Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения

Теннисон Альфред

II

What is it? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same.

III

The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push, when he was uncurl’d, A golden foot or a fairy horn Thro’ his dim water-world?

IV

Slight, to be crush’d with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand, Small, but a work divine, Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three decker’s oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand!

РАКОВИНА

I

Вот, на песке морском, Раковина, посмотри — Крохотная вещица, Не крупней ноготка, С тоненьким завитком, Розовая внутри, Как чудесно искрится, Радужна и хрупка!

II

Мог бы назвать ученый Кличкой ее мудреной, С книжного взяв листа; Но и не нареченной Имя ей — красота.

III

Тот, кто в ней обитал, Видно, покинул в тревоге Домик уютный свой; Долго ли он простоял Возле своих дверей, Рожками шевеля На жемчужном пороге, Прежде, чем с головой Кануть в простор морей?

IV

Тонкая — даже дитя Пяткой его сломает, Крохотная — но как чудно, Дивно сотворена! Хрупкая —

но волна, Что поднимает шутя Трехмачтовое судно И о риф разбивает, — Сладить с ней не вольна.

Г. Кружков

GODIVA

I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city’s ancient legend into this: Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax’d; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry: for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamouring, ‘If we pay, we starve!’ She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray’d him, ‘If they pay this tax, they starve.’ Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, ‘You would not let your little finger ache For such as these?’ — ‘But I would die,’ said she. He laugh’d, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then fillip’d at the diamond in her ear; ‘Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk!’ — ‘Alas!’ she said, ‘But prove me what it is I would not do.’ And from a heart as rough as Esau’s hand, He answer’d, ‘Ride you naked thro’ the town, And I repeal it;’ and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour, Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all The hard condition; but that she would loose The people: therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr’d. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp’d the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim Earl’s gift; but ever at a breath She linger’d, looking like a summer moon Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head, And shower’d the rippled ringlets to her knee; Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach’d The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapt In purple blazon’d with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: The deep air listen’d round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth’d heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur Made her cheek flame: her palfrey’s footfall shot Light horrors thro’ her pulses: the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she Not less thro’ all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower’d elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro’ the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity: And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peep’d-but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell’d into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell’d a sense misused; And she, that knew not, pass’d: and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon Was clash’d and hammer’d from a hundred towers, One after one: but even then she gain’d Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown’d, To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlasting name.

ГОДИВА

Я в Ковентри ждал поезда, толкаясь В толпе народа по мосту, смотрел На три высоких башни — и в поэму Облек одну из древних местных былей. Не мы одни — плод новых дней, последний Посев Времен, в своем нетерпеливом Стремленье вдаль злословящий Былое, — Не мы одни, с чьих праздных уст не сходят Добро и Зло, сказать имеем право, Что мы народу преданны: Годива, Супруга графа Ковентри, что правил Назад тому почти тысячелетье, Любила свой народ и претерпела Не меньше нас. Когда налогом тяжким Граф обложил свой город, и пред замком С детьми столпились матери, и громко Звучали вопли: «Подать нам грозит Голодной смертью!» — в графские покои, Где граф, с своей аршинной бородой И подсаженной гривою, по залу Шагал среди собак, вошла Годива И, рассказав о воплях, повторила Мольбу народа: «Подати грозят Голодной смертью!» Граф от изумленья Раскрыл глаза. «Но вы за эту сволочь Мизинца не уколете!» — сказал он. «Я умереть согласна!» — возразила Ему Годива. Граф захохотал, Петром и Павлом громко побожился, Потом по бриллиантовой сережке Годиве щелкнул: «Россказни!» — «Но чем же Мне доказать?» — ответила Годива. И жесткое, как длань Исава, сердце Не дрогнуло. «Ступайте, — молвил граф, — По городу нагая — и налоги Я отменю», — насмешливо кивнул ей И зашагал среди собак из зала. Такой ответ сразил Годиву. Мысли, Как вихри, закружились в ней и долго Вели борьбу, пока не победило Их Состраданье. В Ковентри герольда Тогда она отправила, чтоб город Узнал при трубных звуках о позоре, Назначенном Годиве: только этой Ценою облегчить могла Годива Его удел. Годиву любят, — пусть же До полдня ни единая нога Не ступит за порог и ни единый Не взглянет глаз на улицу: пусть все Затворят двери, спустят в окнах ставни И в час ее проезда будут дома. Потом она поспешно поднялась Наверх, в свои покои, расстегнула Орлов на пряжке пояса — подарок Сурового супруга — и на миг Замедлилась, бледна, как летний месяц, Полузакрытый облачком… Но тотчас Тряхнула головой и, уронивши Почти до пят волну волос тяжелых, Одежду быстро сбросила, прокралась Вниз по дубовым лестницам — и вышла, Скользя, как луч, среди колонн, к воротам, Где уж стоял ее любимый конь, Весь в пурпуре, с червонными гербами. На нем она пустилась в путь — как Ева, Как гений целомудрия. И замер, Едва дыша от страха, даже воздух В тех улицах, где ехала она. Разинув пасть, лукаво вслед за нею Косился желоб. Тявканье дворняжки Ее кидало в краску. Звук подков Пугал, как грохот грома. Каждый ставень Был полон дыр. Причудливой толпою Шпили домов глазели. Но Годива, Крепясь, все дальше ехала, пока В готические арки укреплений Не засияли цветом белоснежным Кусты густой цветущей бузины. Тогда назад поехала Годива — Как гений целомудрия. Был некто, Чья низость в этот день дала начало Пословице: он сделал в ставне щелку И уж хотел, весь трепеща, прильнуть к ней, Как у него глаза оделись мраком И вытекли, — да торжествует вечно Добро над злом. Годива же достигла В неведении замка — и лишь только Вошла в свои покои, как ударил И загудел со всех несметных башен Стозвучный полдень. В мантии, в короне Она супруга встретила, сняла С народа тяжесть податей — и стала С тех пор бессмертной в памяти народа.

