Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Three Kings have come to Bethlehem

With a trailing star in front of them.

What would you in this little place,

You three bright kings?

Mother, we tracked the trailing star

Which brought us here from lands afar,

And we would look on his dear face

Round whom the Seraphs fold their wings.

But who are you, bright kings?

Caspar am I: the rocky North

From storm and silence drave me forth

Down to the blue and tideless sea.

I do not fear the tinkling sword,

For I am a great battle-lord,

And love the horns of chivalry.

And I have brought thee splendid gold,

The strong man’s joy, refined and cold.

All hail, thou Prince of Galilee!

I am Balthazar, Lord of Ind,

Where blows a soft and scented wind

From Taprobane towards Cathay.

My children, who are tall and wise,

Stand by a tree with shutten eyes

And seem to meditate or pray.

And these red drops of frankincense

Betoken man’s intelligence.

Hail, Lord of Wisdom, Prince of Day!

I am the dark man, Melchior,

And I shall live but little more

Since I am old and feebly move.

My kingdom is a burnt-up land

Half buried by the drifting sand,

So hot Apollo shines above.

What could I bring but simple myrrh

White blossom of the cordial fire?

Hail, Prince of Souls, and Lord of Love!

O Prince of souls and Lord of Love,

O’er thee the purple-breasted dove

Shall watch with open silver wings,

Thou King of Kings.

Suaviole o flos Virginum,

Apparuit Rex Gentium.

"Who art thou, little King of Kings?"

His wondering mother sings.

We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early or late:

We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware!

Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die

Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer.

But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and we tramp

With the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair.

From the lands, where the elephants are, to the forts of Merou and Balghar,

Our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the ruins of Rum.

We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we will go there again;

We have stood on the shore of the plain where the Waters of Destiny boom.

A mart of destruction we made at Jalula where men were afraid,

For death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom;

And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few of ambition,

And drave not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong:

And the shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolate pool,

And as straight as the rock of Stamboul when their cavalry thundered along:

For the coward was drowned with the brave when our battle sheered up like a wave,

And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God in our song.