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Английские авторы XVI-XX столетий
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Уильям Моррис
(1834 - 1896)
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Стог сена на болоте
Она ехала рысью путем ночным
Для того ль, чтобы молча расстаться с ним?
Для того ль грязь и дождик глухой порой
Выносила она, чтоб увидеть самой
Труп, лежащий у стога средь топких полей?..
Вдоль роняющих капли нагих ветвей,
Слыша каждым своим башмаком стремена,
Долго ехала рысью привычной она -
С юбкой, сбитой к коленям, в грязи, что летит
На пути из-под конских тяжелых копыт.
Дождь стекал по набухшим ветвям,
По тяжелым и мокрым ее волосам,
По ресницам, глазам - прекрасным в тоске.
Дождь и слезы, мешаясь, текли по щеке.
Временами пускали они повода,
И вперед выходил на коне он тогда
Для разведки ночной. Должен был он взглянуть
Все могло ведь случиться, - спокоен ли путь
Там, в скрещеньи дорог. И когда отряд
Недовольно шептал, обращался назад,
Чтоб скорей подбодрить утомленных людей.
О, как смутно было на сердце у ней!
От сомнений и страха, не раз и не два
Она всхлипнула глухо. У ней голова
Закружилась от быстрой езды. Ей, дрожа,
Было трудно в озябших пальцах держать
Мокрый повод. Тревоги полна,
Еле чуяла в стремени ногу она, -
Все затем, чтобы без поцелуя ей
С ним расстаться у стога средь топких полей...
Едва они мокрый увидели стог,
По размытой дороге им путь пересек
С войском Годмар-Иуда, готовясь напасть.
Трое огненных львов, оскаливших пасть,
Змеились на знамени у него,
Увидали они вдоль пути своего
Три десятка людей, построенных в ряд.
Роберт взором мгновенным окинул отряд
И почувствовал сразу, что близок конец,
А она на глаза опустила чепец,
Чтобы только не видеть вокруг ничего.
Роберт молвил: "Их двое на одного.
А когда-то при встрече под Пуатье...
Но не надо бояться, сердце мое,
Ведь граница Гаскони уже близка".
"Ах, - сказала она, - мне так тяжка
Мысль уехать без вас; а потом -
Суд в Париже. И те - вшестером,
И решетка тюрьмы Шателе,
Быстроводная Сена в осенней мгле
Под дождем. И насмешки на берегу
Надо мной - оттого, что я плыть не могу.
Или это - иль жизнь с нелюбимым, с ним,
Чтобы я была проклята небом самим.
О, скорей бы прошел этот час роковой".
Без ответа он крикнул с веселой душой -
"Святой Георгий!" - свой клич в бою,
Положив ей на повод руку свою.
Но никто из его молодцов
Не ответил на этот бодрый зов.
И пока он гневно сжимал свой меч,
Кем-то брошенный ловко, коснулся плеч
Крепкий жгут, - был веревкою связан он
И немедленно к Годмару подведен.
"Жеан! - крикнул Годмар с угрозой в глазах. -
Тот, кого ты любишь, в моих руках,
Если ты мне тотчас не дашь ответ,
Разделишь ты ложе со мной или нет,
Он не увидит дождя конец".
"Не издевайтесь над ней, наглец,
Или я тотчас же вас убью!"
Лба коснулась она и руку свою
К глазам поднесла - будто видела кровь.
"Нет", - она повторила и отвернулась вновь, -
Будто нечего больше прибавить ей,
И все решено. И Годмар стал еще красней,
К его лицу и к шее кровь прилила волной.
"Жеан! Недалеко отсюда замок мой,
Убежищем надежным привык я его считать.
Что мне мешает сейчас вас силой взять
И сделать немедля все, что хочу,
С вашим строптивым телом, пока, обречен мечу,
Ваш рыцарь крепко связан?" И тотчас улыбка ей
Чуть шевельнула губы, стала она бледней
И на него взглянула надменным прищуром глаз.
"Знайте же, сэр Роберт, я б задушила вас,
Если б вы спали рядом, вгрызлась бы в горло вам
С помощью Божьей". И тотчас воззвала к небесам:
"О Иисус, пришлите мне помощь, душу храня.
Они, затравив как зверя, здесь заставляют меня
Выбрать греха дорогу и покривить душой -
Что бы я ни решила. Но шепчет разум мой,
Что могла бы я отказаться от пищи и от питья,
Что этим путем скорее приблизится смерть моя".
"Если вы не хотите исполнить волю мою,
То мне, - хотя я вас так люблю, -
Придется сделать иначе. Молчите? Ну, что ж,
Я скажу про то, что знаю!.." - "Но это наглая ложь!"
"Ложь? Я клянусь Богом, присутствующим тут,
Что ее в Париже охотно истиною сочтут.
Вы знаете, как громко кричали там о вас:
Отдайте Жеан, смуглянку, отдайте ее сейчас,
Отдайте Жеан. Хотим мы ее утопить или сжечь".
"О Роберт мой, мне лучше было бы мертвой лечь!"
"Кто бы конец подобный жалким назвать не мог
Для этих длинных пальцев, для этих стройных ног,
Для этой высокой шеи и гладких нежных плеч, -
Конец, о котором после долго вели бы речь
Все, кто его увидит? Лишь час могу я ждать,
Подумай, Жеан. Должна ты немедленно выбирать -
Жизнь или смерть. Решай же!" В тумане сна,
Покинув седло, шатаясь, прошла она
Два-три шага дальше. И там, на сене сыром,
Легла - с обращенным к небу, полным тоски лицом.
Сырая охапка сена ей изголовьем была,
И тихо она заснула и, покуда так спала,
Не видела снов. Но минуты вели неуклонный счет,
К полуночи подступая все ближе и ближе. Вот
Она наконец проснулась. Вздохнула глубоко
И Годмару по-детски сказала даже легко:
"Я не хочу". И тотчас Годмара голова
Повернулась резко на эти ее слова.
Загорелось лицо. А Роберт, как прежде, был недвижим
И не сказал ни слова, и взгляд его был сухим.
Не уронил слезы он. И в молчанье своем,
Казалось, следил зорко за падающим дождем.
Губы его были сжаты. Точно жаждой томим,
Он ими к ней потянулся. И она отвечала им.
Тщетное желанье мучило их тела,
Губы ее побледнели. Рука его провела
По ним, чуть касаясь. Годмар, сдерживая злость,
Порывисто встал меж ними, грубо толкнул их врозь.
Роберту открыл шею, ослабив кольцо петли,
Она, протянув пустые руки свои,
Молча вперед смотрела и видела, как клинок
Точно и быстро Годмар из ножен своих извлек,
Видела его руку у Роберта в волосах,
Остро отточенной стали безжалостный размах,
С перерубленною шеей Роберт упал
И, словно пес от боли, горестно простонал,
Лишенный сознанья. Годмар кликнул своих людей,
Они к нему подбежали и тяжкой пятой своей
Череп разбили тому, кто у Годмара ног,
Мечом его пораженный, лишенный дыханья, лег.
А Годмар тогда промолвил: "Это, Жеан моя,
Только начало того, что делаю я.
Заметьте, Жеан, отныне один вам путь на земле -
Вам ехать сейчас придется обратно в Шателе".
Она головой покачала - словно в забытьи
И горестно посмотрела на холодные руки свои,
Как будто все, что случилось, рассудка стоило ей.
Так они расстались у стога среди полей.
Перевод Вс. Рождественского
"The Haystack In The Floods"
Время действия - столетняя война между Англией и Францией (XIV - XV вв.).
Гасконь была тогда английским владением.
"Святой Георгий!" - английский боевой клич.
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The Haystack In The Floods
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;
And the wet dripp'd from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.
By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when
There rose a murmuring from his men
Had to turn back with promises;
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup: all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three
Red running lions dismally
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.
So then
While Robert turn'd round to his men
She saw at once the wretched end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said:
"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,
At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast - why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near.
Naught after this."
But, "Oh!" she said,
"My God! my God! I have to tread
The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day
Like this, and people standing by
And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last.
Would God that this next hour were past!"
He answer'd not, but cried his cry,
"St. George for Marny!" cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.
Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane,
Your lover's life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off -
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe or scoff,
Sir Robert, or I slay you now."
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and - "No!"
She said, and turn'd her head away,
As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head:
"Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands:
What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?"
A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
A long way out she thrust her chin:
"You know that I would strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God's help - ah!" she said,
"Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens: yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest."
"Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,"
Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell
All that I know?" "Foul lies," she said.
"Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head,
At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you:
'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to burn or drown!' -
Eh - gag me Robert! - sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it - So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!"
So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards: with her face
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said:
"I will not." Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.
For Robert - both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush'd them.
With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand
In Robert's hair, she saw him bend
Back Robert's head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem: so then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn'd again and said:
"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!"
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.
1858
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In Prison
Wearily, drearily,
Half the day long,
Flap the great banners
High over the stone;
Strangely and eerily
Sounds the wind's song,
Bending the banner-poles.
While, all alone,
Watching the loophole's spark,
Lie I, with life all dark,
Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd
Fast to the stone,
The grim walls, square-letter'd
With prison'd men's groan.
Still strain the banner-poles
Through the wind's song,
Westward the banner rolls
Over my wrong.
1858
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Riding Together
For many, many days together
The wind blew steady from the East;
For many days hot grew the weather,
About the time of our Lady's Feast.
For many days we rode together,
Yet met we neither friend nor foe;
Hotter and clearer grew the weather,
Steadily did the East wind blow.
We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,
Clear-cut, with shadows very black,
As freely we rode on together
With helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often, as we rode together,
We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,
Saw flowers in the sunny weather,
And saw the bubble-making bream.
And in the night lay down together,
And hung above our heads the rood,
Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather,
The while the moon did watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together,
Straight out the banners stream'd behind,
As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather,
With faces turn'd towards the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together,
As thick we saw the pagans ride;
His eager face in the clear fresh weather,
Shone out that last time by my side.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together,
It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,
Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather,
The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we roll'd and writhed together,
I threw my arms above my head,
For close by my side, in the lovely weather,
I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together,
He waited the death-stroke there in his place,
With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather,
Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.
Madly I fought as we fought together;
In vain: the little Christian band
The pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather
The river drowns low-lying land.
They bound my blood-stain'd hands together,
They bound his corpse to nod by my side:
Then on we rode, in the bright March weather,
With clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together;
My prison-bars are thick and strong,
I take no heed of any weather,
The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
1856
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Iceland First Seen
Lo from our loitering ship a new land at last to be seen;
Toothed rocks down the side of the firth on the east guard a weary wide lea,
And black slope the hillsides above, striped adown with their desolate green:
And a peak rises up on the west from the meeting of cloud and of sea,
Foursquare from base unto point like the building of Gods that have been,
The last of that waste of the mountains all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked
and grey,
And bright with the dawn that began just now at the ending of day.
Ah! what came we forth for to see that our hearts are so hot with desire?
Is it enough for our rest, the sight of this desolate strand,
And the mountain-waste voiceless as death but for winds that may sleep not
nor tire?
Why do we long to wend forth through the length and breadth of a land,
Dreadful with grinding of ice, and record of scarce hidden fire,
But that there 'mid the grey grassy dales sore scarred by the ruining streams
Lives the tale of the Northland of old and the undying glory of dreams?
O land, as some cave by the sea where the treasures of old have been laid,
The sword it may be of a king whose name was the turning of fight;
Or the staff of some wise of the world that many things made and unmade,
Or the ring of a woman maybe whose woe is grown wealth and delight.
No wheat and no wine grows above it, no orchard for blossom and shade;
The few ships that sail by its blackness but deem it the mouth of a grave;
Yet sure when the world shall awaken, this too shall be mighty to save.
Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth that men ever sought
Thy wastes for a field and a garden fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,
And feasted amidst of the winter when the fight of the year had been fought,
Whose plunder all gathered together was little to babble about;
Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land, "Not for this nor for that was I wrought.
Amid waning of realms and of riches and death of things worshipped and sure,
I abide here the spouse of a God, and I made and I make and endure."
O Queen of the grief without knowledge, of the courage that may not avail,
Of the longing that may not attain, of the love that shall never forget,
More joy than the gladness of laughter thy voice hath amidst of its wail:
More hope than of pleasure fulfilled amidst of thy blindness is set;
More glorious than gaining of all thine unfaltering hand that shall fail:
For what is the mark on thy brow but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear?
Love once, and loved and undone by a love that no ages outwear.
Ah! when thy Balder comes back, and bears from the heart of the Sun
Peace and the healing of pain, and the wisdom that waiteth no more;
And the lilies are laid on thy brow 'mid the crown of the deeds thou hast done;
And the roses spring up by thy feet that the rocks of the wilderness wore:
Ah! when thy Balder comes back and we gather the gains he hath won,
Shall we not linger a little to talk of thy sweetness of old,
Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail whence the Gods stood aloof to behold?
1891
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The Voice Of Toil
I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,
All days shall be as all have been;
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow,
The never-ending toil between.
When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,
In hope we strove, and our hands were strong;
Then great men led us, with words they fed us,
And bade us right the earthly wrong.
Go read in story their deeds and glory,
Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
In that good world to which they led;
Where fast and faster our iron master,
The thing we made, for ever drives,
Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
For other hopes and other lives.
Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
Forgetting that the world is fair;
Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish;
Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.
Who now shall lead us, what God shall heed us
As we lie in the hell our hands have won?
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
The great are fallen, the wise men gone.
I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger,
When day breaks over dreams and sleep?
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older!
Help lies in nought but thee and me;
Hope is before us, the long years that bore us
Bore leaders more than men may be.
Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving
To bring the bright new world to birth.
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere Earth grows older!
The Cause spreads over land and sea;
Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,
And joy at last for thee and me.
1884
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Джон Миллингтон Синг
(1871 - 1909)
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Данни
Их двадцать девять при луне
Сошлось когда-то здесь.
Сказали парни: "Надо сбить
С кривляки Данни спесь.
Зайдешь ли в Бойль иль в Балликрой -
Стоит повсюду стон.
Прохода девкам не дает,
Парней увечит он.
А в Киллекристе от него
Две двойни без венца.
А в Кроссмолине он побил
Духовного отца.
Но мы его подстережем
На Мульской переправе,
Мы, десять, выколем глаза,
А десять глотку сдавят".
Пришлось недолго парням ждать.
В ту ночь из ближних сел,
Посвистывая, матерясь,
Веселый Данни шел.
Когда он к броду подходил,
Как сучья заскрипят!
И двадцать девять на него
Набросилось ребят.
Тут Бирну он расквасил нос,
Трем зубы выбил он,
С рукой, прокушенной насквозь,
Бежать пустился Шон.
Но сзади семеро взялись,
И семеро за грудь,
Да в горло семеро впились,
И Данни - не дохнуть.
Кто сапогом его топтал,
А кто пинал как мог,
А двое трубку с кошельком
Стащили под шумок.
Теперь ты видел серый крест?
Кругом кусты да травы...
Там был задушен Данни в ночь
У Мульской переправы.
Перевод Ю. Таубина
"Danny"
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Danny
One night a score of Erris men,
A score I’m told and nine,
Said, "We’ll get shut of Danny’s noise
Of girls and widows dyin’.
