Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Fair stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,

At Caux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,

Furnished in warlike sort,

Marcheth towards Agincourt

In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,

Where the French gen’ral lay

With all his power;

Which, in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

Unto him sending;

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,

Quoth our brave Henry then,

“Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.

Yet have we well begun,

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

“And for myself (quoth he),

This my full rest shall be;

England ne’er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain;

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

“Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,

Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies”.

The Duke of York so dread

The eager vaward led;

With the main Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen.

Exeter had the rear,

A braver man not there;—

O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,

Armour on armour shone,

Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make

The very earth did shake;

Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,

O noble Erpingham,

Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces!

When from a meadow by,

Like a storm suddenly,

The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,

Arrows a cloth-yard long,

That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather;

None from his fellow starts,

But, playing manly parts,

And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,

And forth their bilbos drew,

And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent,

Scalps to the teeth were rent,

Down the French peasants went—

Our men were hardy!

This while our noble king,

His broadsword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding,

As to o’erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,

His arms with blood besprent,

And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,

Next of the royal blood,

For famous England stood

With his brave brother;

Clarence, in steel so bright,

Though but a maiden knight,

Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,

Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made

Still as they ran up;

Suffolk his axe did ply,

Beaumont and Willoughby

Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin’s Day

Fought was this noble fray,

Which fame did not delay

To England to carry.

O, when shall English men

With such acts fill a pen;

Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

You brave heroic minds

Worthy your country’s name,

That honour still pursue;

Go and subdue!

Whilst loitering hinds

Lurk here at home with shame.

Britons, you stay too long:

Quickly aboard bestow you,

And with a merry gale

Swell your stretch’d sail

With vows as strong

As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer,

West and by south forth keep!

Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals

When Eolus scowls

You need not fear;

So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea

Success you still entice

To get the pearl and gold,

And ours to hold

Virginia,

Earth’s only paradise.

Where nature hath in store

Fowl, venison, and fish,

And the fruitfull’st soil

Without your toil

Three harvests more,

All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine

Crowns with his purple mass

The cedar reaching high

To kiss the sky,

The cypress, pine,

And useful sassafras.

To whom the Golden Age

Still nature’s laws doth give,

No other cares attend,

But them to defend

From winter’s rage,

That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell

Of that delicious land

Above the seas that flows

The clear wind throws,

Your hearts to swell

Approaching the dear strand;

In kenning of the shore

(Thanks to God first given)

O you the happiest men,

Be frolic then!

Let cannons roar,

Frighting the wide heaven.

And in regions far,

Such heroes bring ye forth

As those from whom we came;

And plant our name

Under that star

Not known unto our North.

And as there plenty grows

Of laurel everywhere —

Apollo’s sacred tree —

You it may see

A poet’s brows

To crown, that may sing there.

Thy Voyages attend,

Industrious Hakluyt,

Whose reading shall inflame

Men to seek fame,

And much commend

To after times thy wit.

How many paltry, foolish, painted things,

That now in coaches trouble every street,

Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,

Ere they be well wrapp’d in their winding-sheet?

Where I to thee eternity shall give,

When nothing else remaineth of these days,

And queens hereafter shall be glad to live

Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise.

Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes

Shall be so much delighted with thy story,

That they shall grieve they liv’d not in these times

To have seen thee, their sex’s only glory.

So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,

Still to survive in my immortal song.

Calling to mind since first my love begun,

Th’uncertain times, oft varying in their course,

How things still unexpectedly have run,

As’t please the Fates by their resistless force;

Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen

Essex’s great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain,

The quiet end of that long living Queen,

This King’s fair entrance, and our peace with Spain,

We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever;

Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel;

Yet to my goddess am I constant ever,

Howe’er blind Fortune turn her giddy wheel;

Though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue,

Yet am I still inviolate to you.

The glorious Sun went blushing to his bed;

When my soul’s sun from her fair cabinet

Her golden beams had now discovered,

Lightening the world eclipsed by his set.

Some mused to see the earth envy the air,

Which from her lips exhaled refined sweet;

A world to see, yet how he joyed to hear

The dainty grass make music with her feet.

But my most marvel was when from the skies

So comet-like each star advanced her light,

As though the heaven had now awaked her eyes,

And summoned angels to this blessed sight.

No cloud was seen, but crystalline the air.

Laughing for joy upon my lovely fair.

Black pitchy night, companion of my woe,

The inn of care, the nurse of dreary sorrow,

Why lengthenest thou thy darkest hours so,

Still to prolong my long-time-looked-for morrow?

Thou sable shadow, image of despair,

Portrait of hell, the air’s black mourning weed,

Recorder of revenge, remembrancer of care,

The shadow and the veil of every sinful deed;

Death like to thee, so live thou still in death,

The grave of joy, prison of day’s delight;

Let heavens withdraw their sweet ambrosian breath,

Nor moon nor stars lend thee their shining light;

For thou alone renew’st that old desire,

Which still torments me in day’s burning fire.

Yet read at last the story of my woe,

The dreary abstracts of my endless cares,

With my life’s sorrow interlined so,

Smoked with my sighs, and blotted with my tears,

The sad memorials of my miseries,

Penned in the grief of mine afflicted ghost,

My life’s complaint in doleful elegies,

With so pure love as time could never boast.

Receive the incense which I offer here,

By my strong faith ascending to thy fame,

My zeal, my hope, my vows, my praise, my prayer,

My soul’s oblations to thy sacred name;

Which name my Muse to highest heavens shall raise,

By chaste desire, true love, and virtuous praise.