Elizabeth Carter
Elizabeth Carter (16 diciembre 1717-19 febrero 1806) fue una poeta inglesa, clasicista, escritora y traductora, miembro de la Bluestocking Circle.
Pensamientos a medianoche (Thoughts at Midnight) es un poema nocturno de la escritora inglesa Elizabeth Carter, compuesto en 1739 y publicado póstumamente en 1825.
Si el mismo poema (o los mismos pensamientos) tuviesen origen en las noches profundas de John Donne, por ejemplo, creeríamos que sus versos tienen un objetivo celestial, divino, un llamado a Dios desde una vigilia solitaria.
Viniendo de Elizabeth Carter, en cambio, mujer inquieta, de caligrafía sensual, estímulo epidérmico (o táctil, es lo mismo) para varios poetas de cementerio, advertimos con placer que sus pensamientos nocturnos no se proyectan hacia Dios, sino hacia algún amante fugitivo, una especie de balsa intelectual donde los insomnes se aferran cuando la noche naufraga.
Pensamientos a medianoche.
Thoughts at Midnight
Mientras la Noche en la sombra solemne invierte los polos,
Y la reflexión pausada suaviza el alma pensativa;
Mientras la Razón imperturbable afirma su balanceo,
Y los colores engañosos de la vida se desvanecen:
Hacia tí, presencia omnisciente,
Dedico este pensamiento moderado,
Aquí recluyo mis mejores facultades,
Y me vuelvo tuya en esta hora de sagrado silencio.
Si las ilusorias escenas del día me engañan,
Y mi alma errante se aparta del sendero:
Si por engaño o deseo, ilusa, ante la pasión cedo,
Si yerro encantada por un vértigo impostor,
Mis pensamientos más tranquilos te reclaman,
Y toda mi esperanza se disuelve en tu amor.
A Dialogue
Says Body to Mind, ‘Tis amazing to see,
We’re so nearly related yet never agree,
But lead a most wrangling strange Sort of a Life,
As great Plagues to each other as Husband and Wife.
The Fault’s all your own, who with flagrant Oppression,
Encroach ev’ry Day on my lawful Possession.
The best Room in my House you have seiz’d for your own,
And turn’d the whole Tenement quite upside down,
While you hourly call in a disorderly Crew
Of vagabond Rogues, who have nothing to do
But to run in and out, hurry scurry, and keep
Such a horrible Uproar, I can’t get to sleep.
There’s my Kitchen sometimes is as empty as Sound,
I call for my Servants, not one’s to be found:
They all are sent out on your Ladyship’s Errand,
To fetch some more riotous Guests in, I warrant!
And since Things are growing, I see, worse and worse,
I’m determin’d to force you to alter your Course.
Poor Mind, who heard all with extreme Moderation,
Thought it now Time to speak, and make her Allegation.
‘Tis I, that, methinks, have most Cause to complain,
Who am crampt and confin’d like a Slave in a Chain.
I did but step out, on some weighty Affairs,
To visit, last Night, my good Friends in the Stars,
When, before I was got half as high as the Moon,
You dispatch’d Pain and Langour to hurry me down;
Vi & Armis they seiz’d me, in Midst of my Flight,
And shut me in Caverns as dark as the Night.
‘Twas no more, reply’d Body, than what you deserv’d,
While you rambled Abroad, I at Home was half starv’d:
And, unless I had closely confin’d you in Hold,
You had left me to perish with Hunger and Cold.
I’ve a Friend, answers Mind, who, tho’ slow, is yet sure,
And will rid me, at last, of your insolent Pow’r:
Will knock down your mud Walls, the whole Fabric demolish,
And at once your strong Holds and my Slav’ry abolish:
And while in the Dust your dull Ruins decay,
I shall snap off my Chains and fly freely away.
While soft thro’ water, earth, and air
The vernal spirits rove,
From noisy joys, and giddy crowds,
To rural scenes remove.
The mountain snows are all dissolv’d,
And hush’d the blust’ring gale:
While fragrant zephyrs gently breathe,
Along the flow’ry vale.
The circling planets constant rounds
The wintry wastes repair:
And still, from temporary death,
Renew the verdant year.
But ah! when once our transient bloom,
The spring of life, is o’er,
That rosy season takes its flight,
And must return no more.
Yet judge by reason’s sober rules,
From false opinion free,
And mark how little, pilf’ring years
Can steal from you, or me.
How sweet the calm of this sequestered shore,
where ebbing waters musically roll!
and solitude, and silent eve restore
the philosophic temper of the soul.
The sighing gale, whose murmurs lull to rest
the busy tumult of declining day,
to sympathetic quiet soothes the breast,
and ev’ry wild emotion dies away.
Farewel the objects of diurnal care,
your task be ended with the setting sun:
let all be undisturb’d vacation here,
while o’er yon wave ascends the peaceful moon.
What beauteous visions o’er the softened heart,
in this still moment all their charms diffuse!
serener joys, and brighter hopes impart,
and chear the soul with more than mortal views.
Here, faithful mem’ry wakens all her pow’rs,
she bids her fair ideal forms ascend,
and quick to ev’ry gladden’d thought restores
the social virtue, and the absent friend.
Come, Musidora , come, and with me share
the sober pleasures of this solemn scene,
while no rude tempest clouds the ruffled air,
but all, like thee, is smiling and serene.
Come, while the cool, the solitary hours
each foolish care, and giddy wish controul,
with all thy soft persuasion’s wonted pow’rs,
beyond the stars transport my listening soul.
Oft, when on earth detain’d by empty show,
thy voice has taught the trifler how to rise;
taught her to look with scorn on things below,
and seek her better portion in the skies.
Come: and the sacred eloquence repeat:
the world shall vanish at it’s gentle sound,
angelic forms shall visit this retreat,
and op’ning Heav’n diffuse it’s glories round
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