There’s not his like from Binghamstown
To Boyle and Ballycroy,
At playing hell on decent girls,
At beating man and boy.
He’s left two pairs of female twins
Beyond in Killacreest,
And twice in Crossmolina fair
He’s struck the parish priest.
But we’ll come round him in the night
A mile beyond the Mullet;
Ten will quench his bloody eyes,
And ten will choke his gullet."
It wasn’t long till Danny came,
From Bangor making way,
And he was damning moon and stars
And whistling grand and gay.
Till in a gap of hazel glen -
And not a hare in sight -
Out lepped the nine-and-twenty lads
Along his left and right.
Then Danny smashed the nose of Byrne,
He split the lips on three,
And bit across the right hand thumb
Of one Red Shawn Magee.
But seven tripped him up behind,
And seven kicked before,
And seven squeezed around his throat
Till Danny kicked no more.
Then some destroyed him with their heels,
Some tramped him in the mud,
Some stole his purse and timber pipe,
And some washed off his blood.
And when you’re walking out the way
From Bangor to Belmullet,
You’ll see a flat cross on a stone
Where men choked Danny’s gullet.
1907
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Prelude
Still south I went and west and south again,
Through Wicklow from the morning till the night,
And far from cities, and the sights of men,
Lived with the sunshine, and the moon’s delight.
I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds,
The grey and wintry sides of many glens,
And did but half remember human words,
In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.
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The Curse
Lord, confound this surly sister,
Blight her brow with blotch and blister,
Cramp her larynx, lung, and liver,
In her guts a galling give her.
Let her live to earn her dinners
In Mountjoy with seedy sinners:
Lord, this judgment quickly bring,
And I’m your servant, J. M. Synge.
1907
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Сэр Уолтер Рэли
(1552 - 1618)
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The Conclusion
Even such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
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The Nymph's Reply To The Shepherd
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, -
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
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The Pilgrimage
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer;
No other balm will there be given:
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
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Джон Драйден
(1631 - 1700)
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Ah, How Sweet It Is To Love!
Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young Desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love's fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
Ev'n the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart:
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again:
If a flow in age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
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Hidden Flame
I feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,
My heart 's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.
To be more happy I dare not aspire,
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
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Ode
To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady,
Mrs. Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister
arts of Poesy and Painting
Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,
Or, in procession fixt and regular,
Mov'd with the heaven's majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less, to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was form'd at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,
New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And even the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clust'ring swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heaven had not leisure to renew:
For all the blest fraternity of love
Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heavenly gift of Poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above,
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),
To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say to excuse our second fall?
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil'd;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born.
Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast,
Light as the vapours of a morning dream;
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream...
Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far,
Among the Pleiads a new kindl'd star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat,
The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are cover'd with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
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Song To A Fair Young Lady, Going
Out Of The Town In The Spring
Ask not the cause why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year:
Chloris is gone; and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye:
But left her lover in despair
To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah! how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure?
Great God of Love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,
And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst plac'd such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs
And every life but mine recall.
I only am by Love design'd
To be the victim for mankind.
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Уильям Генри Дэйвис
(1871 - 1940)
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В суде
Принес присягу рассмотреть
Спокойно, беспристрастно я
Причину смерти Ады Райт.
Я присягнул. Мне Бог судья.
Я видел труп. Ребенок жил
Четыре месяца всего.
То было фунтов так семи
И с фут длиною существо.
Закрытый улыбался рот,
Глаз желтым веком был прикрыт,
А левый широко сиял
И придавал лукавый вид.
Казалось мне, что этот глаз
Хотел с усмешкою сказать:
"А вам причины не узнать,
А вдруг меня убила мать".
Я в зал вернулся. Там была
К допросу мать привлечена.
"Ребенок был - дитя любви", -
С улыбкой молвила она.
"Итак, присяжные, - судья
Нам заявил, - сомненья нет,
Несчастный случай здесь виной".
"Да, да", - сказали мы в ответ.
Но помнил я, что хитрый глаз
Хотел с усмешкою сказать:
"А вам причины не узнать,
А вдруг меня убила мать".
Перевод В. Давиденковой
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Негодяй
В тот час, как в небе облака
Светлее звезд горят,
Дрожали дрожью молодой
Колени у ягнят,
В тот час, как птицы на земле
Пускались петь, забыв о зле,
Я ветер наглый увидал:
Он за моей спиной
Пшеницу, взяв за волоса,
Тащил во мрак лесной.
Перевод М. Гутнера
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Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare? -
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
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Money, O!
When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.
Then felt I like a child that holds
A trumpet that he must not blow
Because a man is dead; I dared
Not speak to let this false world know.
Much have I thought of life, and seen
How poor men's hearts are ever light;
And how their wives do hum like bees
About their work from morn till night.
So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,
And see the rich ones coldly frown
Poor men, think I, need not go up
So much as rich men should come down.
When I had money, money, O!
My many friends proved all untrue;
But now I have no money, O!
My friends are real, though very few.
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Джон Мильтон
(1608 - 1674)
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Light
Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born,
Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,
Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre
I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,
Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou
Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,
Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath
That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget
Those other two equal'd with me in Fate,
So were I equal'd with them in renown.
Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men
Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair
Presented with a Universal blanc
Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd,
And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou Celestial light
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
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To Cyriack Skinner
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
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Джон Китс
(1795 - 1821)
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Last Sonnet
Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest-like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.
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To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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To Sleep
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.
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Роберт Саути
(1774 - 1843)
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His Books
My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
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The Sailor, Who Had Served
In The Slave Trade
In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol,
discovered a Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City,
groaning and praying in a hovel. The circumstance that
occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed
Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration.
By presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public,
and such stories ought to be made as public as possible.
He stopt, - it surely was a groan
That from the hovel came!
He stopt and listened anxiously
Again it sounds the same.
It surely from the hovel comes!
And now he hastens there,
And thence he hears the name of Christ
Amidst a broken prayer.
He entered in the hovel now,
A sailor there he sees,
His hands were lifted up to Heaven
And he was on his knees.
Nor did the Sailor so intent
His entering footsteps heed,
But now the Lord’s prayer said, and now
His half-forgotten creed.
And often on his Saviour call’d
With many a bitter groan,
In such heart-anguish as could spring
From deepest guilt alone.
He ask’d the miserable man
Why he was kneeling there,
And what the crime had been that caus’d
The anguish of his prayer.
Oh I have done a wicked thing!
It haunts me night and day,
And I have sought this lonely place
Here undisturb’d to pray.
I have no place to pray on board
So I came here alone,
That I might freely kneel and pray,
And call on Christ and groan.
If to the main-mast head I go,
The wicked one is there,
From place to place, from rope to rope,
He follows every where.
I shut my eyes, -it matters not -
Still still the same I see, -
And when I lie me down at night
’Tis always day with me.
He follows follows every where,
And every place is Hell!
O God - and I must go with him
In endless fire to dwell.
He follows follows every where,
He’s still above—below,
Oh tell me where to fly from him!
Oh tell me where to go!
But tell me, quoth the Stranger then,
What this thy crime hath been,
So haply I may comfort give
To one that grieves for sin.
O I have done a cursed deed
The wretched man replies,
And night and day and every where
’Tis still before my eyes.
I sail’d on board a Guinea-man
And to the slave-coast went;
Would that the sea had swallowed me
When I was innocent!
And we took in our cargo there,
Three hundred negroe slaves,
And we sail’d homeward merrily
Over the ocean waves.
But some were sulky of the slaves
And would not touch their meat,
So therefore we were forced by threats
And blows to make them eat.
One woman sulkier than the rest
Would still refuse her food, -
O Jesus God! I hear her cries -
I see her in her blood!
The Captain made me tie her up
And flog while he stood by,
And then he curs’d me if I staid
My hand to hear her cry.
She groan’d, she shriek’d - I could not spare
For the Captain he stood by -
Dear God! that I might rest one night
From that poor woman’s cry!
She twisted from the blows - her blood
Her mangled flesh I see -
And still the Captain would not spare -
Oh he was worse than me!
She could not be more glad than I
When she was taken down,
A blessed minute - ’twas the last
That I have ever known!
I did not close my eyes all night,
Thinking what I had done;
I heard her groans and they grew faint
About the rising sun.
She groan’d and groan’d, but her groans grew
Fainter at morning tide,
Fainter and fainter still they came
Till at the noon she died.
They flung her overboard; - poor wretch
She rested from her pain, -
But when - O Christ! O blessed God!
Shall I have rest again!
I saw the sea close over her,
Yet she was still in sight;
I see her twisting every where;
I see her day and night.
Go where I will, do what I can
The wicked one I see -
Dear Christ have mercy on my soul,
O God deliver me!
To morrow I set sail again
Not to the Negroe shore -
Wretch that I am I will at least
Commit that sin no more.
O give me comfort if you can -
Oh tell me where to fly -
And bid me hope, if there be hope,
For one so lost as I.
Poor wretch, the stranger he replied,
Put thou thy trust in heaven,
And call on him for whose dear sake
All sins shall be forgiven.
This night at least is thine, go thou
And seek the house of prayer,
There shalt thou hear the word of God
And he will help thee there!
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The Battle Of Blenheim
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay... nay... my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."
1798
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Бленгеймский бой
Прохладный вечер наступил,
Сменив палящий зной.
У входа в хижину свою
Сидел старик седой;
Играла внучка перед ним
С братишкой маленьким своим.
И что-то круглое в траве
Бросали всё они.
Вдруг к деду мальчик подбежал
И говорит: "Взгляни,
Что это мы на берегу
Нашли, понять я не могу".
Находку внучка взяв, старик
Со вздохом отвечал:
"Ах, это череп! Кто его
Носил - со славой пал.
Когда-то был здесь жаркий бой
И не один погиб герой.
В саду костей и черепов
Не сосчитаешь, друг!
И в поле тоже: сколько раз
Их задевал мой плуг.
Здесь реки крови протекли
И храбрых тысячи легли".
- "Ах, расскажи нам, расскажи
Про эти времена! -
Воскликнул внук. - Из-за чего
Была тогда война?"
Затихли дети, не дохнут:
Чудес они от деда ждут.
"Из-за чего была война,
Спросил ты, мой дружок;
Добиться этого и сам
Я с малых лет не мог.
Но говорили все, что свет
Таких не видывал побед.
В Бленгейме жили мы с отцом...
Пальба весь день была...
Упала бомба в домик наш,
И он сгорел дотла.
С женой, с детьми отец бежал,
Он бесприютным нищим стал.
Всё истребил огонь, и рожь
Не дождалась жнеца.
Больных старух, грудных детей
Погибло без конца.
Как быть! На то война, и нет,
Увы, без этого побед!
Мне не забыть тот миг, когда
На поле битвы я
Взглянул впервые. Горы тел
Лежали там, гния.
Ужасный вид! Но что ж? Иной
Побед нельзя купить ценой.
В честь победивших пили все,
Хвала гремела им".
- "Как?" - внучка деда прервала. -
Разбойникам таким?"
- "Молчи! Гордиться вся страна
Победой славною должна.
Да! принц Евгений и Мальброг
Тот выиграли бой".
Тут мальчик перебил: "А прок
От этого какой?"
- "Молчи, несносный дуралей!
Мир не видал побед славней!"
1871
"The Battle Of Blenheim"
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Жалобы бедняков
"И что так ропщет бедный люд?" -
Богач сказал мне раз.
"Что я тебе ответить мог,
Пойдем со мной сейчас".
Морозный вечер был, и снег
На улицах лежал.
Мы шли дрожа. Нас зимний плащ
От стужи не спасал.
Старик нам встретился седой;
Он сгорблен был и хил.
"Зачем из дому вышел ты?" -
Я старика спросил.
Он отвечал: "У очага
Сидеть бы я готов,
Когда бы подали вы мне
Хоть на вязанку дров".
Вот мальчик, видим мы, идет.
В лохмотьях весь и бос.
"Куда ты, - я спросил его, -
Бедняк, в такой мороз?"
- "За подаяньем послан я, -
Он мне сказал в ответ. -
Отец мой при смерти лежит,
А в доме хлеба нет!"
На чье-то бледное лицо
Пал свет от фонарей:
На камне женщина сидит,
Малюток двое с ней.
"Зачем, - я молвил ей, - ты здесь?
Ведь ночь так холодна,
И деток бедных жаль..." Но мне
Ответила она:
"Мой муж солдат. За короля
Пошел он воевать.
И подаяньем хлеб должна
Себе я добывать".
В одежде легкой мимо нас
Красавица прошла,
В лицо с усмешкой нам взглянув,
Развязна и смела.
Я, воротив ее, спросил:
"Иль сладок так порок,
Что он и в эту ночь тебя
Из дома вызвать мог?"
Ее заставила глаза
Потупить речь моя,
И тихий голос прозвучал:
"Весь день не ела я!"
Богач стоял смущен и нем.
"Теперь, - я произнес, -
Ты знаешь всё. Ответил сам
Народ на твой вопрос".
1871
Переводы А. Н. Плещеева
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Сэр Вальтер Скотт
(1771 - 1832)
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A Serenade
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea;
The orange-flower perfumes the bower;
The breeze is on the sea;
The lark, his lay who thrill’d all day,
Sits hush’d his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o’er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know -
But where is County Guy?
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Answer
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
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Lucy Ashton’s Song
Look not thou on beauty’s charming;
Sit thou still when kings are arming;
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens;
Speak not when the people listens;
Stop thine ear against the singer;
From the red gold keep thy finger;
Vacant heart and hand and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.
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Hunting Song
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they: –
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thickets green;
Now we come to chant our lay: –
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd:
You shall see him brought to bay: –
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Louder, louder, chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
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Lullaby Of An Infant Chief
O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, -
Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.
O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman drew near to thy bed.
O hush thee, my baby, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
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Song Of The Imprisoned Huntsman
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were, as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring.
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew.
A blithsome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wings of glee:
That life is lost to love and me!
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Аллен-э-Дейл
У Аллена дров - ни полена, ни палки,
Ни пашни для плуга, ни шерсти для прялки.
Но есть у него - неизвестно откуда -
Червонного золота звонкая груда.
Об Аллене храбром я нынче спою.
Послушайте вольную песню мою.
Барон Рэвенсворт с каждым годом надменней.
Он взглядом своих не охватит владений.
Барону олени нужны для забавы -
Охотничьим рогом тревожить дубравы.
Но Аллен свободней, чем дикий олень,
Что в зарослях вереска скачет весь день.
Пусть нет у него ни герба, ни короны
И с ним не спешат породниться бароны,
Две дюжины братьев по первому рогу
Сбегутся из леса к нему на подмогу.
А если с ним встретится гордый барон,
Он Аллену низкий отвесит поклон.
Посватался Аллен, пришелся по нраву,
Но любит родня лишь богатство да славу.
"Барон не нахвалится крепостью горной,
Но трижды прекрасней мой замок просторный:
Мой кров - небосвод, и плывут надо мной
Блестящие звезды за бледной луной".
Отец был кремень, да и мать тверже стали,
И гостя обратно ни с чем отослали.
А утром весь дом был угрюм и печален:
Недаром невесте подмигивал Аллен!
