Лица, полные ярости, злобы слепой,
Перед ней проносились, как дьяволов рой.
Ты не видела, Мэри, луча доброты.
Темной злобы не знала одна только ты.
Ты же — образ любви, изнемогшей в слезах,
Нежный образ ребенка, узнавшего страх,
Образ тихой печали, тоски роковой,
Что проводят тебя до доски гробовой.
The Crystal Cabinet
The Crystal Cabinet
The Maiden caught me in the wild,
Where I was dancing merrily;
She put me into her Cabinet,
And lock'd me up with a golden key,
This Cabinet is form'd of gold
And pearl and crystal shining bright,
And within it opens into a world
And a little lovely moony night.
Another England there I saw,
Another London with its Tower,
Another Thames and other hills,
And another pleasant Surrey bower.
Another Maiden like herself,
Translucent, lovely, shining clear,
Threefold each in the other clos'd—
O, what a pleasant trembling fear!
O, what a smile! a threefold smile
Fill'd me, that like a flame I burn'd;
I bent to kiss the lovely Maid,
And found a threefold kiss return'd.
I strove to seize the inmost form
With ardour fierce and hands of flame,
But burst the Crystal Cabinet,
And like a weeping Babe became—
A weeping Babe upon the wild,
And weeping Woman pale reclin'd,
And in the outward air again
I fill'd with woes the passing wind.
Хрустальная шкатулка. Перевод В. Топорова
Плясал я на пустом просторе,
Казалось, пляска весела;
Но Дева Юная поймала —
В свою шкатулку заперла.
Была хрустальною шкатулка,
Была жемчужной, золотой;
Нездешний мир в ней открывался
С нездешней Ночью и Луной.
Нездешней Англия предстала:
Нездешней Темзы берега,
Нездешний Тауэр и Лондон,
Нездешни милые луга.
И Дева деялась нездешней,
Сквозя сквозь самое себя.
Я видел: в ней была другая!
В той — третья, видел я, любя!
Я трепетал... О, Три Улыбки!
Пламеньев пылких три волны!
Я целовал их, и лобзанья
Трикраты мне возвращены!
Я к третьей, к тайной, к сокровенной
Длань пламесущую простер —
И сжег хрустальную шкатулку,
Младенцем пал в пустой простор.
И Женщина заголосила,
И я, Младенец, голосил,
И ветер пролетал по свету,
И ветер крики разносил.
The Grey Monk
The Grey Monk
'I die, I die!' the Mother said,
'My children die for lack of bread.
What more has the merciless tyrant said?'
The Monk sat down on the stony bed.
The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side
His hands and feet were wounded wide,
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.
His eye was dry; no tear could flow:
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled and shudder'd upon the bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:
'When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The bane of all that on Earth I love.
'My brother starv'd between two walls,
His children's cry my soul appalls;
I mock'd at the wrack and griding chain,
My bent body mocks their torturing pain.
'Thy father drew his sword in the North,
With his thousands strong he marched forth;
Thy brother has arm'd himself in steel,
To avenge the wrongs thy children feel.
'But vain the sword and vain the bow,
They never can War's overthrow.
The hermit's prayer and the widow's tear
Alone can free the world from fear.
'For a tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King,
And the bitter groan of the martyr's woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.
'The hand of Vengeance found the bed
To which the purple tyrant fled;
The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head,
And became a tyrant in his stead.'
Серый монах. Перевод В. Топорова
Мать причитает: — Нам конец!
Замучен в крепости отец.
Ни крошки в доме... Дети, спать! —
Монах садится на кровать.
На лбу его кровавый шрам.
Кровь лужей натекла к ногам.
Как молнией спаленный дуб,
Он полужив и полутруп.
Но ни слезы в его очах...
Вздохнувши горестно, монах
Собрался из последних сил
И с жалким криком возгласил:
— Когда Господь моей руке
Велел писать о злой тоске,
Он рек: быть этому письму
Проклятьем роду твоему.
Был брат мой в крепость заточен.
Несчастных сирот слыша стон,
Я — сам истерзан и в цепях,—
Смеясь, превозмогал свой страх.
Отец твой рать свою созвал,
Ей путь на Север указал;
Твой брат с дружиною своей
Отмстил *за плач твоих детей.
Но тщетна хитрость, хрупок меч,
Бойцов отважных губит сечь,
А торжествует только тот,
Кто молится и слезы льет.
Пусть вдов и мучеников плач
С издевкой слушает палач,
Но воинство невинных слез
Ведет в сражение Христос!
Рука Возмездия найдет
Того, кто в Пурпуре цветет,
Но мститель, пусть он справедлив,
Убийцей станет, отомстив.
Auguries of Innocence
Auguries of Innocence
To see a World in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A horse misus'd upon the road
Calls to Heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock dipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from Hell a Human soul.
The wild deer, wandering here and there,
Keeps the Human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling-bands;
Throughout all these human lands
Tools were made, and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in Eternity;
This is caught by Females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar
Are waves that beat on Heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith