de los muertos.
Despertados de sus sueños, las duras y severas filas
De espantosos espectros se movilizan,
Sonrisa horrible, obstinadamente malhumorados,
Pasan y vuelven a pasar, veloces como el paso de la noche.
¡Otra vez los chillidos del búho! ¡Canto sin gracia!
No escucharé más, pues hace que la sangre fluya helada.
Alrededor del túmulo, una fila de venerables olmos
Enseñan un espectáculo desigual,
Azotados por los rudos vientos; algunos
Desgarran sus grietas, sus troncos añejos,
Otros pierden vigor en sus copas, tanto
Que ni dos cuervos pueden habitar el mismo árbol.
Cosas extrañas, afirman los vecinos, han pasado aquí;
Gritos salvajes han brotado de las fosas huecas;
Los muertos han venido, han caminado por aquí;
Y la gran campana ha sonado: sorda, intacta.
(Tales historias se aclaman en la vigilia,
Cuando se acerca la encantada hora de la noche)
A menudo, en la oscuridad, he visto en el camposanto,
A través de la luz nocturna que se filtra por los árboles,
Al muchacho de la escuela, con sus libros en la mano,
Silbando fuerte para mantener el ánimo,
Apenas inclinándose sobre las largas piedras planas,
(Con el musgo creciendo apretado, con ortigas bordadas)
Que hablan de las virtudes de quien yace debajo.
Repentinamente él comienza, y escucha, o cree que escucha;
El sonido de algo murmurando en sus talones;
Rápido huye, sin atreverse a una mirada atrás,
Hasta que, sin aliento, alcanza a sus compañeros,
Que se reúnen para oír la maravillosa historia
De aquella horrible aparición, alta y pavorosa,
Que camina en la quietud de la noche, o se alza
Sobre alguna nueva tumba abierta; y huye (¡cosa asombrosa!)
Con la melodía evanescente del gallo.
También a la nueva viuda, oculto, he vislumbrado,
¡Triste visión! Moviéndose lenta sobre el postrado muerto:
Abatida, ella avanza enlutada en su pena negra,
Mientras mares de dolor borbotean de sus ojos,
Cayendo rápido por las mejillas frágiles,
Nutriendo la humilde tumba del hombre amado,
Mientras la atribulada memoria se atormenta,
En bárbara sucesión, reuniendo las palabras,
Las frases suaves de sus horas más cálidas,
Tenaces en su recuerdo: Todavía, todavía ella piensa
Que lo ve, y en la indulgencia de un pensamiento cariñoso
Se aferra aún más al césped insensato,
Sin observar a los caminantes que por allí pasan.
¡Tumba injusta! ¿cómo puedes separar, desgarrar
A quienes se han amado, a quienes el amor hizo uno?
Un lazo más obstinado que las cadenas de la Naturaleza.
¡Amistad! el cemento misterioso del alma,
Endulzador de la vida, unificador de la sociedad,
Grande es mi deuda. Tu me has otorgado
Mucho más de lo que puedo pagar.
A menudo he transitado los trabajos del amor,
Y los cálidos esfuerzos de un corazón apacible,
Ansioso por complacer. ¡Oh, cuándo mi amigo y yo,
Sobre alguna gruesa madera vaguemos desatentos,
Ocultos al ojo vulgar, sentados sobre el banco
Inclinado cubierto de prímulas,
Dónde la corriente límpida corre a lo largo
De aquella grata marea bajo los árboles,
Susurrando suave, se oye la voz aguda del tordo,
Reparando su canción de amor; el delicado mirlo
Endulza su flauta, ablandando cada nota:
El escaramujo olía más dulce, y la rosa
Asumía un tinte más profundo; mientras cada flor
Competía con su vecina por la lujuria de sus ropas;
¡Ah, entonces el día más largo del verano
Parece demasiado apresurado, y todavía el corazón pleno
No había impartido su mitad: era aquella una felicidad
Demasiado exquisita como para perdurar!
¡De las alegrías perdidas, aquellas que no volverán,
Cuán doloroso es su recuerdo!
While some affect the sun, and some the shade,
Some flee the city, some the hermitage;
Their aims as various, as the roads they take
In journeying through life;—the task be mine,
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;
The appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet.—Thy succours I implore,
Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains
The keys of Hell and Death.—The Grave, dread thing!
Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appall'd
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes!
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant Sun
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.
The sickly taper,
By glimmering through thy low-brow'd misty vaults
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime),
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds:
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.
See yonder hallow'd fane—the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird,
Rook'd in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles
Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons,
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound,
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.
Roused from their slumbers,
In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms,
Coeval near with that, all ragged show,
Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down
Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here:
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd!
(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.)
Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,
The schoolboy with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown),
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave, and, strange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
The new-made widow too, I've sometimes spied,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Past falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and, indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.
Invidious grave!—how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;
Sweetener of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much: thou hast deserved from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,
Anxious to please.—Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring,—methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note;
The eglantine smelt sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury
Of dress.—Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half! 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!
Robert Blair (1699-1746)
Some flee the city, some the hermitage;
Their aims as various, as the roads they take
In journeying through life;—the task be mine,
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;
The appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet.—Thy succours I implore,
Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains
The keys of Hell and Death.—The Grave, dread thing!
Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appall'd
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes!
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant Sun
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.
The sickly taper,
By glimmering through thy low-brow'd misty vaults
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime),
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds:
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.
See yonder hallow'd fane—the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird,
Rook'd in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles
Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons,
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound,
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.
Roused from their slumbers,
In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms,
Coeval near with that, all ragged show,
Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down
Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here:
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd!
(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.)
Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,
The schoolboy with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown),
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave, and, strange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
The new-made widow too, I've sometimes spied,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Past falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and, indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.
Invidious grave!—how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;
Sweetener of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much: thou hast deserved from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,
Anxious to please.—Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring,—methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note;
The eglantine smelt sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury
Of dress.—Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half! 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!
Robert Blair (1699-1746)
Poemas góticos. I Poemas de Robert Blair.
Más literatura gótica:
- Poemas de la noche.
- Poemas de soledad.
- Poemas tristes.
- Poemas de dolor.
- Poemas de muerte.
- Poemas de depresión.
1 comentarios:
muy bueno!
(L)
gracias por todos los aporte que realiza!!!
se cuida
Lain
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