Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

“Why looks my lord so deadly pale?

Why fades the crimson from his cheek?

What can my dearest husband ail?

Thy heartfelt cares, O Herman, speak!

Why, at the silent hour of rest,

Dost thou in sleep so sadly mourn?

Has tho’ with heaviest grief oppress’d,

Griefs too distressful to be borne.

Why heaves thy breast? — why throbs thy heart?

O speak! and if there be relief

Thy Gertrude solace shall impart,

If not, at least shall share thy grief.

Wan is that cheek, which once the bloom

Of manly beauty sparkling shew’d;

Dim are those eyes, in pensive gloom,

That late with keenest lustre glow’d.

Say why, too, at the midnight hour,

You sadly pant and tug for breath,

As if some supernat’ral pow’r

Were pulling you away to death?

Restless, tho’ sleeping, still you groan,

And with convulsive horror start;

O Herman! to thy wife make known

That grief which preys upon thy heart”.

“O Gertrude! how shall I relate

Th’ uncommon anguish that I feel;

Strange as severe is this my fate, —

A fate I cannot long conceal.

In spite of all my wonted strength,

Stern destiny has seal’d my doom;

The dreadful malady at length

Wil drag me to the silent tomb!"

But say, my Herman, what’s the cause

Of this distress, and all thy care.

That, vulture-like, thy vitals gnaws,

And galls thy bosom with despair?

Sure this can be no common grief,

Sure this can be no common pain?

Speak, if this world contain relief,

That soon thy Gertrude shall obtain”.

“O Gertrude, ’tis a horrid cause,

O Gertrude, ’tis unusual care,

That, vulture-like, my vitals gnaws,

And galls my bosom with despair.

Young Sigismund, my once dear friend,

But lately he resign’d his breath;

With others I did him attend

Unto the silent house of death.

For him I wept, for him I mourn’d,

Paid all to friendship that was due;

But sadly friendship is return’d,

Thy Herman he must follow too!

Must follow to the gloomy grave,

In spite of human art or skill;

No pow’r on earth my life can save,

‘Tis fate’s unalterable will!

Young Sigismund, my once dear friend,

But now my persecutor foul,

Doth his malevolence extend

E’en to the torture of my soul.

By night, when, wrapt in soundest sleep,

All mortals share a soft repose,

My soul doth dreadful vigils keep,

More keen than which hell scarely knows.

From the drear mansion of the tomb,

From the low regions of the dead,

The ghost of Sigismund doth roam,

And dreadful haunts me in my bed!

There, vested in infernal guise,

(By means to me not understood,)

Close to my side the goblin lies,

And drinks away my vital blood!

Sucks from my veins the streaming life,

And drains the fountain of my heart!

O Gertrude, Gertrude! dearest wife!

Unutterable is my smart.

"hen surfeited, the goblin dire,

With banqueting by suckled gore,

Will to his sepulchre retire,

Till night invites him forth once more.

Then will he dreadfully return,

And from my veins life’s juices drain;

Whilst, slumb’ring, I with anguish mourn,

And toss with agonizing pain!

Already I’m exhausted, spent;

His carnival is nearly o’er,

My soul with agony is rent,

To-morrow I shall be no more!

But, O my Gertrude! dearest wife!

The keenest pangs hath last remain’d—

When dead, I too shall seek thy life,

Thy blood by Herman shall be drain’d!

But to avoid this horrid fate,

Soon as I’m dead and laid in earth,

Drive thro’ my corpse a jav’lin straight; —

This shall prevent my coming forth.

O watch with me, this last sad night,

Watch in your chamber here alone,

But carefully conceal the light

Until you hear my parting groan.

Then at what time the vesper-bell

Of yonder convent shall be toll’d,

That peal shall ring my passing knell,

And Herman’s body shall be cold!

Then, and just then, thy lamp make bare,

The starting ray, the bursting light,

Shall from my side the goblin scare,

And shew him visible to sight!”

The live-long night poor Gertrude sate,

Watch’d by her sleeping, dying lord;

The live-long night she mourn’d his fate,

The object whom her soul ador’d.

Then at what time the vesper-bell

Of yonder convent sadly toll’d,

The, then was peal’d his passing knell,

The hapless Herman he was cold!

Just at that moment Gertrude drew

From ’neath her cloak the hidden light;

When, dreadful! she beheld in view

The shade of Sigismund! — sad sight!

Indignant roll’d his ireful eyes,

That gleam’d with wild horrific stare;

And fix’d a moment with surprise,

Beheld aghast th’ enlight’ning glare.

His jaws cadaverous were besmear’d

With clott’d carnage o’er and o’er,

And all his horrid whole appear’d

Distent, and fill’d with human gore!

With hideous scowl the spectre fled;

She shriek’d aloud; — then swoon’d away!

The hapless Herman in his bed,

All pale, a lifeless body lay!