Она ускакала - поди-ка лови! -
Послушать, как Аллен поет о любви.
Перевод Игн. Ивановского
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* * *
Мила Брайнгельских тень лесов,
Мил светлый ток реки;
И в поле много здесь цветов
Прекрасным на венки.
Туманный дол сребрит луна;
Меня конь борзый мчит:
В Дальтонской башне у окна
Прекрасная сидит.
Она поет: "Брайнгельских вод
Мне мил приветный шум;
Там пышно луг весной цветет,
Там рощи полны дум.
Хочу любить я в тишине,
Не царский сан носить;
Там на реке милее мне
В лесу с Эдвином жить".
"Когда ты, девица-краса,
Покинув замок свой,
Готова в темные леса
Бежать одна со мной,
Ты прежде, радость, угадай,
Как мы в лесах живем;
Каков, узнай, тот дикий край,
Где мы любовь найдем!"
Она поет: "Брайнгельских вод
Мне мил приветный шум;
Там пышно луг весной цветет,
Там рощи полны дум.
Хочу любить я в тишине,
Не царский сан носить;
Там на реке милее мне
В лесу с Эдвином жить,
Я вижу борзого коня
Под смелым ездоком:
Ты - царский ловчий: у тебя
Рог звонкий за седлом".
"Нет, прелесть! Ловчий в рог трубит
Румяною зарей,
А мой рожок беду звучит,
И то во тьме ночной".
Она поет: "Брайнгельских вод
Мне мил приветный шум;
Там пышно луг весной цветет,
Там рощи полны дум.
Хочу в привольной тишине
Тебя, мой друг, любить;
Там на реке отрадно мне
В лесу с Эдвином жить.
Я вижу: путник молодой,
Ты с саблей и ружьем.
Быть может, ты драгун лихой
И скачешь за полком".
"Нет, гром литавр и трубный глас
К чему среди степей?
Украдкой мы в полночный час
Садимся на коней.
Приветен шум Брайнгельских вод
В зеленых берегах,
И мил в них месяца восход,
Душистый луг в цветах;
Но вряд прекрасной не тужить,
Когда придется ей
В глуши лесной безвестно жить
Подругою моей!
Там чудно, чудно я живу -
Так, видно, рок велел;
И смертью чудной я умру,
И мрачен мой удел.
Не страшен так лукавый сам,
Когда пред черным днем
Он бродит в поле по ночам
С блестящим фонарем;
И мы в разъездах удалых,
Друзья неверной тьмы,
Уже не помним дней былых
Невинной тишины".
Мила Брайнгельских тень лесов;
Мил светлый ток реки;
И много здесь в лугах цветов
Прекрасным на венки.
Перевод И. Козлова
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Охотничья песня
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Лорды, леди, рог трубит!
Горы серебрит заря,
Суетятся егеря.
Блещут копья. Лаю псов
Вторят крики соколов.
Слышно цоканье копыт.
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Вспыхнул день. Волшебный вид!
Пробудясь, журчит ручей,
И туман уже бледней.
Лесники в глухом лесу
По росе тропят лису.
Лес как сказочный стоит.
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Над ущельями гранит
В полдень даст прохладу нам,
Мы увидим по следам,
Где олень топтал луга,
Где о дуб точил рога.
Скоро травля предстоит.
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Песнь охотников звучит:
"Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?
Время тоже каждый час
На прицел берет и нас:
Время сокола быстрей,
Время гончей стаи злей.
Время всюду нас тропит.
Гей, вставайте! Кто там спит?"
Перевод В. Васильева
"Hunting Song"
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Иванов вечер
До рассвета поднявшись, коня оседлал
Знаменитый Смальгольмский барон;
И без отдыха гнал, меж утесов и скал,
Он коня, торопясь в Бротерстон.
Не с могучим Боклю совокупно спешил
На военное дело барон;
Не в кровавом бою переведаться мнил
За Шотландию с Англией он;
Но в железной броне он сидит на коне;
Наточил он свой меч боевой;
И покрыт он щитом; и топор за седлом
Укреплен двадцатифунтовой.
Через три дни домой возвратился барон,
Отуманен и бледен лицом;
Через силу и конь, опенен, запылен,
Под тяжелым ступал седоком.
Анкрамморския битвы барон не видал,
Где потоками кровь их лилась,
Где на Эверса грозно Боклю напирал,
Где за родину бился Дуглас;
Но железный шелом был иссечен на нем,
Был изрублен и панцирь и щит,
Был недавнею кровью топор за седлом,
Но не английской кровью покрыт.
Соскочив у часовни с коня за стеной,
Притаяся в кустах, он стоял;
И три раза он свистнул - и паж молодой
На условленный свист прибежал.
"Подойди, мой малютка, мой паж молодой,
И присядь на колена мои;
Ты младенец, но ты откровенен душой,
И слова непритворны твои.
Я в отлучке был три дни, мой паж молодой;
Мне теперь ты всю правду скажи;
Что заметил? Что было с твоей госпожой?
И кто был у твоей госпожи?"
"Госпожа по ночам к отдаленным скалам,
Где маяк, приходила тайком
(Ведь огни по горам зажжены, чтоб врагам
Не прокрасться во мраке ночном),
И на первую ночь непогода была,
И без умолку филин кричал;
И она в непогоду ночную пошла
На вершину пустынную скал.
Тихомолком подкрался я к ней в темноте;
И сидела одна - я узрел;
Не стоял часовой на пустой высоте;
Одиноко маяк пламенел.
На другую же ночь - я за ней по следам
На вершину опять побежал, -
О творец, у огня одинокого там
Мне неведомый рыцарь стоял.
Подпершися мечом, он стоял пред огнем,
И беседовал долго он с ней;
Но под шумным дождем, но при ветре ночном
Я расслушать не мог их речей.
И последняя ночь безненастна была,
И порывистый ветер молчал;
И к маяку она на свиданье пошла;
У маяка уж рыцарь стоял.
И сказала (я слышал): "В полуночный час
Перед светлым Ивановым днем,
Приходи ты; мой муж не опасен для нас;
Он теперь на свиданье ином;
Он с могучим Боклю ополчился теперь;
Он в сраженье забыл про меня -
И тайком отопру я для милого дверь
Накануне Иванова дня".
"Я не властен прийти, я не должен прийти,
Я не смею прийти (был ответ);
Пред Ивановым днем одиноким путем
Я пойду... мне товарища нет".
"О, сомнение, прочь! безмятежная ночь
Пред великим Ивановым днем
И тиха и темна, и свиданьям она
Благосклонна в молчанье своем.
Я собак привяжу, часовых уложу,
Я крыльцо пересыплю травой,
И в приюте моем, пред Ивановым днем,
Безопасен ты будешь со мной".
"Пусть собака молчит, часовой не трубит,
И трава не слышна под ногой, -
Но священник есть там; он не спит по ночам;
Он приход мой узнает ночной".
"Он уйдет к той поре: в монастырь на горе
Панихиду он позван служить:
Кто-то был умерщвлен; по душе его он
Будет три дни поминки творить".
Он нахмурясь глядел, он как мертвый бледнел,
Он ужасен стоял при огне.
"Пусть о том, кто убит, он поминки творит:
То, быть может, поминки по мне.
Но полуночный час благосклонен для нас:
Я приду под защитою мглы".
Он сказал... и она... я смотрю... уж одна
У маяка пустынной скалы".
И Смальгольмский барон, поражен, раздражен,
И кипел, и горел, и сверкал.
"Но скажи наконец, кто ночной сей пришлец?
Он, клянусь небесами, пропал!"
"Показалося мне при блестящем огне:
Был шелом с соколиным пером,
И палаш боевой на цепи золотой,
Три звезды на щите голубом".
"Нет, мой паж молодой, ты обманут мечтой;
Сей полуночный мрачный пришлец
Был не властен прийти: он убит на пути;
Он в могилу зарыт, он мертвец".
"Нет! не чудилось мне; я стоял при огне,
И увидел, услышал я сам,
Как его обняла, как его назвала:
То был рыцарь Ричард Кольдингам".
И Смальгольмский барон, изумлен, поражен,
И хладел, и бледнел, и дрожал.
"Нет! в могиле покой; он лежит под землей,
Ты неправду мне, паж мой, сказал.
Где бежит и шумит меж утесами Твид,
Где подъемлется мрачный Эльдон,
Уж три ночи, как там твой Ричард Кольдингам
Потаенным врагом умерщвлен.
Нет! сверканье огня ослепило твой взгляд;
Оглушен был ты бурей ночной;
Уж три ночи, три дня, как поминки творят
Чернецы за его упокой".
Он идет в ворота, он уже на крыльце,
Он взошел по крутым ступеням
На площадку и видит: с печалью в лице,
Одиноко-унылая, там
Молодая жена - и тиха и бледна,
И в мечтании грустном глядит
На поля, небеса, на Мертонски леса,
На прозрачно бегущую Твид.
"Я с тобою опять, молодая жена". -
"В добрый час, благородный барон.
Что расскажешь ты мне? Решена ли война?
Поразил ли Боклю иль сражен?"
"Англичанин разбит; англичанин бежит
С Анкрамморских кровавых полей;
И Боклю наблюдать мне маяк мой велит
И беречься недобрых гостей".
При ответе таком изменилась лицом
И ни слова... ни слова и он;
И пошла в свой покой с наклоненной главой,
И за нею суровый барон.
Ночь покойна была, но заснуть не дала.
Он вздыхал, он с собой говорил:
"Не пробудится он; не подымется он;
Мертвецы не встают из могил".
Уж заря занялась; был таинственный час
Меж рассветом и утренней тьмой;
И глубоким он сном пред Ивановым днем
Вдруг заснул близ жены молодой.
Не спалося лишь ей, не смыкала очей...
И бродящим, открытым очам,
При лампадном огне в шишаке и броне
Вдруг явился Ричард Кольдингам.
"Воротись, удалися", - она говорит.
"Я к свиданью тобой приглашен;
Мне известно, кто здесь, неожиданный, спит:
Не страшись, не услышит нас он.
Я во мраке ночном потаенным врагом
На дороге изменой убит;
Уж три ночи, три дня, как монахи меня
Поминают - и труп мой зарыт.
Он с тобой, он с тобой, сей убийца ночной!
И ужасный теперь ему сон?
И надолго во мгле на пустынной скале,
Где маяк, я бродить осужден;
Где видалися мы под защитою тьмы,
Там скитаюсь теперь мертвецом;
И сюда с высоты не сошел бы, но ты
Заклинала Ивановым днем".
Содрогнулась она и, смятенья полна,
Вопросила: "Но что же с тобой?
Дай один мне ответ - ты спасен ли иль нет?
Он печально потряс головой.
"Выкупается кровью пролитая кровь, -
То убийце скажи моему.
Беззаконную небо карает любовь -
Ты сама будь свидетель тому".
Он тяжелою шуйцей коснулся стола;
Ей десницею руку пожал -
И десница как острое пламя была,
И по членам огонь пробежал.
И печать роковая в столе вожжена:
Отразилися пальцы на нем;
На руке ж - но таинственно руку она
Закрывала с тех пор полотном.
Есть монахиня в древних Драйбургских стенах:
И грустна и на свет не глядит;
Есть в Мельрозской обители мрачный монах:
И дичится людей и молчит.
Сей монах молчаливый и мрачный - кто он?
Та монахиня - кто же она?
То убийца, суровый Смальгольмский барон;
То его молодая жена.
Перевод В. Жуковского
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Чарльз Диккенс
(1812 - 1870)
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The Ivy Green
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
1836 - 1837
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The Song Of The Wreck
I
The wind blew high, the waters raved,
A ship drove on the land,
A hundred human creatures saved
Kneel'd down upon the sand.
Three-score were drown'd, three-score were thrown
Upon the black rocks wild,
And thus among them, left alone,
They found one helpless child.
II
A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred,
Stood out from all the rest,
And gently laid the lonely head
Upon his honest breast.
And travelling o'er the desert wide
It was a solemn joy,
To see them, ever side by side,
The sailor and the boy.
III
In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst,
The two were still but one,
Until the strong man droop'd the first
And felt his labours done.
Then to a trusty friend he spake,
"Across the desert wide,
O take this poor boy for my sake!"
And kiss'd the child and died.
IV
Toiling along in weary plight
Through heavy jungle, mire,
These two came later every night
To warm them at the fire.
Until the captain said one day,
"O seaman good and kind,
To save thyself now come away,
And leave the boy behind!"
V
The child was slumbering near the blaze:
"O captain, let him rest
Until it sinks, when God's own ways
Shall teach us what is best!"
They watch'd the whiten'd ashy heap,
They touch'd the child in vain;
They did not leave him there asleep,
He never woke again.
1855
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Роберт Бриджес
(1844 - 1930)
к началу страницы
Соловьи
Прекрасны те холмы, откуда вы слетели,
В долинах радостных подслушали вы трели
Их светлых вод.
Где блещут те леса? Бродить бы там, как в звездах,
Среди цветов, которым райский воздух
Шлет жизнь весь год!
Нет, высохли ручьи и те бесплодны горы;
Песнь наша - сердца боль, желанья зов, который
Сон мучит наш,
Чьих скрытых чаяний, чьей грезы смутной, темной
Ни вздохом длительным, ни трелью томной
Не передашь.
В наш восхищенный слух мы звонко, одиноко
Ночную тайну льем, когда ж ночи глубокой
Умчится тень
С лужаек и ветвей, с весенних их уборов,
Мы спим, пока певцы несчетных хоров
Встречают день.
Перевод А. Курошевой
"Nightingales"
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Зимний вечер
День завершает свой ход, -
Тускнеет свет:
Но на небе бледном нигде
Заката нет.
Сгущается серая мгла...
Соседней тропой
Грохочет невидимый воз,
Спеша домой.
Мотора на ближнем дворе
Слышится треск...
Стелется низкий дым
У низких небес...
Капают капли воды
С намокших ветвей.
Всю ночь прокапает так
Во мраке аллей.
К месту прикован старик
В своем дому...
Он знает, что новой весной
Не дышать ему.
Сношено сердце трудом
Он слаб и хил,
Порой добредет до гумна
Из последних сил,
Припомнит утро и мощь
Годов былых
И, крепяся, встречает ночь
Горя и мглы.
Перевод В. Давиденковой
"Winter Nightfall"
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Nightingales
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
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Winter Nightfall
The day begins to droop, -
Its course is done:
But nothing tells the place
Of the setting sun.
The hazy darkness deepens,
And up the lane
You may hear, but cannot see,
The homing wain.
An engine pants and hums
In the farm hard by:
Its lowering smoke is lost
In the lowering sky.
The soaking branches drip,
And all night through
The dropping will not cease
In the avenue.
A tall man there in the house
Must keep his chair:
He knows he will never again
Breathe the spring air:
His heart is worn with work;
He is giddy and sick
If he rise to go as far
As the nearest rick:
He thinks of his morn of life,
His hale, strong years;
And braves as he may the night
Of darkness and tears.
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London Snow
When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
"O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!"
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them,
for the charm they have broken.
