Стихи и поэмы

KING HENRY V AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX.
 
 
He pass'd unquestion'd through the camp,
 
Their heads the soldiers bent
 
In silent reverence, or begg'd
 
A blessing as he went;
 
And so the Hermit pass'd along
 
And reached the royal tent.
 
 
 
King Henry sate in his tent alone,
 
The map before him lay,
 
Fresh conquests he was planning there
 
To grace the future day.
 
 
 
King Henry lifted up his eyes
 
The intruder to behold;
 
With reverence he the hermit saw,
 
For the holy man was old,
 
His look was gentle as a Saint's,
 
And yet his eye was bold.
 
 
 
"Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs
 
Which thou hast done this land!
 
O King, repent in time, for know
 
The judgement is at hand.
 
 
 
"I have pass'd forty years of peace
 
Beside the river Blaise,
 
But what a weight of woe hast thou
 
Laid on my latter days!
 
 
 
"I used to see along the stream
 
The white sail gliding down,
 
That wafted food in better times
 
To yonder peaceful town.
 
 
 
"Henry! I never now behold
 
The white sail gliding down;
 
Famine, Disease, and Death, and Thou
 
Destroy that wretched town.
 
 
 
"I used to hear the traveller's voice
 
As here he pass'd along,
 
Or maiden as she loiter'd home
 
Singing her even-song.
 
 
 
"No traveller's voice may now be heard,
 
In fear he hastens by;
 
But I have heard the village maid
 
In vain for succour cry.
 
 
 
"I used to see the youths row down
 
And watch the dripping oar,
 
As pleasantly their viol's tones
 
Came soften'd to the shore.
 
 
 
"King Henry, many a blacken'd corpse
 
I now see floating down!
 
Thou man of blood! repent in time,
 
And leave this leaguer'd town."
 
 
 
"I shall go on," King Henry cried,
 
"And conquer this good land;
 
Seest thou not, Hermit, that the Lord
 
Hath given it to my hand?"
 
 
 
The Hermit heard King Henry speak,
 
And angrily look'd down;.
 
His face was gentle, and for that
 
More solemn was his frown.
 
 
 
"What if no miracle from Heaven
 
The murderer's arm controul,
 
Think you for that the weight of blood
 
Lies lighter on his soul?
 
 
 
"Thou conqueror King, repent in time
 
Or dread the coming woe!
 
For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat,
 
And soon shalt feel the blow!"
 
 
 
King Henry forced a careless smile,
 
As the hermit went his way;
 
But Henry soon remember'd him
 
Upon his dying day.
 
 
  
О, Валентин [20]
 
 
 
О, Валентин, скажи той деве милой,
 
Чей образ до сих пор в моих мечтах,
 
Что вновь я здесь, в тени густой, унылой,
 
И ночи мрак печален как монах.
 
 
 
Что в жизни я своей уединённой
 
Страдаю каждый вечер в тишине,
 
И слушаю тоскливо перезвоны,
 
Поющие ей так же как и мне.
 
 
 
Скажи, что я вздыхаю от мученья,
 
Чарующий представив силуэт,
 
Глаз волшебство в своём воображенье,
 
И на щеках улыбки дивный свет;
 
В тот час, когда стихает в роще звук,
 
Любви своей я чувствую недуг.
 
 
Go, Valentine
 
 
Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid
 
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
 
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
 
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night;
 
Say, that every joy of life remote
 
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
 
Listening in solitude the ring-dome's note,
 
Who pours like me her solitary song;
 
Say, that of her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
 
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak,
 
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
 
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
 
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,
 
And heave the sigh of memory and of love
 
 
  
Порлок! [21]
 
 
 
Порлок! Ты чуден зеленью долин,
 
Грядою скал, где папоротник с дроком,
 
Журчащих вод стремительным потоком
 
Среди лесов, где путник мог один
 
Мечтам предаться, и седой канал,
 
Где в твой залив, крутясь волной, впадал.
 
Не позабыть тебя, Порлок!
 
Там летний дождь меня схватил в объятья;
 
 
 
Но буду постоянно вспоминать я
 
Как здесь, спокойный узник, одинок,
 
Дня окончанье тщетно ожидал,
 
И создал свой сонет в пивной, где Ленью
 
Был вдохновлён, и где в Уединенье
 
Уныние рифмовкой прогонял.
 
 
PORLOCK!
 
 
Porlock! thy verdant vale so fair to sight,
 
Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown,
 
The waters that roll musically down
 
Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight
 
Recalls to memory, and the channel grey
 
Circling its surges in thy level bay.
 
Porlock! I shall forget thee not,
 
Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;
 
But often shall hereafter call to mind
 
How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot
 
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
 
Making my sonnet by the alehouse fire,
 
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
 
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.