И. Бунин

THE EAGLE

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring’d with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls. And like a thunderbolt he falls.

ОРЕЛ

Вцепившись в голый горный склон Когтистыми руками, он Стоит, лазурью окружен. Он видит, вдаль вперив свой взор, В морщинах волн морской простор, И громом падает он с гор.

С. Маршак

LINES

Here often when a child I lay reclined: I took delight in this fair strand and free; Here stood the infant Ilion of the mind, And here the Grecian ships all seem’d to be. And here again I come, and only find The drain-cut level of the marshy lea, Gray sand-banks, and pale sunsets, dreary wind, Dim shores, dense rains, and heavy-clouded sea.

СТРОКИ

Я в детстве приходил на этот склон, Где колокольчики в траве цвели. Здесь высился мой древний Илион И греческие плыли корабли. Теперь тут сеть канав со всех сторон И лоскуты болотистой земли, Лишь дюны серые — да ветра стон, Дождь над водой — и груды туч вдали!

Г. Кружков

POETS AND THEIR BIBLIOGRAPHIES

Old poets foster’d under friendlier skies, Old Virgil who would write ten lines, they say, At dawn, and lavish all the golden day To make them wealthier in his readers’ eyes; And you, old popular Horace, you the wise Adviser of the nine-years-ponder’d lay, And you, that wear a wreath of sweeter bay, Catullus, whose dead songster never dies; If, glancing downward on the kindly sphere That once had roll’d you round and round the Sun, You see your Art still shrined in human shelves, You should be jubilant that you flourish’d here Before the Love of Letters, overdone, Had swampt the sacred poets with themselves.

СОНЕТ

(Певцы

иных, несуетных веков)

Певцы иных, несуетных веков: Старик Вергилий, что с утра в тенечке, Придумав три или четыре строчки, Их до заката править был готов; И ты, Гораций Флакк, что для стихов Девятилетней требовал отсрочки, И ты, Катулл, что в крохотном комочке Оплакал участь всех земных певцов, — О, если глядя вспять на дольний прах, Вы томики своих произведений Еще узрите в бережных руках, Ликуйте, о возвышенные тени! — Пока искусства натиск и размах Вас не завалит грудой дребедени.