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Элизабет Барретт Браунинг
(1806 - 1861)
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Bianca Among The Nightingales
The cypress stood up like a church
That night we felt our love would hold,
And saintly moonlight seemed to search
And wash the whole world clean as gold;
The olives crystallized the vales’
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:
The fireflies and the nightingales
Throbbed each to either, flame and song.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
Upon the angle of its shade
The cypress stood, self-balanced high;
Half up, half down, as double-made,
Along the ground, against the sky.
And we, too! from such soul-height went
Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,
We scarce knew if our nature meant
Most passionate earth or intense heaven.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
We paled with love, we shook with love,
We kissed so close we could not vow;
Till Giulio whispered, "Sweet, above
God’s Ever guarantees this Now."
And through his words the nightingales
Drove straight and full their long clear call,
Like arrows through heroic mails,
And love was awful in it all.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
O cold white moonlight of the north,
Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!
O coverture of death drawn forth
Across this garden-chamber... well!
But what have nightingales to do
In gloomy England, called the free.
(Yes, free to die in!...) when we two
Are sundered, singing still to me?
And still they sing, the nightingales.
I think I hear him, how he cried
"My own soul’s life" between their notes.
Each man has but one soul supplied,
And that’s immortal. Though his throat’s
On fire with passion now, to her
He can’t say what to me he said!
And yet he moves her, they aver.
The nightingales sing through my head.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
He says to her what moves her most.
He would not name his soul within
Her hearing, - rather pays her cost
With praises to her lips and chin.
Man has but one soul, ’tis ordained,
And each soul but one love, I add;
Yet souls are damned and love’s profaned.
These nightingales will sing me mad!
The nightingales, the nightingales.
I marvel how the birds can sing.
There’s little difference, in their view,
Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring
As vital flames into the blue,
And dull round blots of foliage meant
Like saturated sponges here
To suck the fogs up. As content
Is he too in this land, ’tis clear.
And still they sing, the nightingales.
My native Florence! dear, forgone!
I see across the Alpine ridge
How the last feast-day of Saint John
Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.
The luminous city, tall with fire,
Trod deep down in that river of ours,
While many a boat with lamp and choir
Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.
I will not hear these nightingales.
I seem to float, we seem to float
Down Arno’s stream in festive guise;
A boat strikes flame into our boat,
And up that lady seems to rise
As then she rose. The shock had flashed
A vision on us! What a head,
What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed
To splendour by a sudden dread.
And still they sing, the nightingales.
Too bold to sin, too weak to die;
Such women are so. As for me,
I would we had drowned there, he and I,
That moment, loving perfectly.
He had not caught her with her loosed
Gold ringlets… rarer in the south…
Nor heard the "Grazie tanto" bruised
To sweetness by her English mouth.
And still they sing, the nightingales.
She had not reached him at my heart
With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed
Kill flies; nor had I, for my part,
Yearned after, in my desperate need,
And followed him as he did her
To coasts left bitter by the tide,
Whose very nightingales, elsewhere
Delighting, torture and deride!
For still they sing, the nightingales.
A worthless woman! mere cold clay
As all false things are! but so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware.
I would not play her larcenous tricks
To have her looks! She lied and stole,
And spat into my love’s pure pyx
The rank saliva of her soul.
And still they sing, the nightingales.
I would not for her white and pink,
Though such he likes - her grace of limb,
Though such he has praised - nor yet, I think,
For life itself, though spent with him,
Commit such sacrilege, affront
God’s nature which is love, intrude
‘Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt
Like spiders, in the altar’s wood.
I cannot bear these nightingales.
If she chose sin, some gentler guise
She might have sinned in, so it seems:
She might have pricked out both my eyes,
And I still seen him in my dreams!
- Or drugged me in my soup or wine,
Nor left me angry afterward:
To die here with his hand in mine
His breath upon me, were not hard.
(Our Lady hush these nightingales!)
But set a springe for him, "mio ben",
My only good, my first last love! -
Though Christ knows well what sin is, when
He sees some things done they must move
Himself to wonder. Let her pass.
I think of her by night and day.
Must I too join her... out, alas!...
With Giulio, in each word I say!
And evermore the nightingales!
Giulio, my Giulio! - sing they so,
And you be silent? Do I speak,
And you not hear? An arm you throw
Round some one, and I feel so weak?
- Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,
They sing for hate, they sing for doom!
They’ll sing through death who sing through night,
They’ll sing and stun me in the tomb -
The nightingales, the nightingales!
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The Holy Night
We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
Softened their horn’d faces,
To almost human gazes
Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their astonished hearing rung
The strange sweet angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,
The incense, myrrh, and gold
These baby hands were impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state.
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!
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The Deserted Garden
I mind me in the days departed,
How often underneath the sun
With childish bounds I used to run
To a garden long deserted.
The beds and walks were vanish’d quite;
And wheresoe’er had struck the spade,
The greenest grasses Nature laid,
To sanctify her right.
I call’d the place my wilderness,
For no one enter’d there but I.
The sheep look’d in, the grass to espy,
And pass’d it ne’ertheless.
The trees were interwoven wild,
And spread their boughs enough about
To keep both sheep and shepherd out,
But not a happy child.
Adventurous joy it was for me!
I crept beneath the boughs, and found
A circle smooth of mossy ground
Beneath a poplar-tree.
Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses waxen-white,
Well satisfied with dew and light,
And careless to be seen.
Long years ago, it might befall,
When all the garden flowers were trim,
The grave old gardener prided him
On these the most of all.
Some Lady, stately overmuch,
Here moving with a silken noise,
Has blush’d beside them at the voice
That liken’d her to such.
Or these, to make a diadem,
She often may have pluck’d and twined;
Half-smiling as it came to mind,
That few would look at them.
O, little thought that Lady proud,
A child would watch her fair white rose,
When buried lay her whiter brows,
And silk was changed for shroud! -
Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns
For men unlearn’d and simple phrase)
A child would bring it all its praise,
By creeping through the thorns!
To me upon my low moss seat,
Though never a dream the roses sent
Of science or love’s compliment,
I ween they smelt as sweet.
It did not move my grief to see
The trace of human step departed:
Because the garden was deserted,
The blither place for me!
Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken
Hath childhood ‘twixt the sun and sward:
We draw the moral afterward -
We feel the gladness then.
And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall:
A thrush made gladness musical
Upon the other side.
Nor he nor I did e’er incline
To peck or pluck the blossoms white: -
How should I know but that they might
Lead lives as glad as mine?
To make my hermit-home complete,
I brought clear water from the spring
Praised in its own low murmuring,
And cresses glossy wet.
And so, I thought, my likeness grew
(Without the melancholy tale)
To "gentle hermit of the dale,"
And Angelina too.
For oft I read within my nook
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,
And then I shut the book.
If I shut this wherein I write,
I hear no more the wind athwart
Those trees, nor feel that childish heart
Delighting in delight.
My childhood from my life is parted,
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew
The garden is deserted.
Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are;
No more for me! - myself afar
Do sing a sadder verse.
Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay
In that child’s-nest so greenly wrought,
I laugh’d unto myself and thought,
"The time will pass away."
And still I laugh’d, and did not fear
But that, whene’er was pass’d away
The childish time, some happier play
My womanhood would cheer.
I knew the time would pass away;
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,
Dear God, how seldom, if at all,
Did I look up to pray!
The time is past: and now that grows
The cypress high among the trees,
And I behold white sepulchres
As well as the white rose, -
When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,
And I have learnt to lift my face,
Reminded how earth’s greenest place
The colour draws from heaven, -
It something saith for earthly pain,
But more for heavenly promise free,
That I who was, would shrink to be
That happy child again.
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Джеймс Джойс
(1882 - 1941)
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Flood
Goldbrown upon the sated flood
The rockvine clusters lift and sway.
Vast wings above the lambent waters brood
Of sullen day.
A waste of waters ruthlessly
Sways and uplifts its weedy mane
Where brooding day stares down upon the sea
In dull disdain.
Uplift and sway, O golden vine,
Your clustered fruits to love’s full flood,
Lambent and vast and ruthless as is thine
Incertitude!
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Nightpiece
Gaunt in gloom
The pale stars their torches
Enshrouded wave.
Ghostfires from heaven’s far verges faint illume
Arches on soaring arches,
Night’s sindark nave.
Seraphim
The lost hosts awaken
To service till
In moonless gloom each lapses, muted, dim
Raised when she has and shaken
Her thurible.
And long and loud
To night’s nave upsoaring
A starknell tolls
As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,
Voidward from the adoring
Waste of souls.
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Tutto É Sciolto
A birdless heaven, seadusk, one lone star
Piercing the west,
As thou, fond heart, love’s time, so faint, so far,
Rememberest.
The clear young eyes’ soft look, the candid brow,
The fragrant hair,
Falling as through the silence falleth now
Dusk of the air.
Why then, remembering those shy
Sweet lures, repine
When the dear love she yielded with a sigh
Was all but thine?
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Уильям Мейкпис Теккерей
(1811 - 1863)
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A Tragic Story
There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much and sorrowed more
Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.
Said he, "The mystery I’ve found, -
I’ll turn me round." -
He turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.
Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain - it mattered not a pin -
The pigtail hung behind him.
And right, and left, and round about,
And up, and down, and in, and out
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back
The pigtail hangs behind him.
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The Mahogany Tree
Christmas is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
Little we fear
Weather without,
Shelter about
The Mahogany Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short -
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup. -
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
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Sorrows Of Werther
Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
1851
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Уильям Батлер Йейтс
(1865 - 1839)
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A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
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At The Abbey Theatre
(Imitated from Ronsard)
Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case.
When we are high and airy hundreds say
That if we hold that flight they’ll leave the place,
While those same hundreds mock another day
Because we have made our art of common things,
So bitterly, you’d dream they longed to look
All their lives through into some drift of wings.
You’ve dandled them and fed them from the book
And know them to the bone; impart to us -
We’ll keep the secret - a new trick to please.
Is there a bridle for this Proteus
That turns and changes like his draughty seas?
Or is there none, most popular of men,
But when they mock us, that we mock again?
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Brown Penny
I whispered, "I am too young",
And then, "I am old enough";
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair."
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
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Lullaby
Beloved, may your sleep be sound
That have found it where you fed.
What were all the world’s alarms
To mighty paris when he found
Sleep upon a golden bed
That first dawn in Helen’s arms?
Sleep, beloved, such a sleep
As did that wild Tristram know
When, the potion’s work being done,
Roe could run or doe could leap
Under oak and beechen bough,
Roe could leap or doe could run;
Such a sleep and sound as fell
Upon Eurotas’ grassy bank
When the holy bird, that there
Accomplished his predestined will,
From the limbs of Leda sank
But not from her protecting care.
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Solomon To Sheba
Sang Solomon to Sheba,
And kissed her dusky face,
"All day long from mid-day
We have talked in the one place,
All day long from shadowless noon
We have gone round and round
In the narrow theme of love
Like a old horse in a pound."
To Solomon sang Sheba,
Plated on his knees,
"If you had broached a matter
That might the learned please,
You had before the sun had thrown
Our shadows on the ground
Discovered that my thoughts, not it,
Are but a narrow pound."
Said Solomon to Sheba,
And kissed her Arab eyes,
"There’s not a man or woman
Born under the skies
Dare match in learning with us two,
And all day long we have found
There’s not a thing but love can make
The world a narrow pound."
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To A Child Dancing In The Wind
Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water’s roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool’s triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind!
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When Helen Lived
We have cried in our despair
That men desert,
For some trivial affair
Or noisy, insolent sport,
Beauty that we have won
From bitterest hours;
Yet we, had we walked within
Those topless towers
Where Helen waked with her boy,
Had given but as the rest
Of the men and women of Troy,
A word and a jest.
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Мэтью Арнольд
(1822 - 1888)
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Покинутый мерман
Милые дети, давайте уйдем,
Вернемся вниз, в глубину.
Уж братья с залива зовут меня в дом;
Уж ветер крепчает и гонит волну;
Соленым теченьем уносит ко дну;
Вот кони седые встают на дыбы,
Топочут и рвутся и ржут из воды.
Милые дети, давайте уйдем
Этим, этим путем.
Уходя, еще раз ее позовите,
Еще раз пошлите привет.
Криком знакомым ей память верните:
"Маргарет! Маргарет!"
Мил и дорог голос детей
(Позовите еще раз) ушам матерей.
Голос детей неистов и звонок:
Она придет, если плачет ребенок.
Позовите и уходите потом
Этим, этим путем.
"Мама, остаться нельзя нам, мы ждем.
Лошади бьются, терпенья в них нет,
Маргарет! Маргарет!"
Уйдемте отсюда, милые дети,
Звать ее больше не надо.
Лишь взглянем на берег, где город, где ветер,
Где серая церковь в ограде.
Хотя б вы стонали день напролет,
Больше она не придет.
О дети мои, вчера ли то было,
Сладостный звон проплывал над заливом,
Мы в наших пещерах его уловили,
Серебряный звон над волной говорливой,
То колокол пел над прибоем бурливым.
В песчаных пещерах, глубоких и свежих,
Все ветры затихли; и, вспыхнув, чуть брезжит
Мерцающий свет и тонет в тени,
И травы колеблет теченье струи.
Там илистых пастбищ огромны просторы,
Там бродят по дну обитатели моря,
Там в кольца тугие свиваются змеи
И, радуясь влаге, панцири греют,
Там большие киты плывут,
Глаз не смыкая, плывут... И плывут
Вокруг света, не зная причала.
Та музыка, как и когда зазвучала?
Вчера ли было тому начало?
(Еще позовите.) Вчера ли то было,
Что детям своим она изменила?
В морской глубине стоял трон золотой,
Где мы сидели единой семьей.
И гребнем по светлым кудрям проводя,
Лелеяла мать меньшое дитя.
Как вдруг услыхала звон отдаленный
И взор подняла на зеленые волны,
Вздохнула и прошептала печально:
"Мне нужно на берег к своим торопиться,
В серую церковь, чтоб с ними молиться,
Сегодня все празднуют вечер пасхальный.
А я с тобой гублю свою душу!"
"Любимая! выйди сегодня на сушу,
Молитву скажи, как требует вера, -
И снова вернись к нашим добрым пещерам".
Она улыбалась и вышла с прибоем.
О дети, вчера ли случилось такое?
О дети, мы долго одни оставались?
Младшие плакали, волны вздымались.
"Молитва длинна в человеческом мире, -
Сказал я. - Идем!" - и нас вынесло море.
Мы берегом шли, песчаной равниной,
Меж белых домов, цветущей долиной,
Улицей узкой, дорогой мощеной,
К серенькой церкви на холм отдаленный.
Шепот молящихся там услыхали,
Ему на холодном ветру мы внимали,
Взошли на могилы, дождями изрытые,
Прильнули к оконцам храма закрытого.
Сидела она у колонны высокой.
"Любимая! Тише! Мы так одиноки!
Ты видишь, мы здесь, о Маргарет,
Волнуется море, покоя нам нет".
Но она на меня не оглянулась,
В молитвенник молча она уткнулась.
Возглашает священник, и заперта дверь.
Дети, пойдемте, ни звука теперь.
Прочь уходите, ни звука теперь.
Вниз, вниз, вниз,
Вниз, в глубину морскую...
