Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

O eterne God of power infinyt

To quhois hie knawlege nathink is obscure,

That is or wes or salbe is perfyt

Into thi sicht quhill that this warld indure,

Haif mercy of us, indigent and pure.

Thow dois no wrang to punis our offens.

O lord that is to mankynd haill succure,

Preserve us fra this perrelus pestilens.

We thee beseik, O lord of lordis all,

Thy eiris inclyne and heir our grit regrait.

We ask remeid of thee in generall

That is of help and confort dissolait.

Bot thow with rewth our hairtis recreate,

We ar bot deid but only thy clemens.

We thee exort on kneis law prostrait,

Preserve us from this perrellus pestilens.

We ar rycht glaid thow punis our trespas

Be ony kynd of udir tribulatioun,

Wer it thy will, O lord of hevin, allais,

That we suld thus be haistely put doun

And de as beistis without confessioun,

That nane dar mak with udir residens.

O blissit Jesu that wore the thorny croun

Preserve us from this perrelus pestilens.

Use derth, O lord, or seiknes and hungir soir

And slak thy plaig that is so penetryfe.

The pepill ar perreist quha may remeid thairfoir.

Bot thow, O lord, that for thame lost thy lyfe.

Suppois our syne be to thee pungetyfe,

Our deid ma nathing our synnis recompens.

Haif mercy, lord, we may nocht with thee stryfe,

Preserve us fra this perrelus pestilens.

Haif mercy, lord, haif mercy, hevins king,

Haif mercy of thy pepill penitent,

Haif mercy of our petous punissing,

Retreit the sentence and thy just jugement

Aganis us synnaris that servis to be schent.

Without mercy, we may mak no defens.

Thow that but rewth upoun the rud wes rent,

Preserve us frome this perrellus pestilens.

Remembir, lord, how deir thow hes us bocht

That for us synnaris sched thy pretius blude,

Now to redeme that thow hes maid of nocht,

That is of virtew barran and denude.

Haif rewth, lord, of thyn awin similitude.

Punis with pety and nocht with violens.

We knaw it is for our ingratitude

That we are punist with this pestillens.

Thow grant us grace for till amend our mis

And till evaid this crewall suddane deid.

We knaw our sin is all the caus of this.

For opin sin thair is set no remeid.

The justice of God mon punis than be deid

For by the law he will with nane dispens.

Quhair justice laikis, thair is eternall feid

Of God that suld preserf fra pestilens.

Bot wald the heidismen that suld keip the law

Punis the peple for thair transgressioun,

Thair wald na deid the peple than ourthraw,

Bot thay ar gevin sa plenly to oppressioun

That God will nocht heir thair intercessioun,

Bot all ar punist for inobediens

Be swerd or deid withouttin remissioun,

And hes just caus to send us pestilens.

Superne lucerne, guberne this pestilens

Preserve and serve that we nocht sterf thairin,

Declyne that pyne be thy devyne prudens,

For treuth, haif reuth, lat nocht our slewth us twyn.

Our syte full tyte, wer we contryt, wald blin.

Dissivir did nevir quha euir thee besocht

But grace with space for to arrace fra sin.

Lat nocht be tint that thow sa deir hes bocht.

O prince preclair, this cair quotidiane,

We thee exort, distort it in exyle.

Bot thow remeid, this deid is bot ane trane

For to dissaif the laif and thame begyle,

Bot thow sa wyse, devyse to mend this byle,

Of this mischeif quha may releif us ocht

For wrangus win, bot thow our sin oursyle?

Lat nocht be tint that thow sa deir hes bocht.

Sen for our vice that justice mon correct,

O king most he, now pacife thy feid.

Our sin is huge, refuge we nocht suspect.

And thow be juge, dislug us of this steid.

In tyme assent or we be schent with deid,

For we repent, all tyme mispent forthocht.

Thairfoir evirmor be gloir to thy godheid.

Lat nocht be tint that thow sa deir hes bocht.

Wythin a garth, under a rede rosere,

Ane ald man, and decrepit, herd I syng;

Gay was the note, suete was the voce et clere:

It was grete joy to here of sik a thing.

‘And to my dome,’ he said, in his dytyng,

‘For to be yong I wald not, for my wis

Off all this warld to mak me lord et king:

The more of age the nerar hevynnis blis.

‘False is this warld, and full of variance,

Besoucht with syn and other sytis mo;

Treuth is all tynt, gyle has the gouvernance,

Wrechitnes has wroht all welthis wele to wo;

Fredome is tynt, and flemyt the lordis fro,

And covatise is all the cause of this;

I am content that youthede is ago:

The more of age the nerar hevynnis blisse.

‘The state of youth I repute for na gude,

For in that state sik perilis now I see;

Bot full smal grace, the regeing of his blude

Can none gaynstand quhill that he agit be;

Syne of the thing that tofore joyit he

Nothing remaynis for to be callit his;

For quhy it were bot veray vanitee:

The more of age the nerar hevynnis blisse.

‘Suld no man traist this wrechit warld, for quhy

Of erdly joy ay sorow is the end;

The state of it can noman certify,

This day a king, to morne na gude to spend.

Quhat have we here bot grace us to defend?

The quhilk god grant us for to mend oure mys,

That to his glore he may oure saulis send;

The more of age the nerar hevynnis blisse’.