Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

The stream was smooth as glass, we said: “Arise and let’s away;”

The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay;

And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily took our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross’d? When shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o’er cattle-dotted plains,

The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains,

The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away.

When shall the sandy bar be cross’d? When shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,

Slow as an oak to woodman’s stroke sinks flaming at their marge.

The waves are bright with mirror’d light as jacinths on our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross’d? When shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see

The spreading river’s either bank, and surging distantly

There booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far away.

Now shall the sandy bar be cross’d, now shall we find the bay!

The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight

The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.

We ’ll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,

When once the sandy bar is cross’d, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud enfolded ghost?

What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast?

Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.

O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?

I saw the youthful singers of my day

To sound of lutes and lyres in morning hours

Trampling with eager feet the teeming flowers,

Bound for Fame’s temple upon Music’s way:

A happy band, a folk of holiday:

But some lay down and slept among the bowers;

Some turned aside to fanes of alien Powers;

Some Death took by the hand and led away.

Now gathering twilight clouds the land with grey.

Yet, where last light is lit, last pilgrims go,

Outlined in gliding shade by dying glow,

And fain with weary fortitude essay

The last ascent. The end is hid, but they

Who follow on my step shall surely know.

Stripped by the tax of all his scanty pice,

Ryot seeks Rajah’s pity and advice:

’ Your coffers store the product of my pains,

And nought for your petitioner remains.

Suffer him, then, whom more you cannot squeeze.

To seek some lord whose vassals live at ease.

And say, to whose allegiance shall I pass?

’Go straight,’ advised the monarch, ’to Madras’.

’ O sir, that land your brother’s rule endures.

And his financial principles are yours’.

’ To Tinnevelly’. ’ That your uncle sways’.

’ Tanjore’. ’ Your nephew’s government obeys’.

’ Then to the devil,’ roared the king, ’ repair’.

’ Alas, great sire, your royal father’s there’.