Next day in council ’twas decree,

(Urg’d at the instance of the state,)

That shudd’ring nature should be freed

From pests like these ere ’twas too late.

The choir then burst the fun’ral dome

Where Sigismund was lately laid,

And found him, tho’ within the tomb,

Still warm as life, and undecay’d.

With blood his visage was distain’d,

Ensanguin’d were his frightful eyes,

Each sign of former life remain’d,

Save that all motionless he lies.

The corpse of Herman they contrive

To the same sepulchre to take,

And thro’ both carcases they drive,

Deep in the earth, a sharpen’d stake!

By this was finish’d their career,

Thro’ this no longer they can roam;

From them their friends have nought to fear,

Both quiet keep the slumb’ring tomb.

Whilst some the soldier’s deeds emblaze,

An’ talk of sieges and campaigns;

Or some the wily statesman praise

Whea hauds of government the reins;

Or others range the rhymer’s verse,

An’ ca’ the jinglin’ sentence feyne;

Be meyne the bus’ness to rehearse

The parlish turns of auld lang seyne.

Threyce-happy days of past delight,

That sliving teyme whurls fast away,

When pleasure smeyl’d on ev’ry night,

An’ spworts beguil’d the leeve-lang day:

’Twas then, ’or worldly fash I knew,

Or love or loss had gar’d me peyne,

That oft, weel pleas’d, I wad review

The gladsome page of auld lang seyne.

Yence, on a clashy winter neet;

Queyte maiz’d wi’ lounging i’th’ nuik,

I palmer’d out as chance wad hev’t,

An’ till a neybor’s house I tuik;

The man was gaily up i’ years,

An’ wearin’ fast to life’s decleyne,

An’ monie a famish teale could tell

O’ upturns duin i’ auld lang seyne.

“When vile moss-troopers, bworder bred,

To rive and pillage flock’d to arms,

By waur than that-a-donnet led,

Bouz’d into Cumberland i’ swarms:

Our kye, our owsen, off they druive;

Our gear, our graith, our naigs, our sweyne;

An’ monie a lass, her luckless luive,

Was left to wail for auld lang seyne.

Yence on a time a hangrell gang

Com’ with a bensil owre the sea,

Wheyle flocks an’ herds they gar’d them spang,

An’ put o’t country in a bree;

Up a dark lonnin’ fast they rode,

Thinking to shelter their deseyne,

Hoping their fit-hauld to meak guid,

As monie a teyme they’d duin lang seyne.

Kemp Dobbie, as they canterin’ com,

First spy’t-them”; but quo’ he, “Ne’er ak,

Divent be flait o’ them, lad Tom,

But let’s cower down i’ this deyke-back”.

Sae said, an’ humly cowering sat,

Up brouc’d the taistrels in a leyne

Till reet fornenst them, up they gat

An’ rwoar’d, “Now, lads, for auld land seyne”.

Back, helter-skelter, panic-struck,

T’wards heame they kevvel’d, yen and a’,

Nor ventur’d yen an a ewards luik

For fear he’d in the gilders fa’.

Thus single twea abuin a scwore,

Druive sleely frae their coarse deseyne;

An’ yet, tho’ disbelief may glowre,

This really com’ to pass lang seyne.

Thus, thro’ the langsome winter neets,

O’ curious teales sec rowth he’d tell,

O’ Brownies, ghosts, and flaysome sects,

Enough to flay the auld-yen’s sell:

As how when witches here were reyfe,

Reet sonsy fwok they gar’t to peyne;

An’ Michael Scot’s strange fearfu’ leyfe,

He telt, reet gleesomely, lang seyne.

Scot yence gat Criffell on his back,

Some pedder-leyke, as stwories tell;

But whow! his girtins gev a crack,

An’ down his boozy burden fell.

Auld Nick and Scot yence kempt, they say,

Whea best a reape frae sand could tweyne,

Clouts begg’d some caff; quo’ Michael, "Nay."

Sae bang’d the de’il at that lang seyne.

Wi’ clish-ma-clatter, cracks, and jwokes,

My friend and me the evenings pass’d,

Unenvying finger-fed fine fwoks,

Unmindfu’ o’ the whustlin’ blast:

Wi’ sweet content, what needit mair?

For nought need we our gizzerns tweyne;

The auld man’s common simple prayer

Was ay, “God be wi’ auld lang seyne”.

Someteymes he’d talk in wondrous rheymes

About t’ Rebellion, and how the Scots

Com’ owre, and what sec parlish teymes

They hed to hide their butter-pots;

A’ maks o’ gear i’ sacks they hid;

To th’ fells they drove beath beasts and sweyne.

Man! it wad chill thy varra bluid

To hear o’th’ warks o’ auld lang seyne.

