Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения - Альфред Теннисон

Д. Катар

‘COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD’

Come not, when I am dead,To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,To trample round my fallen head,And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crimeI care no longer, being all unblest:Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,And I desire to rest.Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:Go by, go by.

«МОЙ ПРАХ БУДИТЬ НЕ СМЕЙ»

Мой прах будить не смей —Что проку на могиле горевать?И у надгробных не топчись камней —Не досаждай несчастному опять.Пусть плачет ржанка и шумят дожди.Но ты — уйди.

Ошибка или твой жестокий нравМеня сгубили — разве в этом суть?От ожиданья до смерти устав,Я жажду отдохнуть.Осталась боль измены позади.И ты — уйди.

А. Хананашвили

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,And the winter winds are wearily sighing:Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,And tread softly and speak low,For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;You came to us so readily,You lived with us so steadily,Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:He will not see the dawn of day.He hath no other life above.He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,And the New-year will take ’em away.

Old year, you must not go;So long as you have been with us,Such joy as you have seen with us,Old year, you shall not go.

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim;A jollier year we shall not see.But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim,And tho’ his foes speak ill of him,He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;We did so laugh and cry with you,I’ve half a mind to die with you,Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,But all his merry quips are o’er.To see him die, across the wasteHis son and heir doth ride post-haste,But he’ll be dead before.

Every one for his own.The night is starry and cold, my friend,And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snowI heard just now the crowing cock.The shadows flicker to and fro:The cricket chirps: the light burns low:’Tis nearly twelve o’clock.

Shake hands, before you die.Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you:What is it we can do for you?Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.Alack! our friend is gone.Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:Step from the corpse, and let him inThat standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend,And a new face at the door, my friend,A new face at the door.

СМЕРТЬ СТАРОГО ГОДА

Печальна песня зимних вьюг,Все тише колокола глас.Бесшумно соберемся в круг,Ведь Старый Год — наш давний другВстречает смертный час.

О Старый Год, не умирай!С тобою так сдружились мы.С тобою так сроднились мы.О Старый Год, не умирай!

Он слег, уже не встанет вновьИ не увидит вновь восход.Все тише в нем струится кровь…Он дал мне друга, дал любовь,А Новый Год — возьмет.

О Старый Год, не уходи!Ты слишком долго жил средь нас,Смеялся и любил средь нас.О Старый Год, не уходи!

Он был на выдумки богат,В забавах кто сравнится с ним?И пусть мутнеет ясный взгляд,И пусть враги его чернят,Он другом был моим.

О Старый Год, не умирай!Нам было по пути с тобой,Позволь и мне уйти с тобой.О Старый Год, не умирай!

Он чашу жизни до краевЧерпал. Увы! Что сталось с ней?Его наследник средь снеговТоропится под отчий кров,Но смерть придет быстрей.

У каждого свои права.Сияет небосвод, мой друг,Беспечный Новый Год, мой друг,Спешит войти в свои права.

Он тяжко дышит. За стенойПропел петух. Трещит сверчок.Мелькают тени предо мной.Лег снег, неярок свет ночной.Уж полночь — близок срок.

Пожми нам руки в смертный час,Поверь, нам жаль терять тебя.Позволь еще обнять тебя.Простись же с нами в смертный час.

Он умер. Пробил час потерьИ нас покинул Старый Год.Друзья, проститесь с ним теперь,Всплакните — и откройте дверьТому, кто молча ждет.

А ну-ка выйди на крыльцо.Взгляни-ка на крыльцо, мой друг.Там новое лицо, мой друг.Там новое лицо.

М. Виноградова

ST. SIMEON STYLITES

Altho’ I be the basest of mankind,From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meetFor troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,I will not cease to grasp the hope I holdOf saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob,Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps,A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,Patient on this tall pillar I have borneRain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow;And I had hoped that ere this period closedThou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,Denying not these weather-beaten limbsThe meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.

О take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.Pain heap’d ten-hundred-fold to this, were stillLess burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,Than were those lead-like tons of sin that crush’dMy spirit flat before thee.

О Lord, Lord,Thou knowest I bore this better at the first,For I was strong and hale of body then;And tho’ my teeth, which now are dropt away,Would chatter with the cold, and all my beardWas tagg’d with icy fringes in the moon,I drown’d the whoopings of the owl with soundOf pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes sawAn angel stand and watch me, as I sang.Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am,So that I scarce can hear the people humAbout the column’s base, and almost blind,And scarce can recognise the fields I know,And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry,While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.

О Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?Show me the man hath suffer’d more than I.For did not all thy martyrs die one death?For either they were stoned or crucifiedOr burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawnIn twain beneath the ribs; but I die hereTo-day, and whole years long, a life of death.Bear witness, if I could have found a way(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)More slowly-painful to subdue this homeOf sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,I had not stinted practice, О my God.