В городе шумном у прялки она
Песню поет и ликует.
Вот ее песня: "О счастье! О слава!
Улице шумной и детской забаве,
Святому добру и колоколам,
Благословенным солнца лучам,
Служителю храма и прялке моей
Пою я о счастье людей!"
Восторгом великим напоена,
Жизнь восхваляя, поет она.
Но вдруг затихло ее колесо,
И выпал из рук суетливый челнок.
И пристальный взгляд упал на песок
И дальше скользнул над морем,
И тяжек был вздох и глубок,
И были в нем скорбь и горе.
И туманит печаль глаза,
И большая упала слеза.
И снова нет ей отрады,
И грудь надрывается стоном протяжным:
О блеске волос малютки-наяды,
О глазах холодных и влажных.
Ступайте, ступайте, дети!
Ступайте отсюда прочь!
Злее, холодный ветер,
Огни зажигает ночь.
Ветер ворвется в двери;
Очнется она от снов,
Услышит рычание бури
В грохоте грозных валов.
Увидим и мы над собою
Ревущий водоворот,
Жемчужные мостовые
И янтарный свод.
И песню споем: "Приходила
Смертная к нам,
Но она изменила
Навсегда морским королям".
А в полночь, когда над заливом
Чуть слышно скользит ветерок,
И падает в тихие воды
Серебряный лунный поток,
И воздух струей ароматной
Плывет от прибрежных ракит,
И тень грядой непонятной
От скал на песке лежит, -
Тогда мы неслышной гурьбою
На белую отмель спешим.
И плещется море в покое,
И берег сверкает в тиши.
И смотрим, взобравшись на дюны,
На город, на церковь, на все
Заснувшее в мире подлунном
И с песней уходим на дно.
"Тоскует здесь верный любовник -
По жестокой подруге своей,
Покинувшей вероломно
Одиноких морских королей".
Перевод О. Петровской
"The Forsaken Merman"
Мерман - сказочное существо, живущее в море.
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Hayeswater
A region desolate and wild.
Black, chafing water: and afloat,
And lonely as a truant child
In a waste wood, a single boat:
No mast, no sails are set thereon;
It moves, but never moveth on:
And welters like a human thing
Amid the wild waves weltering.
Behind, a buried vale doth sleep,
Far down the torrent cleaves its way:
In front the dumb rock rises steep,
A fretted wall of blue and grey;
Of shooting cliff and crumbled stone
With many a wild weed overgrown:
All else, black water: and afloat,
One rood from shore, that single boat.
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Philomela
Hark! ah, the nightingale -
The tawny-throated!
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark! - what pain!
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain
That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain -
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm?
Dost thou tonight behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and seared eyes
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame?
Dost thou once more assay
Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Once more, and once more seem to make resound
With love and hate, triumph and agony,
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?
Listen, Eugenia -
How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!
Again—thou hearest?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!
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The Forsaken Merman
Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!
Call her once before you go -
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
"Margaret! Margaret!"
Children’s voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;
Children’s voices, wild with pain -
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
"Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret! Margaret!
Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little grey church on the windy shore;
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!
Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;
She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little grey church on the shore today.
’T will be Easter-time in the world - ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee."
I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!"
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, were we long alone?
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
"Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say;
Come," I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town;
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little grey church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
But, ah, she gave me never a look,
For her eyes we sealed to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!
Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings: "O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun!"
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the shuttle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away children;
Come children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows coldly;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl,
Singing: "Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea."
But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear fall the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hillside -
And then come back down.
Singing: "There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea."
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To A Friend
Who prop, thou ask’st in these bad days, my mind? -
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.
Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian’s brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his
My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,
From first youth tested up to extreme old age,
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;
Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;
The mellow glory of the Attic stage,
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.
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Уолтер Де Ла Мар
(1873 - 1956)
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Слушающие
"Есть ли в доме кто-нибудь?" - путник стукнул
В дверь, залитую луной.
Было тихо, и лошадь жевала стебли
На прогалине лесной.
Вдруг из башни вылетела птица,
Пронеслась над головой.
И в закрытую дверь путник стукнул вторично:
"Есть ли в доме кто-нибудь живой?"
Но никто не сошел по ступенькам
На порог, увитый листвой,
Но никто не взглянул в глаза его.
Он стоял, от волненья немой.
Только духи теней внимавших
И живущих в доме давно,
Под луною подслушивали молча,
Что сказал человек земной.
И на лестнице, падавшей в сени,
Притаились лучи луны
И дрожащий слушали воздух,
Потревоженный криком ночным.
И он сердцем почувствовал странный
И безмолвный ответ на зов.
Долго лошадь жевала травы
Под небом из листьев и звезд.
И вдруг он ударил в дверь еще
Громче и поднял глаза.
"Передайте, что мне не ответили,
Я сдержал свое слово!" - сказал.
Не могли быть тише внимавшие,
Но все, что он говорил,
Эхом в доме сквозь тени падало
В пустоту у старых перил.
Услыхали, как ногу вдел в стремя,
Стук железа о камни глухой,
И как вслед копытам нырнувшим
Тишина сомкнулась волной.
"The Listeners"
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Аравия
Дальние тени Аравии,
Принц на горячем коне,
В чаще глухой и зеленой,
В призрачном лунном огне.
Темный цветочный пурпур
В диком лесу густом
Тянется к призрачным звездам,
Бледным в свете дневном.
Сладкие песни Аравии
В сердце, едва пробужусь,
Слышу на тонком рассвете
Звуков легкую грусть.
Странная лютня в зарослях
Горем и счастьем звучит,
В смелых руках музыканта
Воздух ночи дрожит.
Со мной ее лютни и чащи,
Не вижу другой красоты,
Туманят смутным зовом
Прелестные черты.
Люди с холодным взглядом
Вслед мне бросают легко:
Он помешан на чарах Аравии,
Помутивших разум его.
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Старая Сусанна
Сусанна, кончив труд дневной,
Сидит с оплывшею свечой,
Окно раскрыто широко,
Чтоб свежий воздух шел легко.
И пальцем водит за строкой,
Читает, лоб наморщив свой,
И медленно скользят глаза
За буквами вперед - назад.
Дрожит ли пламя у свечи,
От ветра резвого в ночи,
В тиши она промолвит вдруг,
Какую-нибудь фразу вслух,
Кивнет, как будто говоря:
"Глупцы, не знают, что творят".
Я шума иного не знал в ночи,
Разве петух вдали закричит,
Или страница зашуршит
В дрожащих пальцах, и вонзит
Она очки в меня, в упор
В реальный мир бросая взор;
И молвит, головой кивнув:
"Я думала, что ты уснул".
И снова с книжкою она -
И в сказки вновь погружена.
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Последняя карета
Карета дребезжит в лесу, жара
И пыль легли на кузов и на ось,
На красках грязь, железо съела ржа.
Карета режет тишину насквозь,
Сквозь шум кустов, сквозь перья трав лесных
Бредут в глуши копыта. Мрак и тишь.
Не знает древний кучер троп таких,
В какие привели его пути.
Мочалятся края его вожжей,
И кнут повис, с коровьим схож хвостом,
И светятся в кустах глаза зверей,
Как звездный блеск над старым кораблем.
"Пора, отец, пора", - лощина шелестит,
И белка прыгает на круп коня,
Мелькает ласка, горностай скользит,
В садах песочных кроликов возня.
На облучке, как мумия, немой,
Согбенный кучер, пестр его наряд,
Вокруг него кружит мышиный рой,
Насмешливые сойки верещат.
И отдыхом и дружбой веет тут,
В тропах лесных покоится закат,
И розовый шиповник весь в цвету,
И сосны зачарованные спят.
По мху и щебню легкий скрип скользит,
Старик заснул на облучке. Сквозь сон
Следы колес луч солнца золотит,
Одолевают кони холм с трудом.
В зеленой высоте нежнее тень,
Далеко к западу румянец на горах,
Под пологом ночным копыта мнут коней
Как море луг лазоревый, в цветах.
Покоем падают минуты. Вдруг
Глаза блеснули в темноте окна,
Украдкой легкое движенье рук -
Раскрыта дверь, и больше нет замка.
"Exeunt omnes!" - всем конец путям.
Миллионы ортсов из последних сил
Поспешно спрыгнули, вдохнув фимиам,
Истлевший голос мир провозгласил.
Вверх, вверх, струей поток, он их несет,
Долина счастья, птиц и васильков,
Где дым, растаяв, радугой цветет
И души реют сонмом облаков.
Окончен путь. Покой кнуту, вожжам,
Плечу и локтю, смеху и слезам. Казалось,
Угрюмый старец вечность воплощал, -
И в этом сказочная шутка сна прорвалась.
В безумном бегстве вверх пылинки мчат,
Покуда не очнулся старый враг,
Не щелкнул вновь кнутом, летят, парят,
Вздыхают: "рай" и тают в облаках.
Переводы С. Мар
E x e u n t o m n e s! (лат.) - пусть выйдут все. Употребляется как
театральная ремарка в смысле "занавес".
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The Listeners
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head: -
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
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Autumn
There is wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears, tears where my heart was;
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.
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Winter
Clouded with snow
The bleak winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.
The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.
Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.
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Silver
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and a silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
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Fare Well
When I lie where shades of darkness
Shall no more assail mine eyes,
Nor the rain make lamentation
When the wind sighs;
How will fare the world whose wonder
Was the very proof of me?
Memory fades, must the remembered
Perishing be?
Oh, when this my dust surrenders
Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,
May these loved and loving faces
Please other men!
May the rusting harvest hedgerow
Still the Traveller's Joy entwine,
And as happy children gather
Posies once mine.
Look thy last on all things lovely,
Every hour. Let no night
Seal thy sense in deathly slumber
Till to delight
Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;
Since that all things thou wouldst praise
Beauty took from those who loved them
In other days.
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Эмили Джейн Бронте
(1818 - 1848)
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Remembrance
Cold in the earth - and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth - and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion -
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
March 1845
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The Night Is Darkening Round Me
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me:
I will not, cannot go.
November 1837
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Ричард Гарнетт
(1835 - 1906)
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Even-Star
First-born and final relic of the night,
I dwell aloof in dim immensity;
The grey sky sparkles with my fairy light;
I mix among the dancers of the sea;
Yet stoop not from the throne I must retain
High o'er the silver sources of the rain.
Vicissitude I know not, nor can know,
Yet much discern strewed everywhere around;
The ever-stirring race of men below
Much do I watch, and wish I were not bound
The chainless captive of this lonely spot,
Where light-winged Mutability is not.
I see great cities rise, which being hoar
Are slowly rendered unto dust again;
And roaring billows preying on the shore;
And virgin isles ascending from the main;
The passing wave of the perpetual river;
And men depart, and man remaining ever.
The upturned eyes of many a mortal maid
Glass me in gathering tears, soon kissed away;
Then walks she for a space, and then is laid
Swelling the bosom of the quiet clay.
I muse what this all-kindling Love may be,
And what this Death that never comes to me.
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Ли Хант
(1784 - 1859)
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A Thought Of The Nile
It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands, -
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.
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The Glove And The Lions
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another;
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat:
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."
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Rondeau
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
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Song Of Fairies Robbing An Orchard
We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.
When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
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Джонатан Свифт
(1667 - 1745)
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A Description Of The Morning
Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own.
The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs,
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep;
Till drown'd in shriller notes of "chimney-sweep".
Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet;
And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half a street.
The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands;
And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.
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Advice To The Grub Street Verse-writers
Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets haste;
Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign'd to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 'tis a quaint device:
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing Pope;
And when he sets to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And swear they are your own.
1726
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Джон Дэвидсон
(1857 - 1909)
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Олень
Той порою, как лопнул последний стручок,
Загаром крылись плоды по садам,
Мы загнали оленя в лесистый лог
И помчались по свежим следам, следам,
Помчались по свежим следам.
Благородный олень, олень, олень,
Лесной олень, что ветра резвей,
Его рога ветвистей ветвей,
Олень, лесной олень.
Охотничий рог запел: тра-ра-ра.
"Вперед!" - закричали охотники вдруг,
Но барсучьи следы нашли егеря,
Следы, что в подлеске оставил барсук,
Встревоженный лаем барсук.
Его испугал олень, олень,
Лесной олень, могуч и рогат,
Который спал, как олени спят,
Он спал, лесной олень.
Мы наткнулись на след его невзначай:
Нам рыскать по роще стало лень,
Стал хриплым уже сумасшедший лай,
Когда закричали кругом: "Олень!"
Когда нам сказали: "Олень!"
Благородный олень, лукавый олень,
Лесной олень, что ветра резвей,
Его рога ветвистей ветвей,
Лесной, благородный олень.
Две гончие бросились с двух сторон,
Две гончие только не сбились с пути.
Выжлятники ждут, разгорается гон,
От своры горячей ему не уйти,
Ему от нее не уйти.
Но стрелой помчался лесной олень,
Лесной олень почуял врага,
Копыта в огне, как пламя - рога,
Олень, лесной олень.
"Поласковей будь со своим конем, -
Споткнется он - и забаве конец.
Джентльменам за зверем скакать нипочем,
И под каждым из них лихой жеребец,
Под каждым лихой жеребец.
Им только и нужен олень, олень,
Лесной олень, что ветра резвей,
Его рога ветвистей ветвей,
Лесной благородный олень".
По тропинкам лесным, в логу, меж скал,
В полях и ложбинах, по руслам рек,
Олень все вперед и вперед бежал,
Быстрей становился бешеный бег,
Быстрей его бешеный бег.
Вперед, вперед, быстрей, быстрей,
Лесной олень вперед летит.
По дороге след от острых копыт,
Олень, лесной олень.
Позади оставшихся миль не счесть,
Ему нипочем стена и забор,
Он волам принес тревожную весть -
О псарях, что несутся во весь опор,
Что несутся во весь опор.
Благородный олень, лукавый олень,
Миль двадцать подряд, и пять, и пять
Бежал, и его не могли поймать,
Олень, лесной олень.
Над ним листва, как зеленый кров,
Его приютил изумрудный мрак,
Он услышал волн отдаленный рев,
И приснилось ему под лай собак,
Приснилось под лай собак:
Благородный олень, олень, олень,
Мертвый олень на смарагдовом дне
Лежит, океанской отдан волне,
Олень, лесной олень.
Глаза надеждой зажглись роковой,
Он ноздри свои широко раздул
И, в последний раз встряхнув головой,
Помчался на волн отдаленный гул,
На волн отдаленный гул.
Пять миль еще, олень, олень,
Двадцать миль еще, и пять, и пять,
Ни мертвым его, ни живым не поймать,
Олень, лесной олень.
Пятьсот джентльменов, остановив
Пятьсот своих благородных коней,
Видали, как бросился он в залив
Навстречу волне и скрылся под ней,
И скрылся навеки под ней.
Олень, молодой олень, олень
Уснул наконец на смарагдовом дне,
Уснул, океанской отдан волне,
Олень, лесной олень.
Перевод М. Гутнера
"A Runnable Stag"
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Thirty Bob A Week
I couldn't touch a stop and turn a screw,
And set the blooming world a-work for me,
Like such as cut their teeth - I hope, like you -
On the handle of a skeleton gold key;
I cut mine on a leek, which I eat it every week:
I'm a clerk at thirty bob as you can see.