Г. Кружков

TIRESIAS

I wish I were as in the years of old, While yet the blessed daylight made itself Ruddy thro’ both the roofs of sight, and woke These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek The meanings ambush’d under all they saw, The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice, What omens may foreshadow fate to man And woman, and the secret of the Gods. My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer, Are slower to forgive than human kings. The great God, Ares, burns in anger still Against the guiltless heirs of him from Tyre, Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who found Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still’d Thro’ all its folds the multitudinous beast, The dragon, which our trembling fathers call’d The God’s own son. A tale, that told to me, When but thine age, by age as winter-white As mine is now, amazed, but made me yearn For larger glimpses of that more than man Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, and lays the deep, Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves, And moves unseen among the ways of men. Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lie Subjected to the Heliconian ridge Have heard this footstep fall, altho’ my wont Was more to scale the highest of the heights With some strange hope to see the nearer God. One naked peak — the sister of the sun Would climb from out the dark, and linger there To silver all the valleys with her shafts — There once, but long ago, five-fold thy term Of years, I lay; the winds were dead for heat; The noonday crag made the hand bum; and sick For shadow - not one bush was near — I rose Following a torrent till its myriad falls Found silence in the hollows underneath. There in a secret olive-glade I saw Pallas Athene climbing from the bath In anger; yet one glittering foot disturb’d The lucid well; one snowy knee was prest Against the margin flowers; a dreadful light Came from her golden hair, her golden helm And all her golden armour on the grass, And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark For ever, and I heard a voice that said ‘Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much, And speak the truth that no man may believe.’ Son, in the hidden world of sight, that lives Behind this darkness, I behold her still, Beyond all work of those who carve the stone, Beyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood, Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glance, And as it were, perforce, upon me flash’d The power of prophesying - but to me No power - so chain’d and coupled with the curse Of blindness and their unbelief, who heard And heard not, when I spake of famine, plague, Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunderbolt, And angers of the Gods for evil done And expiation lack’d — no power on Fate, Theirs, or mine own! for when the crowd would roar For blood, for war, whose issue was their doom, To cast wise words among the multitude Was flinging fruit to lions; nor, in hours Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain Would each waste each, and bring on both the yoke Of stronger states, was mine the voice to curb The madness of our cities and their kings. Who ever turn’d upon his heel to hear My warning that the tyranny of one Was prelude to the tyranny of all? My counsel that the tyranny of all Led backward to the tyranny of one? This power hath work’d no good to aught that lives, And these blind hands were useless in their wars. О therefore that the unfulfill’d desire, The grief for ever born from griefs to be, The boundless yearning of the Prophet’s heart — Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear’d To some great citizen, win all praise from all Who past it, saying, ‘That was he!’ In vain! Virtue must shape itself in deed, and those Whom weakness or necessity have cramp’d Within themselves, immerging, each, his urn In his own well, draw solace as he may. Menoeceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hear Too plainly what full tides of onset sap Our seven high gates, and what a weight of war Rides on those ringing axles! jingle of bits, Shouts, arrows, tramp of the hornfooted horse That grind the glebe to powder! Stony showers Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash Along the sounding walls. Above, below, Shock after shock, the song-built towers and gates Reel, bruised and butted with the shuddering War-thunder of iron rams; and from within The city comes a murmur void of joy, Lest she be taken captive — maidens, wives, And mothers with their babblers of the dawn, And oldest age in shadow from the night, Falling about their shrines before their Gods, And wailing ‘Save us.’ And they wail to thee! These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own, See this, that only in thy virtue lies The saving of our Thebes; for, yesternight, To me, the great God Ares, whose one bliss Is war, and human sacrifice — himself Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet tipt With stormy light as on a mast at sea, Stood out before a darkness, crying ‘Thebes, Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loathe The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of these By his own hand - if one of these —’ My son, No sound is breathed so potent to coerce, And to conciliate, as their names who dare For that sweet mother land which gave them birth Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names, Graven on memorial columns, are a song Heard in the future; few, but more than wall And rampart, their examples reach a hand Far thro’ all years, and everywhere they meet And kindle generous purpose, and the strength To mould it into action pure as theirs. Fairer thy fate than mine, if life’s best end Be to end well! and thou refusing this, Unvenerable will thy memory be While men shall move the lips: but if thou dare — Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus — then No stone is fitted in yon marble girth Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious doom, Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy name To every hoof that clangs it, and the springs Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, Heard from the roofs by night, will murmur thee To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro’ thee shall stand Firm-based with all her Gods. The Dragon’s cave Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing vines — Where once he dwelt and whence he roll’d himself At dead of night - thou knowest, and that smooth rock Before it, altar-fashion’d, where of late The woman-breasted Sphinx, with wings drawn back, Folded her lion paws, and look’d to Thebes. There blanch the bones of whom she slew, and these Mixt with her own, because the fierce beast found A wiser than herself, and dash’d herself Dead in her rage: but thou art wise enough, Tho’ young, to love thy wiser, blunt the curse Of Pallas, hear, and tho’ I speak the truth Believe I speak it, let thine own hand strike Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench The red God’s anger, fearing not to plunge Thy torch of life in darkness, rather — thou Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the stars Send no such light upon the ways of men As one great deed. Thither, my son, and there Thou, that hast never known the embrace of love, Offer thy maiden life. This useless hand! I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone! He will achieve his greatness. But for me, I would that I were gather’d to my rest, And mingled with the famous kings of old, On whom about their ocean-islets flash The faces of the Gods — the wise man’s word, Here trampled by the populace underfoot, There crown’d with worship — and these eyes will find The men I knew, and watch the chariot whirl About the goal again, and hunters race The shadowy lion, and the warrior-kings, In height and prowess more than human, strive Again for glory, while the golden lyre Is ever sounding in heroic ears Heroic hymns, and every way the vales Wind, clouded with the grateful incense-fume Of those who mix all odour to the Gods On one far height in one far-shining fire. ‘One height and one far-shining fire’ And while I fancied that my friend For this brief idyll would require A less diffuse and opulent end, And would defend his judgment well, If I should deem it over nice — The tolling of his funeral bell Broke on my Pagan Paradise, And mixt the dream of classic times, And all the phantoms of the dream, With present grief, and made the rhymes, That miss’d his living welcome, seem Like would-be guests an hour too late, Who down the highway moving on With easy laughter find the gate Is bolted, and the master gone. Gone into darkness, that full light Of friendship! past, in sleep, away By night, into the deeper night! The deeper night? A clearer day Than our poor twilight dawn on earth — If night, what barren toil to be! What life, so maim’d by night, were worth Our living out? Not mine to me Remembering all the golden hours Now silent, and so many dead, And him the last; and laying flowers, This wreath, above his honour’d head, And praying that, when I from hence Shall fade with him into the unknown, My close of earth’s experience May prove as peaceful as his own.