Yet tho’ sec brulliments galwore

Oft snaip’d the quiet of our days,

Yet, God be thank’d, this awfu’ stowre

Suin ceas’d, wi’ a’ its feary phraise.

Then smilin’ peace yence mair restwor’d

Content or joy to every meynde,

An’ rowth an’ plenty crown’d each bwoard;

Nae mair we fret for auld lang seyne.

Oh, weels me! on those happy teymes

When a’ was freedom, friendship, joys,

’Or paughty preyde or neameless creymes

Were kent our comforts to destroy;

Nae thoughts of rank engag’d the soul,

But equals seem’d the squire and heynd;

The laird and dar’ker, cheek-by-chowle,

Wad sit and crack of auld lang seyne.

‘Twas then, that nin, however great,

Abuin his neybor thought his-sell,

But lads and lasses wont to meet

Wi’ merry changs their teales to tell;

Frae house to house the rock-gairds went

I’th’ winter neets when t’ moon did shine,

When lovesome sangs and blythe content

Beguil’d the hours of auld lang seyne.

Lang streek’d out owre the clean hearth-steane,

The lads their sicker stations tuik;

Wheyle to beet on the elden, yen,

As th’ auld guid man, sat i’th’ nuik.

When Curs’nmas com’ what stiving wark,

Wi’ sweet minch’d-pies and hackins feyne,

An’ upshots constantly by dark,

Frae Yule to Cannelmas lang seyne.

But suin as smiling spring appears,

The farmer leaves the ingle-seyde,

His naigs he graiths, his ploughs he geers,

For ither winters to proveyde;

Blythe as a lav’rock owre the rig,

He lilts thro’ monie a langsome leyne,

An’ southy crops o’ beans an; bigg

Neest year mek up for auld lang seyne.

Owre a’ the joys the seasons bring,

Nin, bonny hay-time! comes leyke thee,

Weel pleas’d wi’ lythe the lasses sing,

The lads drive on wi’ hearty glee,

Rashly they skale the scatterin’ swathe,

Wi’ zig-zag fling the reakers tweyne,

An’ seylin sweats their haffets bathe:

Sec wark was meyne, weel pleas’d, lang seyne.

But hay-time owre, an’ harvest com’,

Shek ripe an’ ready to be shworne,

See how the kempan shearers bum,

An’ rive an’ bin’ an’ stook their cworn;

At darknin’ canty heame they turn,

Where a douce supper pangs them feyne;

Or, if they’re duin, a riving kurn

Meks up for pinchery lang seyne.

Last, best of a’, comes Carel fair,

Frae every airt the young fwok druive,

The lads weel-donn’d, the lasses fair,

Joy in their een, their bwosoms luive;

Wi’ lowpin’, dancin’, and deray,

Wi’ nice shwort keaks, sweet punch, an’ wine,

An’ sec leyke things they spent the day:

There’s nae spworts nowleyke auld lang seyne.

Thus, vers’d in legendary teale,

This auld-far’d chronicle could tell

Things that yen’s varra lugs wad geale,

Of what to this an’ that befell;

But hirpling fast on life’s downhill,

His prejudice wad sair incleyne

To think the present nought but ill,

An’ nought wad dow but auld lang seyne.

Frae sympathy, as strange as true,

E’en I his nwotions seem’d to catch,

For far-geane teymes when I review,

I’m with the present leyke to fratch.

Yes, there’s a secret pleasure springs

Frae retrospect, that soothes the meynde;

Reflection back to fancy brings

The joyous hours of auld lang seyne.

Fareweel ye moments of deleyght;

Adieu ye scenes I lang may mourn,

Nae mair ye cheer my anxious seight,

Impossible ye shall return.

Leyfe’s darknin’ low’rs, the sun of youth

On wint’ry yeage mun cease to sheyne;

And stoutest hearts confess this truth—

The prizzent’s nought leyke auld lang seyne.

But whether ’tis the partial eye,

With glass inverted, shows the scene,

The guid things past resolve to spy,

An’ blast the prizzent wid our spleen,

I know not;-this alone I know,

Our past misfortunes we’d propeyne

To oblivion, wheilst our prizzent woe

Maks dear the joys of auld lang seyne.

For, as I range the weel-kenn’d haunts

Of past amusements, youthful bliss,

Wi’impulse strange my bwosom pants

For what yence was, for what now is;

Each step I tread some far-fled hour

Of past endearment brings to meynde;

Each callar shade an’ silent bower

Ca’ back the joys of auld lang seyne.

Then doubly-sweet the blackbird sang,

Wi’ tenfold beauties smeyl’d the grove,

Creation round ya chorus rang,

’Twas plizzer’s tuone inspir’d by luive;

But when auld yeage, wi’ slivin’ han’,

Sal roun’ the heart insiduous tweyne,

’Tis than we see, an’ only than,

The prizzent’s nought leyke auld lang seyne.