But I don't allow it's luck and all a toss;
There's no such thing as being starred and crossed;
It's just the power of some to be a boss,
And the bally power of others to be bossed:
I face the music, sir; you bet I ain't a cur;
Strike me lucky if I don't believe I'm lost!
For like a mole I journey in the dark,
A-travelling along the underground
From my Pillar'd Halls and broad Suburbean Park,
To come the daily dull official round;
And home again at night with my pipe all alight,
A-scheming how to count ten bob a pound.
And it's often very cold and very wet,
And my misses stitches towels for a hunks;
And the Pillar'd Halls is half of it to let -
Three rooms about the size of travelling trunks.
And we cough, my wife and I, to dislocate a sigh,
When the noisy little kids are in their bunks.
But you never hear her do a growl or whine,
For she's made of flint and roses, very odd;
And I've got to cut my meaning rather fine,
Or I'd blubber, for I'm made of greens and sod:
So p'r'haps we are in Hell for all that I can tell,
And lost and damn'd and served up hot to God.
I ain't blaspheming, Mr. Silver-tongue;
I'm saying things a bit beyond your art:
Of all the rummy starts you ever sprung,
Thirty bob a week's the rummiest start!
With your science and your books and your the'ries about spooks,
Did you ever hear of looking in your heart?
I didn't mean your pocket, Mr., no:
I mean that having children and a wife,
With thirty bob on which to come and go,
Isn't dancing to the tabor and the fife:
When it doesn't make you drink, by Heaven! it makes you think,
And notice curious items about life.
I step into my heart and there I meet
A god-almighty devil singing small,
Who would like to shout and whistle in the street,
And squelch the passers flat against the wall;
If the whole world was a cake he had the power to take,
He would take it, ask for more, and eat them all.
And I meet a sort of simpleton beside,
The kind that life is always giving beans;
With thirty bob a week to keep a bride
He fell in love and married in his teens:
At thirty bob he stuck; but he knows it isn't luck:
He knows the seas are deeper than tureens.
And the god-almighty devil and the fool
That meet me in the High Street on the strike,
When I walk about my heart a-gathering wool,
Are my good and evil angels if you like.
And both of them together in every kind of weather
Ride me like a double-seated bike.
That's rough a bit and needs its meaning curled.
But I have a high old hot un in my mind -
A most engrugious notion of the world,
That leaves your lightning 'rithmetic behind:
I give it at a glance when I say "There ain't no chance,
Nor nothing of the lucky-lottery kind."
And it's this way that I make it out to be:
No fathers, mothers, countres, climates - none;
Not Adam was responsible for me,
Nor society, nor systems, nary one:
A little sleeping seed, I woke - I did, indeed -
A million years before the blooming sun.
I woke because I thought the time had come;
Beyond my will there was no other cause;
And everywhere I found myself at home,
Because I chose to be the thing I was;
And in whatever shape of mollusc or of ape
I always went according to the laws.
I was the love that chose my mother out;
I joined two lives and from the union burst;
My weakness and my strength without a doubt
Are mine alone for ever from the first:
It's just the very same with a difference in the name
As "Thy will be done." You say it if you durst!
They say it daily up and down the land
As easy as you take a drink, it's true;
But the difficultest go to understand,
And the difficultest job a man can do,
Is to come it brave and meek with thirty bob a week,
And feel that that's the proper thing for you.
It's a naked child against a hungry wolf;
It's playing bowls upon a splitting wreck;
It's walking on a string across a gulf
With millstones fore-and-aft about your neck;
But the thing is daily done by many and many a one;
And we fall, face forward, fighting, on the deck.
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A Runnable Stag
When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom,
And apples began to be golden-skinned,
We harboured a stag in the Priory coomb,
And we feathered his trail up-wind, up-wind,
We feathered his trail up-wind -
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag, a kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
A stag, a runnable stag.
Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap,
And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout;
But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap
In the beechen underwood, driven out,
From the underwood antlered out
By warrant and might of the stag, the stag,
The runnable stag, whose lordly mind
Was bent on sleep, though beamed and tined
He stood, a runnable stag.
So we tufted the covert till afternoon
With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell-of-the-North;
And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune
Before we tufted the right stag forth,
Before we tufted him forth,
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The royal and runnable stag.
It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup
That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn.
"Tally ho! tally ho!" and the hunt was up,
The tufters whipped and the pack laid on,
The resolute pack laid on,
And the stag of warrant away at last,
The runnable stag, the same, the same
His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame,
A stag, a runnable stag.
"Let your gelding be: if you check or chide
He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt;
For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride,
On hunters accustomed to bear the brunt,
Accustomed to bear the brunt,
Are after the runnable stag, the stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The right, the runnable stag."
By perilous paths in coomb and dell,
The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed,
The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well,
And a runnable stag goes right ahead,
The quarry went right ahead -
Ahead, ahead, and fast and far;
His antlered crest, his cloven hoof,
Brow, bay and tray and three aloof,
The stag, the runnable stag.
For a matter of twenty miles and more,
By the densest hedge and the highest wall,
Through herds of bullocks he baffled the lore
Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all,
Of harbourer hounds and all -
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
He ran, and he never was caught alive,
This stag, this runnable stag.
When he turned at bay in the leafy gloom,
In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep,
He heard in the distance the rollers boom,
And he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep,
In a wonderful vision of sleep,
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag in a jewelled bed,
Under the sheltering ocean dead,
A stag, a runnable stag.
So a fateful hope lit up his eye,
And he opened his nostrils wide again,
And he tossed his branching antlers high
As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen,
As he raced down the echoing glen
For five miles more, the stag, the stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
Not to be caught now, dead or alive,
The stag, the runnable stag.
Three hundred gentlemen, able to ride,
Three hundred horses as gallant and free,
Beheld him escape on the evening tide,
For out till he sank in the Severn Sea,
Till he sank in the depths of the sea -
The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag
That slept at last in a jewelled bed
Under the sheltering ocean spread,
The stag, the runnable stag.
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Song
The boat is chafing at our long delay,
And we must leave too soon
The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,
The tawny sands, the moon.
Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!
Watch from thy pearly throne
Our vessel, plunging deeper into night
To reach a land unknown.
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Констанс Вудроу
(1899 - 1937)
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Defeat
Between the grey monotony of sky
And darker grey monotony of sea
A solitary seagull passes by,
Beating the air, and screaming plaintively.
And even so - between grey yesterdays,
Before your coming waked my dreaming heart,
And darker grey to-morrows, when our ways
Must lie forever half a world apart -
I take my way on wings that feebly beat
Against the adverse winds of circumstance,
My heart, rebellious at this last defeat,
Screaming defiance at the gods of chance.
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Out Of The Dust
Out of the dust of all the past I came:
My body is compact of memories
Of other lives in other forms than this,
And I am kin to birds and beasts and trees.
Out of the dust of fairer things I came -
Some ancient flower whose name we do not know,
Some fallen tree that saw strange altars lit
With sacrificial fires of long ago.
Some humble moth that scorned the candle's flame
And dared to set the far-off moon its goal,
Has left to me the lure of moonlit skies
And all the futile yearning of its soul.
And what is now my heart was once a shell
Upon the sands and heard the sea complain
From hour to hour in murmurous monotone,
And holds remembrance of its ageless pain.
Unto the dust I shall again return,
Even as the faded flower, the fallen tree,
The moth that faltered in its moon-ward flight,
The shell that crumbled by the plangent sea.
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Song Of A Sewing Machine
Oh, the happiest worker of all am I,
As my wheel and my needle so merrily fly;
With a spool full of thread and a heart full of song,
I am ready and willing to work the day long.
Oh, faster and faster my glad wheel flies
When it catches the light in a young maid's eyes;
The dearest and tenderest girlhood dreams
I stitch into gossamer hems and seams.
But slower my wheel and softer my song
When fairy-like fragments are guided along -
I am stitching the dreams most sacred of all
Into dear little gowns and a wee silken shawl.
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To A Vagabond
But half of me is woman grown;
The other half is child.
But half my heart loves quiet ways;
The other half is wild.
And so to hear your gypsy song
I dare not come again;
To-morrow, when the twilight falls,
Your voice will lure in vain.
For all of you is vagabond
And all of you is free;
Your feet roam still the winding trails
That now are strange to me.
My gypsy feet are captive held
Within a garden-space
Since I renounced the whole wide world
For one beloved face.
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Ричард Барнфилд
(1554 - ок. 1620)
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An Ode
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn
And there sung the doleful'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry,
Teru, teru, by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain;
None takes pity on thy pain;
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing;
Whilst as fickle fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery:
Words are easy, like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find;
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend,
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such-like flattering
Pity but he were a king.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus of every grief, in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flatt'ring foe.
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Джон Гей
(1685 - 1732)
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Sweet William's Farewell To
Black-ey'd Susan: A Ballad
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-ey'd Susan came aboard.
Oh! where shall I my true love find!
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew.
William, who high upon the yard,
Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And, (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high pois'd in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet,
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear,
We only part to meet again.
Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
"Believe not what the landmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In ev'ry port a mistress find.
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
"If to far India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in di'monds bright,
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory, so white.
Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
"Though battle call me from thy arms
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye".
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread,
No longer must she stay aboard:
They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
Her less'ning boat, unwilling rows to land:
"Adieu", she cries! and wav'd her lily hand.
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Томас Деккер
(1570? - 1632)
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Art Thou Poor
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet content!
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king:
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
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Golden Slumbers
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby;
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby;
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
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Роберт Додсли
(1703 - 1764)
к началу страницы
Song
Man's a poor deluded bubble,
Wand'ring in a mist of lies,
Seeing false, or seeing double,
Who wou'd trust to such weak eyes?
Yet presuming on his senses,
On he goes most wond'rous wise:
Doubts of truth, believes pretences;
Lost in error, lives and dies.
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The Footman: An Epistle To
My Friend Mr. Wright
Dear Friend,
Since I am now at leisure,
And in the Country taking Pleasure,
If it be worth your while to hear
A silly Footman's Business there,
I'll try to tell, in easy Rhyme,
How I in London spend my Time.
And first,
As soon as Laziness will let me,
I rise from Bed, and down I set me,
To cleaning Glasses, Knives, and Plate,
And such-like dirty Work as that,
Which (by the bye) is what I hate.
This done; with expeditious Care,
To dress myself I strait prepare;
I clean my Buckles, black my Shoes;
Powder my Wig, and brush my Cloaths;
Take off my Beard, and wash my Face,
And then I'm ready for the Chace.
Down comes my Lady's Woman strait:
Where's Robin? Here. Pray take your Hat,
And go - and go - and go - and go - ;
And this - and that desire to know.
The Charge receiv'd, away run I,
And here, and there, and yonder fly,
With Services, and How-d'ye-does,
Then Home return full fraught with News.
Here some short Time does interpose,
'Till warm Effluvia's greet my Nose,
Which from the Spits and Kettles fly,
Declaring Dinner-time is nigh.
To lay the Cloth I now prepare,
With Uniformity and Care;
In Order Knives and Forks are laid,
With folded Napkins, Salt, and Bread:
The Side-boards glittering too appear,
With Plate, and Glass, and China-ware.
Then Ale, and Beer, and Wine decanted,
And all Things ready which are wanted,
The smoaking Dishes enter in,
To Stomachs sharp a grateful Scene;
Which on the Table being plac'd,
And some few Ceremonies past,
They all sit down, and fall to eating,
Whilst I behind stand silent waiting.
This is the only pleasant Hour
Which I have in the Twenty-four;
For whilst I unregarded stand,
With ready Salver in my Hand,
And seem to understand no more
Than just what's call'd for, out to pour;
I hear, and mark the courtly Phrases,
And all the Elegance that passes;
Disputes maintain'd without Digression,
With ready Wit, and fine Expression;
The Laws of true Politeness stated,
And what Good-breeding is, debated:
Where all unanimously exclude
The vain Coquet, the formal Prude,
The Ceremonious, and the Rude.
The flattering, fawning, praising Train;
The fluttering, empty, noisy, vain;
Detraction, Smut, and what's prophane.
This happy Hour elaps'd and gone,
The Time of drinking Tea comes on.
The Kettle fill'd, the Water boil'd,
The Cream provided, Biscuits pil'd,
And Lamp prepar'd; I strait engage
The Lilliputian Equipage
Of Dishes, Saucers, Spoons, and Tongs,
And all th' Et cetera which thereto belongs.
Which rang'd in order and Decorum,
I carry in, and set before 'em;
Then pour or Green, or Bohea out,
And, as commanded, hand about.
This Business over, presently
The Hour of visiting draws nigh;
The Chairman strait prepare the Chair,
A lighted Flambeau I prepare;
And Orders given where to go,
We march along, and bustle thro'
The parting Crouds, who all stand off
To give us Room. O how you'd laugh!
To see me strut before a Chair,
And with a stirdy Voice, and Air,
Crying - By your Leave, Sir! have a Care!
From Place to Place with Speed we fly,
And Rat-tatat the Knockers cry:
Pray is your Lady, Sir, within?
If no, go on; if yes, we enter in.
Then to the Hall I guide my Steps,
Amongst a Croud of Brother Skips,
Drinking Small-beer, and talking Smut,
And this Fool's Nonsence puting that Fool's out.
Whilst Oaths and Peals of Laughter meet,
And he who's loudest, is the greatest Wit.
But here amongst us the chief Trade is
To rail against our Lords and Ladies;
To aggravate their smallest Failings,
T' expose their Faults with saucy Railings.
For my Part, as I hate the Practice,
And see in them how base and black 'tis,
To some bye Place I therefore creep,
And sit me down, and feign to sleep;
And could I with old Morpheus bargain,
'Twou'd save my Ears much Noise and Jargon.
But down my Lady comes again,
And I'm released from my Pain.
To some new Place our Steps we bend,
The tedious Evening out to spend;
Sometimes, perhaps, to see the Play,
Assembly, or the Opera;
Then home and sup, and thus we end the Day.
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Аделаида Проктер
(1825 - 1864)
к началу страницы
A Lost Chord
Seated one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.
It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.
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Томас Гуд
(1799 - 1845)
к началу страницы
Faithless Sally Brown
Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.
The Boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.
"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her, -
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."
"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!
Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender ship, you see";
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown
"What a hard-ship that must be!"
"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But Oh! - I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.
"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."
Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furl'd.
But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian-name was John.
"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow":
Then reading on his 'bacco box
He heaved a bitter sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happen'd in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.
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I Remember, I Remember
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday, -
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.
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Гилберт Кит Честертон
(1874 - 1936)
к началу страницы
Лепанто
Искрясь, белые фонтаны льются в солнечном дворце,
Вызывая у Султана смех веселый на лице;
На лице, что в страх повергло все подвластное ему,
Смех волнует тьму лесную, бороды Султана тьму,
И, кровавый полумесяц, полумесяц губ кривит, -
Средиземных вод просторы флот Султана бороздит,
К мысам италийским смело корабли его прошли,
В Адриатике Морского Льва разбили корабли.
