Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

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.

The wind’s on the wold

And the night is a-cold,

And Thames runs chill

’Twixt mead and hill.

But kind and dear

Is the old house here

And my heart is warm

’Midst winter’s harm.

Rest then and rest,

And think of the best

’Twixt summer and spring,

When all birds sing

In the town of the tree,

And ye in me

And scarce dare move,

Lest earth and its love

Should fade away

Ere the full of the day.

I am old and have seen

Many things that have been;

Both grief and peace

And wane and increase

No tale I tell

Of ill or well,

But this I say:

Night treadeth on day,

And for worst or best

Right good is rest.

A ship with shields before the sun,

Six maidens round the mast,

A red-gold crown on every one,

A green gown on the last.

The fluttering green banners there

Are wrought with ladies’ heads most fair,

And a portraiture of Guenevere

The middle of each sail doth bear.

A ship with sails before the wind,

And round the helm six knights,

Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,

They pass by many sights.

The tatter’d scarlet banners there

Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.

Those six knights sorrowfully bear

In all their heaumes some yellow hair.

Love gives every gift whereby we long to live

“Love takes every gift, and nothing back doth give”.

Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb:

“Love locks up the lips whence all things good might come”.

Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see:

“Love makes blind the eyes to all but me and thee”.

Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain:

“Love turns life to woe till hope is nought and vain”.

Love, who changest all, change me nevermore!

“Love, who changest all, change my sorrow sore!”

Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest,

“Love burns up the world to a void of all unrest”.

And there we twain are left, and no more work we need:

“And I am left alone, and who my work shall heed?”

Ah! I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won!

“And is my praise nought worth for all my life undone?”

Draw not away thy hands, my love,

With wind alone the branches move,

And though the leaves be scant above

The Autumn shall not shame us.

Say; Let the world wax cold and drear,

What is the worst of all the year

But life, and what can hurt us, dear,

Or death, and who shall blame us?

Ah, when the summer comes again

How shall we say, we sowed in vain?

The root was joy, the stem was pain

The ear a nameless blending.

The root is dead and gone, my love,

The stem’s a rod our truth to prove;

The ear is stored for nought to move

Till heaven and earth have ending.

When the boughs of the garden hang heavy with rain

And the blackbird reneweth his song,

And the thunder departing yet rolleth again,

I remember the ending of wrong.

When the day that was dusk while his death was aloof

Is ending wide-gleaming and strange

For the clearness of all things beneath the world’s roof,

I call back the wild chance and the change.

For once we twain sat through the hot afternoon

While the rain held aloof for a while,

Till she, the soft-clad, for the glory of June

Changed all with the change of her smile.

For her smile was of longing, no longer of glee,

And her fingers, entwined with mine own,

With caresses unquiet sought kindness of me

For the gift that I never had known.

Then down rushed the rain, and the voice of the thunder

Smote dumb all the sound of the street,

And I to myself was grown nought but a wonder,

As she leaned down my kisses to meet.

That she craved for my lips that had craved her so often,

And the hand that had trembled to touch,

That the tears filled her eyes I had hoped not to soften

In this world was a marvel too much.

It was dusk ’mid the thunder, dusk e’en as the night,

When first brake out our love like the storm,

But no night-hour was it, and back came the light

While our hands with each other were warm.

And her smile killed with kisses, came back as at first

As she rose up and led me along,

And out to the garden, where nought was athirst,

And the blackbird renewing his song.

Earth’s fragrance went with her, as in the wet grass,

Her feet little hidden were set;

She bent down her head, ’neath the roses to pass,

And her arm with the lily was wet.

In the garden we wandered while day waned apace

And the thunder was dying aloof;

Till the moon o’er the minster-wall lifted his face,

And grey gleamed out the lead of the roof.

Then we turned from the blossoms, and cold were they grown:

In the trees the wind westering moved;

Till over the threshold back fluttered her gown,

And in the dark house was I loved.

Slayer of winter, art thou here again?

O welcome, thou that bring’st the summer nigh!

The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,

Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.

Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry

Make April ready for the throstle’s song,

Thou first redresser of the winter’s wrong!

Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June,

Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,

Striving to swell the burden of the tune

That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,

Unmindful of the past or coming days;

Who sing, “O joy! a new year is begun!

What happiness to look upon the sun!”

O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss,

But Death himself, who, crying solemnly,

Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,

Bids us, “Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die.

Within a little time must ye go by.

Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live,

Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give”.

What is this, the sound and rumour? What is this that all men hear,

Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near,

Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear?

‘Tis the people marching on.

Whither go they, and whence come they? What are these of whom ye tell?

In what country are they dwelling ‘twixt the gates of heaven and hell?

Are they mine or thine for money? Will they serve a master well?

Still the rumour’s marching on.

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,

And the host comes marching on.

Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health and

mirth,

All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the earth.

Buy them, sell them for thy service! Try the bargain what ’tis worth,

For the days are marching on.

These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, win thy wheat,

Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into sweet,

All for thee this day-and ever. What reward for them is meet

Till the host comes marching on?

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,

And the host comes marching on.

Many a hundred years passed over have they laboured deaf and blind;

Never tidings reached their sorrow, never hope their toil might find.

Now at last they’ve heard and hear it, and the cry comes down the wind,

And their feet are marching on.

O ye rich men hear and tremble! for with words the sound is rife:

“Once for you and death we laboured; changed henceforward is the strife.

We are men, and we shall battle for the world of men and life;

And our host is marching on”.

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,

And the host comes marching on.

Is it war, then? Will ye perish as the dry wood in the fire?

Is it peace? Then be ye of us, let your hope be our desire.

Come and live! for life awaketh, and the world shall never tire;

And hope is marching on.

“On we march then, we the workers, and the rumour that ye hear

Is the blended sound of battle and deliv’rance drawing near;

For the hope of every creature is the banner that we bear,

And the world is marching on”.

Hark the rolling of the thunder!

Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,

And the host comes marching on.