Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

The Monk Arnulphus uncork’d his ink

That shone with a blood-red light

Just now as the sun began to sink;

His vellum was pumiced a silvery white;

“The Basileus” — for so he began —

“Is a royal sagacious Mars of a man,

Than the very lion bolder;

He has married the stately widow of Thrace —”

“Hush!” cried a voice at his shoulder.

His palette gleam’d with a burnish’d green,

Bright as a dragon-fly’s skin:

His gold-leaf shone like the robe of a queen,

His azure glow’d as a cloud worn thin,

Deep as the blue of the king-whale’s lair:

“The Porphyrogenita Zoё the fair

Is about to wed with a Prince much older,

Of an unpropitious mien and look —”

“Hush!” cried a voice at his shoulder.

The red flowers trellis’d the parchment page,

The birds leap’d up on the spray,

The yellow fruit sway’d and droop’d and swung,

It was Autumn mixt up with May.

(O, but his cheek was shrivell’d and shrunk!)

“The child of the Basileus”, wrote the Monk,

“Is golden-hair’d — tender the Queen’s arms fold her.

Her step-mother Zoё doth love her so —”

“Hush!” cried a voice at his shoulder.

The Kings and Martyrs and Saints and Priests

All gather’d to guard the text:

There was Daniel snug in the lions’ den

Singing no whit perplex’d —

Brazen Samson with spear and helm —

“The Queen”, wrote the Monk, “rules firm this realm,

For the King gets older and older.

The Norseman Thorkill is brave and fair —”

“Hush!” cried a voice at his shoulder.

Never thoughtful, wise, or sainted —

This is how the Dutchman painted —

Glossy satin, all a-shine:

Amber rich, as bright as wine.

Red-nosed rascal, cap awry,

Holding flagon to his eye,

Every word a curse or lie.

Utrecht feasts and Zealand dances,

Drunken skips, and reeling prances,

Troopers with red drums and lances.

Gallants robed in purple cloak,

Orange scarfed, who drink and smoke,

Careless what boor’s head is broke.

Ladies trim in scarlet boddice,

Swansdown edged, each one a goddess;

But laughing at an ape — which odd is.

Knaves in steeple hats, who lean

Over door-hatch — vine-leaves green —

Gadding round the window screen.

Brutal boors, who strum a lute —

Screw their faces to a flute —

Grey and scarlet each man’s suit.

Pipers maddening a fair;

Mountebanks who make fools stare;

Drunken fights, with lugging hair.

Cavaliers in silver grey,

Looking, in a mocking way,

At the skittle-players’ fray.

Tranquil groups of dappled kine;

Yellow-red, or dark as wine.

Willows standing in a line;

Long canals ’mid sunny grass,

Where the barges drag and pass,

Stared at by the milking lass.

Cuyp’s rich mellow gold I see;

Teniers’ silver purity;

Potter’s broad serenity —

Jewel colour, clear of dye;

Crystal tender to the eye;

Subtle in each harmony.

Glossy satin’s rolling shine —

Yellow silk, as bright as wine —

Never thoughtful, wise, or sainted —

This is how the Dutchman painted.

The little ships, the phantom ships,

Mere films of cloudy air

Go gliding past through light and shade,

Through gleams and lustres rare;

Or where the moonbeam’s silver path

Sheds glory o’er the sea,

Or where the sunbeam’s splendour

Rests in its majesty.

The little ships, the phantom ships,

Mere tiny films of gray.

Go sailing, sailing, past the cliffs,

And past the frothing bay.

Are they from East or from the West?

From Turkey or from Spain?

Or but the shadows of dream-ships

Gliding across my brain?

Those phantom ships, the phantom ships.

With sailing wings spread gray.

Flaunt forth no crimson pennons

In chivalrous display;

Steer down the channel, past the shoal.

With no rejoicing cheer,

With no resounding cannon.

Nor fire-flash glancing clear.

Those phantom ships are like the hopes

Of days long since rolled by;

O’er dreamland seas they glide along,

Their gray sails mounting high.

Glide on — glide on! ye shadowy fleet,

And bear your dead away.

Past glistening sands and rampart cliffs,

And little frothing bay.