И сам папа в агонии руки вскинул пред крестом, -
Королей созвал христианских, чтоб спасали Крест мечом.
Смотрит в зеркало спокойно королева англичан,
Валуа последний сонно в храме слушает орган;
Тень испанского оружья на далеких островах,
Бог у Золотого Рога весел в солнечных лучах.
За холмами еле слышно барабанный гул растет,
Где на троне безыменном принц развенчанный встает,
Где скамью позора кинув, из неведомой страны,
Христиан последний рыцарь меч снимает со стены,
Рыцарь - трубадур последний, для кого запела вдруг
Птица - мир тогда был молод, - пролетавшая на юг.
В этой тишине огромной, по дорогам между скал
Гул Крестового Похода постепенно нарастал.
Но далекий гром орудий потревожил тишину, -
Дон-Хуан Австрийский выходит на войну.
И холодный ветер ночи жесткие знамена рвет,
Пламя факелов багровым дымным золотом течет,
Обливая медь литавров, освещая небосклон,
Пушки, трубы и фанфары, и затем - выходит он;
И в кудрявую бородку Дон-Хуан роняет смех,
И, смеясь, пренебрегает в мире славой тронов всех,
И, как знамя всех свободных, гордо голову несет, -
Испании любимой - ура!
Смерть Африке!
Дон-Хуан Австрийский
По морю плывет.
Магомет в раю блаженном над вечернею звездой
(Дон-Хуан Австрийский идет, идет войной).
Он в объятьях вечной гурии трогает слегка тюрбан,
Тот тюрбан, что ткали зори и лазурный океан, -
Содрогнулся сад павлиний, с места Магомет встает,
Он деревьев выше ростом и над ними он идет,
Голосом, сквозь сад летящим, голосом, где гром и звон,
Азраила, Ариэля и Амона кличет он,
Демонов и великанов
С сотней глаз и сотней крыл,
Кто при Мудром Соломоне
В небе место заслужил.
Духи ринулись сквозь утро в пурпур легких облаков,
Духи ринулись из храмов всех разгневанных богов,
В зелени травы и тины поднялись со дна морей,
Где безглазые и злые бродят скопища теней,
Как жемчужною болезнью, тиной облепило их,
Водоросли и моллюски наросли корой на них.
Голубым сапфирным дымом изо всех щелей земли
К Магомету, словно слуги, на поклон они пришли.
И сказал он: "Раскрывайте недра гор, чтобы скорей
Скрылся в них народ-отшельник от лихой беды своей,
И гоните всех Гяуров, прогоните навсегда,
Ибо с запада, я знаю, к нам опять идет беда.
Надо всем, что в этом мире - Соломонова печать, -
Над печалью, и над знаньем, и уменьем созидать;
С гор высоких, с гор высоких громы грозные гремят,
Этот голос наши домы рушил сотни лет назад.
Это тот, кто слово кисмет ввеки не произнесет, -
Это Ричард, это Раймонд, это Готфрид у ворот;
Этот тот, кто ради выгод улыбнется над бедой; -
Чтоб восстал наш мир навеки - растопчите их ногой!"
Так сказал он, ибо слышал, как грохочет барабан.
Но уже идет войною Австрийский Дон-Хуан.
Внезапно и тихо - ура!
Удар грома из Иберии!
Дон-Хуан Австрийский
Прошел чрез Алкалар.
Михаил святой на гору встал на северных морях
(Дон-Хуан Австрийский летит на парусах),
Где приливы и отливы пенят гребни волн седых,
И где ставят красный парус рыбаки в ладьях своих,
Он трясет копьем железным, каменным стучит крылом, -
Сквозь Нормандию проходит этот одинокий гром.
И весь север полон текстов и больных усталых глаз,
И от злобы умирает добродетель в этот час,
Христианина Христианин насмерть в доме бьет ножом,
Он в испуге пред Христовым опечаленным лицом,
Ненавидит он Марию, что Господь приветил сам.
(Дон-Хуан Австрийский несется по волнам.)
И призывает Дон-Хуан сквозь тьму и ветра вой,
И губы сложены его рокочущей трубой,
Трубой ревущей - Ха!
Domino gloria!
Дон-Хуан Австрийский
Скликает корабли.
Король Филипп в своем дворце, украшенный руном
(Дон-Хуан Австрийский на палубе с мечом),
А на стенах черный бархат, бархат мягкий, точно грех.
Карлики ползут по складкам, прячась в бархат, словно в мех,
И фиал едва пригубил, и хрусталь уже звенит,
На лице его бескровном серо-пепельный налет,
То лицо - как лист растенья, что всегда во тьме растет,
В том фиале смерть таится, и конец благим делам,
Но Дон-Хуан Австрийский стреляет по врагам.
Но Дон-Хуан охотится, и свора псов ревет,
И по Италии слух гремит о том, что он идет.
Выстрел за выстрелом - бах! бах!
Выстрел за выстрелом - ура!
Дон-Хуан Австрийский
Открыл огонь!
Папа был в своей часовне в день, когда возникнул бой
(Дон-Хуан в дыму, как в туче, словно в туче громовой),
Папа в комнате потайной, только с Господом самим.
Там в оконце мир глядится крошечным и дорогим;
Он, как в зеркале, в оконце видит - в дымных облаках
Выстроенный полумесяцем флот его на парусах,
Крест и Замок покрывая тенью, мчится на врагов,
Скрыв корабль святого Марка и его крылатых львов.
Он вождей чернобородых видит в палубных дворцах,
А под палубами в тюрьмах, где царит смертельный страх, -
Гибнут пленные христиане от страданий и тоски,
Словно брошенные в море или в шахты-рудники.
Гибнут, как рабы в работе - и повисла в облаках
Лестница богов, великих в дальних древних временах,
Гибнут молча, без надежды, как и те, что пред царем
На граните Вавилона погибали под конем;
И немало их теряет разум свой в таком аду,
И надсмотрщик желтолицый бьет кнутом их на ходу.
Папа видит - нет спасенья, и Господь его забыт.
Но Дон-Хуан Австрийский сквозь строй врагов летит
И с кровью залитой кормы из пушек он палит, -
Кроваво-пурпурным огнем весь океан горит,
И волн серебряных кипят, как кровью, гребешки,
И люки взламывает он и трюмные замки,
И тысячами пленные выходят на простор,
Их свет свободный опьянил и ослепил их взор.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino gloria!
Дон-Хуан Австрийский
Свой народ освободил.
И Сервантес на галере меч в ножны запрятал свой
(Победою увенчан Дон-Хуан спешит домой),
Вновь пустынные дороги видит он в своей стране,
Где скитаться будет вечно тощий рыцарь на коне,
Пряча меч и улыбаясь, но не так, как тот Султан...
(Из Крестового Похода возвратился Дон-Хуан.)
Перевод М. Фромана
Л е п а н т о - В морском сражении при Лепанто (1571) испанский флот под
начальством Дон-Хуана Австрийского (незаконного сына императора Карла V) нанес
решительное поражение турецкому флоту. Одним из участников этого сражения был
Сервантес.
К и с м е т - судьба (у мусульман).
D o m i n o g l o r i a (лат.) - слава Господу.
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Кривая английская дорога
Когда к Северну римлянин пройти еще не мог,
Дорогу пьяный смастерил кривее всех дорог.
Дорогу, что везде идет по графствам вкривь и вкось,
И сквайр весь день за ним бежал, и все село неслось.
Веселую дорогу ту, что полюбилась нам,
В ту ночь, как через Бичи Хед тащились в Бирмингам.
Не сделал, сквайру не в пример, мне Бонапарт вреда,
И воевать с французом я не хотел тогда.
Но услыхав плохую весть, на их штыки попер:
Дорогу выпрямить хотят, кривую с давних пор.
Где с кружкою пивной в руках я был шагать готов
В ту ночь, как в Глэстонбери шли вдоль Гудвинских Песков.
Грехи отпущены ему. Не потому ль бегут
Цветы за ним? Колючий куст сильней на солнце тут.
Он шел, не зная, что к чему, шатался, пьяный в дым,
Но роза дикая цвела в канаве той над ним.
Господь, помилуй и спаси; вслепую каждый брел
В ту ночь, как в Бэннокберн мы шли через Брайтонский мол.
Друзья, не будем по ночам безумствовать опять,
Игру, что смолоду влекла, не будем продолжать.
Порой вечерней без вина пройдем последний путь,
Чтоб трезвым глазом на кабак, что держит смерть, взглянуть.
Немало добрых новостей услышит этот край
Пред тем, как через Кенсал Грин пойдем тихонько в рай.
Перевод М. Гутнера
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Gold Leaves
Lo! I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
The year and I are old.
In youth I sought the prince of men,
Captain in cosmic wars,
Our Titan, even the weeds would show
Defiant, to the stars.
But now a great thing in the street
Seems any human nod,
Where shift in strange democracy
The million masks of God.
In youth I sought the golden flower
Hidden in wood or wold,
But I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold.
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The Mariner
The violet scent is sacred
Like dreams of angels bright;
The hawthorn smells of passion
Told in a moonless night.
But the smell is in my nostrils,
Through blossoms red or gold,
Of my own green flower unfading,
A bitter smell and bold.
The lily smells of pardon,
The rose of mirth; but mine
Smells shrewd of death and honour,
And the doom of Adam’s line.
The heavy scent of wine-shops
Floats as I pass them by,
But never a cup I quaff from,
And never a house have I.
Till dropped down forty fathoms,
I lie eternally;
And drink from God’s own goblet
The green wine of the sea.
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Томас Карлайл
(1795 - 1881)
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Cui Bono
What is Hope? A smiling rainbow
Children follow through the wet;
'Tis not here, still yonder, yonder:
Never urchin found it yet.
What is Life? A thawing iceboard
On a sea with sunny shore; -
Gay we sail; it melts beneath us;
We are sunk, and seen no more.
What is Man? A foolish baby,
Vainly strives, and fights, and frets;
Demanding all, deserving nothing; -
One small grave is what he gets.
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Fortuna
The wind blows east, the wind blows west,
And the frost falls and the rain:
A weary heart went thankful to rest,
And must rise to toil again, 'gain,
And must rise to toil again.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west,
And there comes good luck and bad;
The thriftiest man is the cheerfulest;
'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad, sad,
'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
Ye shall know a tree by its fruit:
This world, they say, is worst to the best; -
But a dastard has evil to boot, boot,
But a dastard has evil to boot.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
What skills it to mourn or to talk?
A journey I have, and far ere I rest;
I must bundle my wallets and walk, walk,
I must bundle my wallets and walk.
The wind does blow as it lists alway;
Canst thou change this world to thy mind?
The world will wander its own wise way;
I also will wander mine, mine,
I also will wander mine.
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Адела Флоренс Николсон Кори
(1865 - 1904)
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The Net Of Memory
I cast the Net of Memory,
Man's torment and delight,
Over the level Sands of Youth
That lay serenely bright,
Their tranquil gold at times submerged
In the Spring Tides of Love's Delight.
The Net brought up, in silver gleams,
Forgotten truth and fancies fair:
Like opal shells, small happy facts
Within the Net entangled were
With the red coral of his lips,
The waving seaweed of his hair.
We were so young; he was so fair.
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The River Of Pearls At Fez: Translation
One evening we sat together
By the river of Pearls at Fez,
Stringing verses and sometimes singing.
My gaze followed the beautiful boy
Who, with a swift and delicate movement,
Flung the wine-cup over his shoulder;
The ruby drops glittered and fell
Bright in the dying sunshine.
The River of Pearls shone like a sword in the grass,
Not disdaining
The work of turning the waterwheel,
And the sun, reluctant, lingered about the tree-tops
In a golden mist of farewell.
Many the tears that have fallen since,
Many the nights that have passed,
But I remember
The River of Pearls at Fez
And Seomar whom I loved.
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Уильям Космо Монкхауз
(1840 - 1901)
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Limericks
There once was a girl of Lahore,
The same shape behind as before;
As no one knew where
To offer a chair,
She had to sit down on the floor.
_______
There once was an old man of Lyme
Who married three wives at a time,
When asked, "Why a third?"
He replied, "One's absurd!
And bigamy, sir, is a crime.
_______
There was a young lady named Laura,
Who went to the wilds of Angora,
She came back on a goat
With a beautiful coat,
And notes of the fauna and flora.
_______
There once was an old monk of Basing,
Whose salads were something amazing;
But he told his confessor
That Nebuchadnezzar
Had given him hints upon grazing.
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Twin-growth
I would not wish thee other than thou art;
I love thee, love, so well in every part,
That had I power to change thee
In form or face or mind,
I could not find
The heart to re-arrange thee.
For we were made to suit each other, sweet,
Apart, uneven, but when join'd, complete,
With powers and failings matching
In each as strictly well
As in some shell
The sharp teeth interlatching.
And so I would not have thee change, for fear
The valves might ope and gape a little, dear.
But we are like the weather
A-changing every day,
And so I pray
That we may change together -
Change like twin shells, that nothing can estrange,
But ever changing never feel a change:
So grow for one another
That each may aye present
The complement
That doth fulfil the other.
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Джордж Мередит
(1828 - 1909)
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Феб у Адмета
Когда был отменен приказ отцом богов,
Обрекший бога солнца на изгнанье,
Узнали пахари, кто им впрягал волов
И что за борозда зияла черной гранью,
Узнали пастыри, когда жестокий день
Клонился к западу своим горящим оком,
Чья флейта призывала ночи тень
И серебро сестры и свет ее широкий.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Прикончил стрекот свой багряных рой цикад,
Поник чертополох, сложив шелк серый пуха,
Лежат, как тени, густо пятна сонных стад,
Втянула ящерка свое пустое брюхо.
Неслышным ветерком нагнуло вдруг каштан,
Трава бежит вперед, как шифер небо стало;
Белелся молоком крылатый рой семян,
И юноши рука в калитку постучала.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Вода, отец певцов, в горах и по лугам
Ручей, земной певец, любимец солнца ранний,
О нем лишь пел и рябь гнал к тонким камышам,
Будя, кто спит, чтоб им наполнить слух журчаньем.
Воды целебный холод, врачеватель ран.
Божественный ручей, что небеса питали,
Широким зеркалом сверкал среди полян
Вокруг того, кому мы руку крепко жали.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Немало диких пчел спустилось к нам в поля,
Закинув колос вверх, стоит стеной пшеница;
И рады мы сбирать, что нам дала земля,
Хлеб, шерсть и гроздий сок, от коих так кричится.
Тогда рекой бежал в меха тугие сок,
И голос юноши звенел под небесами;
А девушки в кругу, щекой на кулачок,
А скот суется к ним холодными носами.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Зимой у камелька точили мы клинок
Копья, а тощий волк невольно скалил зубы,
Попавший в западни искуснейшей замок,
Как мокрый пень в огне, во злобе пенил губы.
Сосут ягнята мать, и прочь зима бежит
Перед шафраном, золотом новейшим года,
И красный стрелолист носами вверх торчит
Сквозь перья жесткие, как бы овцам в угоду.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Мы пели миф про бой гигантов и богов,
Как скалы те, и ввысь земля войну взводила;
Про тех, что от любви спасалися оков:
Для них любимое прекрасно слишком было.
