Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Now Ev’ning fades! her pensive step retires,

And Night leads on the dews, and shadowy hours:

Her awful pomp of planetary fires,

And all her train of visionary powers.

These paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep,

These swell the waking soul with pleasing dread;

These through the glooms in forms terrific sweep,

And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead!

Queen of the solemn thought — mysterious Night!

Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear!

Thy shades I welcome with severe delight,

And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear!

When, wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast,

Thou roll’st the storm along the sounding shore,

I love to watch the whelming billows, cast

On rocks below, and listen to the roar.

Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo,

Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteor’s glare,

Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue,

That light in heaven’s high vault the fervid air.

But chief I love thee, when thy lucid car

Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam,

And shews the misty mountain from afar,

The nearer forest, and the valley’s stream:

And nameless objects in the vale below,

That floating dimly to the musing eye,

Assume, at Fancy’s touch, fantastic shew,

And raise her sweet romantic visions high.

Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound

On some wild woody steep, and hear the breeze

That swells in mournful melody around,

And faintly dies upon the distant trees.

What melancholy charm steals o’er the mind!

What hallow’d tears the rising rapture greet!

While many a viewless spirit in the wind

Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet!

Ah! who the dear illusions pleas’d would yield,

Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades,

For all the sober forms of Truth reveal’d,

For all the scenes that Day’s bright eye pervade.

Dear, wild illusions of creative mind!

Whose varying hues arise to Fancy’s art,

And by her magic force are swift combin’d

In forms that please, and scenes that touch the heart:

Oh! whether at her voice ye soft assume

The pensive grace of sorrow drooping low;

Or rise sublime on terror’s lofty plume,

And shake the soul with wildly thrilling woe;

Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints ye spread,

Bid scenes of pleasure steal upon my view,

Love wave his purple pinions o’er my head,

And wake the tender thought to passion true;

O! still-ye shadowy forms! attend my lonely hours,

Still chase my real cares with your illusive powers!

Now, at Moonlight’s fairy hour,

When faintly gleams each dewy steep,

And vale and Mountain, lake and bow’r,

In solitary grandeur sleep;

When slowly sinks the evening breeze,

That lulls the mind in pensive care,

And Fancy loftier visions sees,

Bid Music wake the silent air.

Bid the merry, merry tabor sound,

And with the Fays of lawn or glade,

In tripping circlet beat the ground,

Under the high trees’ trembling shade.

“Now, at Moonlight’s fairy hour”,

Shall Music breathe her dulcet voice,

And o’er the waves, with magic pow’r,

Call on Echo to rejoice.