Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Here’s a health to thee, Mary,

Here’s a health to thee;

The drinkers are gone,

And I am alone,

To think of home and thee, Mary.

There are some who may shine o’er thee, Mary,

And many as frank and free,

And a few as fair,

But the summer air

Is not more sweet to me, Mary.

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,

And thy dimm’d and gentle eye;

And I’ve called on thy name

When the night winds came,

And heard my heart reply, Mary.

Be thou but true to me, Mary,

And I’ll be true to thee;

And at set of sun,

When my task is done,

Вe sure that I’m ever with thee, Mary.

Inesilla! I am here

Thy own cavalier

Is now beneath thy lattice playing:

Why art thou delaying?

He hath riden many a mile

But to see thy smile:

The young light on the flowers is shining,

Yet he is repining.

What to him is a summer star,

If his love’s afar?

What to him the flowers perfuming,

When his heart’s consuming?

Sweetest girl! I why dost thou hide?

Beauty may abide

Even before the eye of morning,

And want no adorning.

Now, upon their paths of lights,

Starry spirits bright

To catch thy brighter glance are staying:

Why art thou delaying?

If, at this dim and silent hour,

Spirits have a power

To wander from their homes of light,

And on the winds of night

To come, and to a human eye

Stand visible, like mortality —

Come thou, the lost Marcelia, thou —

And on thy sunny brow

Bear all thy beauty as of old,

For I dare behold

Whatever sights sublime there be,

So I may once more look on thee.

Or be thou like a daemon thing,

Or shadow hovering,

Or like the bloody shapes that come

With torch and sound of drum,

Scaring the warrior’s slumbers, I

Will welcome thee, and wish thee nigh.

And I would talk of the famous brave,

Of the dead, and their house the grave,

And feel its wondrous silentness,

And pity those whom none may bless,

And see how far the gaping tomb

Stretches its spectral arms — and hear my doom.

And I would know how long they lie

On their dark beds who die,

And if they feel, or joy, or weep,

Or ever dare to sleep

In that strange land of shadows. Thou

Whom I do call, come hither — now.

But there thou art, a radiant spirit,

And dost inherit

Earlier than others thy blue home,

And art free to roam

Like a visiting beam, from star to star,

And shed thy smiles from skies afar.

Then, soft and gentle beauty, be

Still like a star to me;

And I will ever turn at night

Unto thy soothing light,

And fancy, while before thine eyes,

I am full in the smile of Paradise.

Old Thames! thy merry waters run

Gloomily now, without star or sun!

The wind blows o’er thee, wild and loud,

And heaven is in its death-black shroud;

And the rain comes down with all its might,

Darkening the face of the sullen Night.

Midnight dies! There booms a sound,

From all the church-towers thundering round;

Their echoes into each other run,

And sing out the grand night’s awful “One!”

Saint Bride, Saint Sepulchre, great Saint Paul,

Unto each other, in chorus, call!

Who speaks? ’T was nothing: the patrol grim

Moves stealthily o’er the pavement dim;

The debtor dreams of the gripe of law;

The harlot goes staggering to her straw;

And the drunken robber, and beggar bold

Laugh loud, as they limp by the Bailey Old.

Hark, — I hear the blood in a felon’s heart!

I see him shiver — and heave — and start

(Does he cry?) from his last short bitter slumber,

To find that his days have reached their number, —

To feel that there comes, with the morning text,

Blind death, and the scaffold, and then — what next?

Sound, stormy Autumn! Brazen bell,

Into the morning send your knell!

Mourn, Thames! keep firm your chant of sorrow;

Mourn, men! for a fellow-man dies to-morrow.

Alas! none mourn; none care;—the debt

Of pity the whole wide world forget!

’Tis dawn, — ’tis Day! In floods of light

He drives back the dark and shrinking night.

The clouds? — they’re lost. The rains — they’re fled:

And the streets are alive with a busy tread;

And thousands are thronging, with gossip gay,

To see how a felon will die to-day.

The thief is abroad in his last new dress,

Earning his bread in the thickest press;

The idler is there, and the painter fine,

Studying a look for his next design;

The fighter, the brawler, the drover strong;

And all curse that the felon should stay so long.

At last, — he comes! with a heavy tread,

He mounts — he reels — he drops — he’s dead!

The show is over! — the crowd depart,

Each with a laugh and a merry heart.

Hark! — merrily now the bells are ringing;

The Thames on his careless way is springing;

The bird on the chimney top is singing:

Now, who will say

That Earth is not gay,

Or that Heaven is not brighter than yesterday!

The brand is on thy brow,

A dark and guilty spot;

‘Tis ne’er to be erased!

‘Tis ne’er to be forgot!

The brand is on thy brow!

Yet I must shade the spot:

For who will love thee now,

If I love thee not?

Thy soul is dark, — is stained; —

From out the bright world thrown;

By God and man disdained,

But not by me, — thy own!

Oh! even the tiger slain

Hath one who ne’er doth flee,

Who soothes his dying pain!

— That one am I to thee!

I am a Witch, and a kind old Witch,

There’s many a one knows that —

Alone I live in my little dark house

With Pillycock, my cat.

A girl came running through the night,

When all the winds blew free: —

"O mother, change a young man’s heart

That will not look on me.

O mother, brew a magic mead

To stir his heart so cold."

"Just as you will, my dear," said I;

"And I thank you for your gold."

So here am I in the wattled copse

Where all the twigs are brown,

To find what I need to brew my mead

As the dark of night comes down.

Primroses in my old hands,

Sweet to smell and young,

And violets blue that spring in the grass

Wherever the larks have sung.

With celandines as heavenly crowns

Yellowy-gold and bright;

All of these, O all of these,

Shall bring her Love’s delight.

But orchids growing snakey green

Speckled dark with blood,

And fallen leaves that curled and shrank

And rotted in the mud,

With blistering nettles burning harsh

And blinding thorns above;

All of these, O all of these

Shall bring the pains of Love.

Shall bring the pains of Love, my Puss,

That cease not night or day,

The bitter rage, nought can assuage

Till it bleeds the heart away.

Pillycock mine, my hands are full

My pot is on the fire.

Purr, my pet, this fool shall get

Her fool’s desire.

I stand upon the wild sea-shore

I see the screaming eagle soar

I hear the hungry billows roar,

And all around

The hollow answering caves out-pour

Their stores of sound.

The wind, which moaneth on the waves,

Delights me, and the surge that raves,

Loud-talking of a thousand graves —

A watery theme!

But oh! those voices from the caves

Speak like a dream!

They seem long hoarded, — cavern-hung, —

First uttered ere the world was young,

Talking some strange eternal tongue

Old as the skies!

Their words unto all earth are flung:

Yet who replies?

Large answer when the thunders speak

Are blown from every bay and creek,

And when the fire-tongued tempests speak

The bright seas cry,

And when the seas their answer seek

The shores replay.

But Echo from the rock and stone

And seas earns back no second tone;

And Silence pale, who hears aloe

Her voice divine,

Absorbs it, like the sponge that’s thrown

On glorious wine!

— Nimph Echo, — elder than the world,

Who wast from out deep chaos hurl’d,

When beauty first her flag unfurl’d

And the bright sun

Laugh’d on her, and the blue waves curl’d

And voices run.

Like spirits on the new-born air,

Lone Nymph, whom poets though so fair,

And great Pan wooed from his green lair,

How love will flee!

Thou answeredst all; but none now care

To answer thee!

None, — none: Old age has sear’d thy brow;

No power, no shrine, no gold hast thou:

So Fame, the harlot, leaves thee now,

A frail, false friend!

And thus, like all things here below,

Thy fortunes end!