Текла приятно мысль, что труд тех светлых дней
Оплачен будет нам, трудиться ж в нашей власти.
Кто смело вел борьбу, смирял стада коней,
Плясал в кругу девиц, как мачта, свесив снасти.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Цветы целебных трав, лишь показал их он,
Для нас во тьме лесов горят, как пламень юный.
Лишь научил играть – и мы уж слышим звон,
Хоть не натянуты еще у мира струны.
Вот, кончив труд, у ног его мы разлеглись, –
Гранаты треснувшие так лежат, краснея.
И состязания в искусствах начались,
Что радость в жизнь внося, жизнь делают добрее.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
С рогами в желобках, бараны, козы гор,
Что бороду в траве купаете росистой,
Быки, чей на полях блистает шкур убор,
Лавр, плющ и виноград – вы, что навес тенистый
Иль кровлю строите, что ищете лучей
И сеете листву в нагорные потоки!
Он был товарищ наш, и утром наших дней,
Оставив дом на нас, ушел в свой путь далекий.
Бог, чьи непорочны
Музыка, песня и кровь!
День не померкнет в краю том,
Где скрывал тебя темный покров.
Перевод Е. Тарасова
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Любовь в долине
Там, под тем вот буком, в травах, одиноко,
Сложивши руки под головкой золотой,
Косы смяв, колени согнув в дремотной лени,
Спит моя любовь в тени густой.
Где найду отвагу - подкрасться, лечь с ней рядом,
Рот сомкнуть раскрытый, стан обхватить не вдруг, -
Так, чтоб в удивленье обняла, проснувшись.
Не вырваться вовек из власти этих рук!
Робкая как белка, как ласточка капризна,
Как ласточка быстра, что крýгом над рекой
Чертит воду, встретив крыльев отраженье, -
Как полет ни скор, стремительней покой;
Робкая как белка, что в кронах сосен скачет,
Как ласточка капризна, что на закат летит.
Та, кого люблю я: покоренье трудно,
Трудно, но о счастье тому, кто покорит!
Когда ей мать-пестунья (зеркало смеется)
Бантом вяжет ленты, косы заплетет,
Думает она: дикарка выйдет замуж,
Я любимей буду, и меньше круг забот.
Когда ей мать-пестунья (зеркало сияет)
Распускает ленты - косы вниз летят, -
Думает она: дикарка выйдет замуж.
В утрате я утешусь множеством внучат.
Бессердечна, точно тень лугов, что в горы
Уплывает в полдень свежий, голубой,
Нет, вся она - как жажда: пьет залпом жизни чудо,
Мир открыт ей юным, как месяц молодой.
Недобра порою, но то - лишь ритм, поспешный
Как и в танце; смехом ей боль дано целить:
Точно туча в мае, что цветы под солнцем
Косит градом, - рождена ты ранить и разить.
Как прекрасны вы, волнистые зигзаги,
Белой лет совы в лучах звезды большой!
В елях одинок, трескуче-монотонный
Козодоя крик дрожит над темнотой.
Ширится долина, в забытье впадая,
Было б то ж со мной, пожелай забвенья я:
Прикажи пещере, ключом кипящим полной,
Прикажи забыть ей журчание ручья.
Вниз идет с холма с подружками своими,
Взявшись за руки, на запад путь держа;
Песнь ее задорна, поступь - в ритме песни,
Смела осанка и девственно-свежа.
Да, свежа: о ней шепнуло миру сердце
В пробужденья час: утра свет она.
Страстная любовь должна здесь отступиться,
Закинутую сеть пустой найти должна.
Счастлив, счастлив час: поля свежи росою,
Белая звезда свой путь склоняет вниз,
Близок лик зари; со мглой рассветной в споре,
Краской нижет мрак, как алость ягод - тис.
Неба край горит; облако, румянясь,
Ширится, а тени - гуще и тесней.
Тих рассвет, как дева: странен взор, вся - тайна.
Раковин глубинных щеки холодней.
Когда лучи на склонах южных медлят,
В грудах туч горя, ползущих вдоль холмов,
Часто день, искряся их неверным смехом,
Хмур к концу, как лик, презревший песни зов.
Но лишь запад явит грудь зыбко-оперенной,
В час, когда текут к полуденной черте
Облака, струясь, - тогда, глубок, закат приходит,
Пышный, как любовь в бескрайной красоте.
На заре вздохнув и, как дитя, к окошку
Устремив свет глаз, несытых после сна,
Лилией речной она сияет, белой,
Что, взорвав бутон, затону отдана.
Вот, с постели встав, покрытая рубашкой
С шеи и до пят, как в мае ветвь, маня,
Лилией в саду она сияет статной,
Чистой - ночи дар, пышной - в свете дня.
О отец росы, темноресничный сумрак,
Низко над равниной ты склонил глаза,
На твоей груди жаворонок кружит,
Песнь его чиста, точно в ней поет роса.
Скрытый там, где пьет заря земли прохладу,
Полн, как полон ключ, он трели в брызгах льет.
Слышу ль милый смех, ее навеки жажду,
Свежей как роса, как жаворонка взлет.
Девочки идут, сбирая скороспелки,
Тропкой через лес, что смехом покорен.
Впереди она: не ведая причины,
Медлит и следит за сгибом анемон.
Хочет взор сказать, что фиалки распустились,
Розе - цвесть; нечаянный, один,
Крик исторгла грудь; причина - запах? краски?
Чаща? соловей? - не ведает причин.
Голова платком покрыта; средь тюльпанов,
Ивой в дождь струясь, умчалась - не догнать.
Смят ли где, к земле ль приник цветок - их ангел,
Стебли приподняв, она бежит опять.
Ветер гонит тучу, гремит, стучась в ворота,
Но тех, кто приуныл, бодрит ее привет.
Так, когда трава и небо гром встречают,
Видел я голубку - земли последний свет.
Цветы в ее саду, как школьники, примерны,
Стать готовы в ряд, вопросы задавать.
Я люблю и их, но мне дикий цвет милее:
Дикари мои! Вам есть о чем сказать!
Ты, дикарка, мне - как повесть о фиалке,
Розе полевой, ты, как они, цветок:
Доброте твоей вдоль троп свидетель ландыш;
Ты - жизни доброте свидетель у дорог.
В комнату глядясь, венчает роза розу;
Окружил крыльцо жасмин своей звездой;
Настежь окна; спит; жасмин, весь в звездах,
Все слабей дыша, уносит мыслей рой.
Девственно-свежа - сказал я о любимой.
Но не в час ночной: в час ночной жасмин, маня
К неге сладкой, дышит; спит; жасмин, весь в звездах,
К изголовью, к розам, к ней несет меня.
Желт трилистник в просеках, в полянах;
Пятилистника желта в росе листва;
Желт и воробейник, кочки мха желтеют;
Желт и колос ржи, увязан в сноп едва.
Зелено-желт, смеется в роще дятел,
Как серп, остер раздел сиянья и теней.
В небеса глядясь, земля в душе смеется,
Думая о жатве; мне думать - о моей.
Мне предстает она в одеждах и раздетой -
Точно смена света; вот, играя, небеса
Сбросят тучи, одевшись в лунный свет; иль солнце,
Обточив о гром, луч кинет; паруса
Убирают прочь при входе в порт; иль море
Белый парус клонит, и прыгает волна:
То - красы ее виденья, но от взоров
Солнцем огражденным быть она должна.
Настежь оба входа старой мшистой фермы
Ранним утром; в полосах теней
Сад фруктовый; свеж, цветник сквозит, лучится,
И в песке ручья - миганье пескарей.
Деловито в травах раннее роится
Солнце; и дрозда мягкофлейтный зов
Вызов милой шлет открытый, шаловливый,
Богатейший гимн - для всех земных певцов.
Прохладна сень; играют в крикет дети
У молочной, где прохладна белизна;
Школьников движенья быстры, лица красны;
О прохлада - мрак прозрачных глаз без дна!
Раздобыв на ферме, кувшин она приносит,
Каждый тянет клюв в черед свой к молоку.
Вот малыш на цыпочках - "дай поцелую" -
Говорит, и клóнит она, смеясь, щеку.
Голубям на елях, стеной обставших крышу,
В грустный полдень долгий грустно ворковать.
Листва поникла, и вдоль дороги сонной
Зяблик чуть свистит; поникла синева.
В речке по колена, бьют хвостом коровы,
Без дыханья, в власти солнца, мух, слепней.
Милой не видать, а коль не видно милой -
Молния, сверкай! Стань, небо, тигр! Дождь, лей!
Сноп, о золотой шуршащий клад-охапка!
О сумбурность смуглых кос, чей сон глубок!
О богатство кос, друг на дружке спящих!
О вкруг талии ослабший поясок!
Маки уж мертвы, случайный их багрянец
Жив в серьгах пшеницы: в ранах поясок.
То в румянце зрелости земли невесты.
О сумбурность смуглых кос, чей сон глубок!
Холоден в закате диск дымно-красный солнца,
Ущерблен в холмах, где фиолетов снег;
Хижиной луны восток сияет тихо -
Там в свой час, горя, луна начнет свой бег.
В эту белизну, чеканя ветви чернью,
Смотрит бук всю ночь; всю ночь и мне смотреть.
Образ жизни здесь на смерти? Смерть на жизни?
Душу дай обнять, чтоб знать: бессильна смерть.
Ей сочтут ошибки кумушки в каморке
Без окна: ее и неба не видать.
"Вот, еще, малютко..." - дребезжит старуха,
Рада мучить сердце, уши мне терзать.
Да, ошибки были: падая, училась
Бегать, контур черт не безупречно строг.
Но красе, святящей небо, воздух, - знайте -
Нипочем изъяны с головы до ног.
Сюда она идет, идет ко мне, но медлит,
В изумленьи хмурит бровь, завидев нас;
Ресницы вскинула, дивяся незнакомцу,
Свет и жизнь лучистых открывая глаз.
Слухи обо мне наполнили ей сердце,
Ее румянца сетью покрыв и приручив,
Как в свой дом голубка, ко мне она склонилась,
В наших именах и души наши слив.
Скоро ей лежать восходом льдисто-белым:
Бледной ржи, пшеницы смуглой и овса
Свезены давно снопы на молотилку,
Пояс пал, и за косой летит коса.
Скоро ей лежать закатом рдяно-красным:
Взмах зеленых крыл - и к нам весна придет.
Пой про юг, про зной, веди своих бродяжек -
Соловья, касатку, песнь и крыльев взлет.
Бука нежен лист; точно ввысь к апрелю
Растет в лучах цветов с сукá на сук гора;
При луне светясь, листва, как чаши лилий,
Каждый лист сквозит в сиянье серебра.
Дикой белой вишни, лилии прекрасней,
Дивный серафим, любовь пред мной встает:
Рождена во снах, когда рассвет на веках,
На слезах ко мне, как наяву, плывет.
Если б я сумел наедине быть с небом,
Сокровенный сердца я б открыл родник.
Как ольха горит питомец каждый леса,
В блеске как жасмин, колеблясь как тростник.
Как ольха горя, что в октябре румяна,
Как тростник сгруясь, когда подул зюйд-вест,
В блеске как жасмин, внезапно освещенный,
Таинству небес причастно все окрест.
Перевод Б. Лейтина
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Элис Мэри Бактон
(1867 - 1944)
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Geert
They brought him in at midnight,
Across the saddle-bow -
Geert of the ripe and chestnut hair,
Geert of the sunny brow!
She took a covered pillow,
And sheets without a fold;
She laid him on his boyish bed -
That bed for ever cold!
The younger children slumbered,
The little lamp was lit,
And seven they were about the corpse,
And silent looked on it.
Six men they stood around it,
The widow at the head;
And proud her pale and awful face
That gazed upon the Dead!
Upon his brow the death-damp,
But on his lips a smile,
As if he bore not in his breast
The cruel shot the while!
Killed in a gallant venture,
Killed at the cornet's side,
The youngest of the company
That in the South did ride!
A man sobbed in the darkness,
But the grizzled sergeant said,
"The Lord hath given and taken away!
Write - Blessed are the Dead!"
Two men went out in silence,
With shovel, pick, and spade,
And by a lonely koppie-bush
A soldier's bed they made.
In sight of home they laid him:
And when the morning sun
Looked down upon the desert-plain,
Six horsemen rode alone.
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Томас Кэмпбелл
(1777 - 1844)
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Song To The Evening Star
Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies
Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of lover's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.
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Ye Mariners of England
Ye Mariners of England
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze -
Our glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow, -
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow, -
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow, -
When the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow, -
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
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Руперт Брук
(1887 - 1915)
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The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
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The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Мертвые
Вся соткана из счастья и печали
Была их жизнь. Веселья и забот
Они имели много. Все видали:
Блеск мира, зори, солнечный восход.
Любили; знали музыку, движенье
И гордость дружбой близких им сердец,
Цветов, мехов и щек прикосновенье,
Восторг и грусть. Теперь всему конец.
Весь день смеялись воды под ветрами,
Согретые небесными лучами,
Но вот мороз движение сковал
И пляску волн, и блеском безмятежным
Холодной бледной ночи осиял
Покой великий, ровный и безбрежный.
Перевод Е. Тарасова
"The Dead"
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Уистен Хью Оден
(1906 - 1973)
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* * *
Хлопки литавр и ликованье скрипок
Среди торжеств встречают грозным тушем
Из темных туч явленье лика предка,
Чтоб подхалимского не слышал смеха
Поросших мохом маний щелкоперов,
Болтливых в час, когда рек русло сухо.
Твой лик я вижу, и в хвалебном гимне
Зари мой выбор голос духа славит,
Пробившийся сквозь корни трав и камни.
Страх, отведя в сторонку, даст совет:
"Чтоб победить ее, нам явного врага,
Достаточно в глаза ей не смотреть".
Но в осажденном городе нет мира:
В проулках слухи, речи на углах
Вдали от патрулей враждебных армий.
И чувства ищут выход, одеваясь
В одежды ветхих образов и слов:
Исканье неколеблемых устоев -
Так коршун камнем на добычу канет;
А слезы, соль для непослушных снов, -
Так океан волнуется, лунатик;
И вопль отчаянья в глазах без век:
"Не золотой, серебряный... скорее
Массивный, мрачный ледниковый век".
Перевод И. Романовича
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Autumn Song
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last;
Nurses to the graves are gone,
And the prams go rolling on.
Whispering neighbours, left and right,
Pluck us from the real delight;
And the active hands must freeze
Lonely on the separate knees.
Dead in hundreds at the back
Follow wooden in our track,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.
Starving through the leafless wood
Trolls run scolding for their food;
And the nightingale is dumb,
And the angel will not come.
Cold, impossible, ahead
Lifts the mountain's lovely head
Whose white waterfall could bless
Travellers in their last distress.
1936
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Roman Wall Blues
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.
The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.
The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.
Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.
Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.
She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.
When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
1937
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A Walk After Dark
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.
It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shameless a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead.
Now, unready to die
But already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of Middle-age.
It's cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People's Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.
Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and the rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.
For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn't have happened did.
Occurring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:
But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgement waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
1948
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Подготовка текста - Лукьян Поворотов
Используются технологии
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