WILLIAM COLLINS [13.220] Poeta de Inglaterra

William Collins

William Collins (25 diciembre 1721-12 junio 1759) fue un poeta inglés. 

OBRA:

Persian Eclogues (1742); these were revised as Oriental Eclogues in 1759.
Verses humbly address'd to Sir Thomas Hanmer on his edition of Shakespeare's works (1743); republished in a revised edition in 1744, in which "A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline" was included.
Odes on Several Descriptive and Allegorical Subjects (1746)
Ode on the Death of Thomson (1749)
Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands (written 1750, unpublished until later editions)

La recepción de la obra de William Collins: “Ode to Evening”

ÁNGELES GARCÍA CALDERÓN

Universidad de Córdoba

Trabajo que se ocupa de uno de los poetas más relevantes del siglo XVIII en Inglaterra, William Collins, que ha estado durante muchos años considerado como un poeta menor, aunque ya él Doctor Jonson en su Lives of the English Poets llamara la atención sobre él (“He wrote now and then odes and other poems, and did something, however little”), del que posteriormente se ha reconocido la importancia de sus Odas, y en concreto la “Ode to Evening”, considerada como una de las mejores odas de la poesía inglesa.

Introducción

Curiosa y extraña la figura de este escritor del siglo XVIII (1721-1759), del cual algunos de sus poemas son muy conocidos y continuamente incluidos en casi todas las antologías de lengua inglesa. Como afirma George Saintsbury:

As we turn to William Collins, we come, perhaps, to the only name the inclusion of which in this chapter may raise a cavil. “If Collins is to be classed with lesser poets,” it may be said, “then who, in Collins‟s time, or in his century, is a greater?” There is no space here for detailed controversy on such points; yet, without some answer to the question, the literary history of the age would be obscured or left imperfect. In the opinion of the present writer, Collins, in part, and the chief part, of his work, was, undoubtedly, a “greater poet,” and that not merely of his own time. There is no time —Elizabethan, Georgian or Victorian— at which the best things in the Odes would not have entitled their author to the verdict “poetry sans phrase.” But there is another part of his work, small as it may be in bulk —the whole of it is but small, and, in the unhappy circumstances of his life, could hardly have been larger—which is not greater poetry, which, indeed, is very distinctly lesser; and this “minority” occurs also, we must almost say constantly, in the Odes themselves. Further, this minority or inferiority is of a peculiar kind, hardly exampled elsewhere. Many poets are unequal: it would scarcely be an exaggeration to say that, in varying measure, every poet is unequal. The string, be it of bow or of lyre, cannot always be at full tension. Some —we have but just quoted an example in Young— are unequal with an inequality which cannot take any benefit from the old metaphor. But, at certain times, hardly any poet, and few poets at any time, exhibit the peculiar inequality which Collins displays; and, for historical and critical purposes, the analysis of the special character of this difference is, perhaps, of almost as much importance as that of the discovery and recognition of his poetic idiosyncrasy and merit when he is at his best; perhaps, it is of even greater importance than this.

ODA AL ANOCHECER

Si puede un caramillo o un canto pastoril

esperar, casta Noche, calmar tu casto oído,

 del mismo modo que tus solemnes arroyos;

 tus arroyos y efluvios que se van extinguiendo,

oh recatada Ninfa, mientras el rubio sol

se refugia en su ocaso, eludiendo las nubes

 que parecen bordadas con etéreas ruecas,

 que estuvieran colgando en su tálamo ondulado:

ahora todo es silencio, salvo el ciego murciélago,

de chillidos agudos con sus alas curtidas,

 o el escarabajo que se muestra enrollando

 su minúsculo aunque escurridizo cuerno,

y a veces surge en medio del sendero en penumbra,

ante el caminante que canturrea distraído:

 ¡Enséñame ahora, flemática doncella,

 a canturrear alguna melodía dulcísima,

cuyas notas planeando en las sombras del valle,

no se muestren impropias del sosiego adecuado,

 mientras, reflexionando, saludo imperturbable

 tu cortés y amado retorno!

Cuando tu ascendente y descendente estrella

muestra su anillo pálido, al contemplar su luz,

 las perfumadas Horas y los Elfos que duermen

 durante el día en las flores,

muchas ninfas que ciñen guirnaldas en su frente

de juncias, impregnadas del fresco rocío, y calma

 amorosa, y los dulces goces del pensamiento,

 aparejan tu sombrío carro.

Te lleva entonces, sumisa doncella, a algún manso lago

que anima el brezal solitario, o a algún monte sagrado,

 de altas tierras grises en barbecho

 que reflejan el último y frío resplandor.

Mas, cuando al soplar fuerte el frío viento, o la torrencial lluvia,

impidiéndome caminar, entro en la cabaña

 que desde la ladera 

 deja ver campos áridos y crecidas de agua;

pueblecitos terrosos, torres difuminadas,

su humilde campana oye, fijándote en como 

 tus dedos, de rocío húmedos, van corriendo

 el paulatino velo oscuro del crepúsculo.

Mientras la Primavera deja caer chaparrones

y lava tus fragantes trenzas, ¡oh dócil Noche!,

 mientras que el Verano en retozar complácese

 bajo tu luz permanente,

mientras el cetrino otoño llena de hojas tu regazo,

o el Invierno aullando con viento tormentoso,

 asusta a tu reducido cortejo,

 y violentamente te desgarra la ropa;

así en el añorado y seguro refugio de mi cabaña,

la Fantasía, Amistad, la Ciencia y la Salud

 de unos labios rosados, suya harán tu dulzura,

 ¡y un himno cantarán a tu querido nombre!

ODE to EVENING

IF ought of Oaten Stop, or Pastoral Song, 

May hope, O pensive Eve, to sooth thine Ear, 

Like thy own brawling Springs, 

Thy Springs, and dying Gales,

O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun 

Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts[,] 

With Brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy Bed: 

Now Air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd Bat, 

With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing, 

Or where the Beetle winds 

His small but sullen Horn, 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight Path, 

Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum: 

Now teach me, Maid compos'd, 

To breathe some soften'd Strain, 

Whose Numbers stealing thro' thy darkning Vale, 

May not unseemly with its Stillness suit, 

As musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial lov'd Return! 

For when thy folding Star arising shews 

His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in Buds the Day, 

And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge, 

And sheds the fresh'ning Dew, and lovelier still, 

The Pensive Pleasures sweet 

Prepare thy shadowy Car. 

Then let me rove some wild and healthy Scene, 

Or find some Ruin 'midst its dreary Dells, 

Whose Walls more awful nod 

By thy reigious Gleams. 

Or if chill blustring Winds, or driving Rain, 

Prevent my willing Feet, be mine the Hut, 

That from the Mountain's Side, 

Views Wilds, and swelling Floods, 

And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd Spires, 

And hears their simple Bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy Dewy Fingers draw 

The gradual dusky Veil. 

While Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont, 

And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport, 

Beneath thy ling'ring Light: 

While sallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves, 

Or Winter yelling thro' the troublous Air, 

Affrights thy shrinking Train, 

And rudely rends thy Robes. 

So long regardful of thy quiet Rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest Influence own, 

And love thy fav'rite Name!