For not alone this pillar-punishment,Not this alone I bore: but while I livedIn the white convent down the valley there,For many weeks about my loins I woreThe rope that haled the buckets from the well,Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;And spake not of it to a single soul,Until the ulcer, eating thro’ my skin,Betray’d my secret penance, so that allMy brethren marvell’d greatly. More than thisI bore, whereof, О God, thou knowest all.

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,I lived up there on yonder mountain side.My right leg chain’d into the crag, I layPent in a roofless close of ragged stones;Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twiceBlack’d with thy branding thunder, and sometimesSucking the damps for drink, and eating not,Except the spare chance-gift of those that cameTo touch my body and be heal’d, and live:And they say then that I work’d miracles,Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, О God,Knowest alone whether this was or no.Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with thee,Three years I lived upon a pillar, highSix cubits, and three years on one of twelve;And twice three years I crouch’d on one that roseTwenty by measure; last of all, I grewTwice ten long weary weary years to this,That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this —Or else I dream — and for so long a time,If I may measure time by yon slow light,And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns —So much — even so.

And yet I know not well,For that the evil ones come here, and say,‘Fall down, О Simeon: thou hast suffer’d longFor ages and for ages!’ then they prateOf penances I cannot have gone thro’,Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,Maybe for months, in such blind lethargiesThat Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked.

But yetBethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saintsEnjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earthHouse in the shade of comfortable roofs,Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,I, ’tween the spring and downfall of the light,Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;Or in the night, after a little sleep,I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wetWith drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.I wear an undress’d goatskin on my back;A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:О mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:’Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!They think that I am somewhat. What am I?The silly people take me for a saint,And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)Have all in all endured as much, and moreThan many just and holy men, whose namesAre register’d and calendar’d for saints.

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.What is it I can have done to merit this?I am a sinner viler than you all.It may be I have wrought some miracles,And cured some halt and maim’d; but what of that?It may be, no one, even among the saints,May match his pains with mine; but what of that?Yet do not rise; for you may look on me,And in your looking you may kneel to God.Speak! is there any of you halt or maim’d?I think you know I have some power with HeavenFrom my long penance: let him speak his wish.

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me.They say that they are heal’d. Ah, hark! they shout‘St. Simeon Stylites.’ Why, if so,God reaps a harvest in me. О my soul,God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,Can I work miracles and not be saved?This is not told of any. They were saints.It cannot be but that I shall be saved;Yea, crown’d a saint. They shout, ‘Behold a saint!’And lower voices saint me from above.Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalisCracks into shining wings, and hope ere deathSpreads more and more and more, that God hath nowSponged and made blank of crimeful record allMy mortal archives.

О my sons, my sons,I, Simeon of the pillar, by surnameStylites, among men; I, Simeon,The watcher on the column till the end;I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;I, whose bald brows in silent hours becomeUnnaturally hoar with rime, do nowFrom my high nest of penance here proclaimThat Pontius and Iscariot by my sideShow’d like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,A vessel full of sin: all hell beneathMade me boil over. Devils pluck’d my sleeve;Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.I smote them with the cross; they swarm’d again.In bed like monstrous apes they crush’d my chest:They flapp’d my light out as I read: I sawTheir faces grow between me and my book:With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whineThey burst my prayer. Yet this way was left,And by this way I ’scaped them. MortifyYour flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns;Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fastWhole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps,With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain,Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that stillSing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise:God only thro’ his bounty hath thought fit,Among the powers and princes of this world,To make me an example to mankind,Which few can reach to. Yet I do not sayBut that a time may come — yea, even now,Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairsOf life — I say, that time is at the doorsWhen you may worship me without reproach;For I will leave my relics in your land,And you may carve a shrine about my dust,And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,When I am gather’d to the glorious saints.

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest painRan shrivelling thro’ me, and a cloudlike change,In passing, with a grosser film made thickThese heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!Surely the end! What’s here? a shape, a shade,A flash of light. Is that the angel thereThat holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come.I know thy glittering face. I waited long;My brows are ready. What! deny it now?Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ!’Tis gone: ’tis here again; the crown! the crown!So now ’tis fitted on and grows to me,And from it melt the dews of Paradise,Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.Ah! let me not be fool’d, sweet saints: I trustThat I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,Among you there, and let him presentlyApproach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,And climbing up into my airy home,Deliver me the blessed sacrament;For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,I prophesy that I shall die to-night,A quarter before twelve.

But thou, О Lord,Aid all this foolish people; let them takeExample, pattern: lead them to thy light.

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