Стихотворения - Блейк Уильям - Страница 28

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Mad Song

Mad Song

The wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs unfold: But lo! the morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And the rustling beds of dawn The earth do scorn. Lo! to the vault Of paved heaven, With sorrow fraught My notes are driven: They strike the ear of night, Make weep the eyes of day; They make mad the roaring winds, And with tempests play. Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe After night i do crowd, And with night will go; i turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increas'd; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.

Безумная песня.

Перевод Л. Парина

В клоках небосклон, Студеный и лютый. Коснись меня, Сон, Печали распутай! Но щурится заря, Восток животворя. Щебетание утренних птах Занялось в небесах. И в полог угрюмый, В шатер небоската Летят мои думы, Печалью чреваты, Смущая ночи слух И взоры солнцу застя, И вселяют безумную ярость В бушеванье ненастья. Как морок, плыву    И в туче рыдаю. Я ночью живу —    Наутро истаю. К востоку спиной повернусь, Приманкой его не прельщусь, Ибо свет обжигает мой мозг, Как расплавленный воск.

То the Muses

То the Muses

Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas'd; Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea Wand'ring in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forc'd, the notes are few!

К музам.

Перевод В. Потаповой

На склонах Иды затененных, В чертогах, что Восток воздвиг, — В покоях, солнцем напоенных, Где песнопений смолк язык, Вы обретаетесь, богини, Иль в небесах, среди миров? Иль в тех слоях, где воздух синий Рождает музыку ветров? Или под лоном вод зеркальных Вы, девять богоравных дев, Средь рощ коралла, скал хрустальных Сошлись, поэзию презрев? Как вы могли забыть о чудной Любви к певцам ушедших лет? Ослабли струны, звуки скудны, Нот мало, искренности нет!

Blind Man's Buff

Blind Man's Buff

When silver snow decks Susan's clothes, And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose, The blushing bank is all my care, With hearth so red, and walls so fair; 'Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher, The oaken log lay on the fire.' The well-wash'd stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show! The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale, Till, tir'd of chat, the game begins. The lasses prick the lads with pins; Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool, She, falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool! She blush'd so red, with side-long glance At hob-nail Dick, who griev'd the chance. But now for Blind man's Buff they call; Of each encumbrance clear the hall— Jenny her silken 'kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds. Now laughing stops, with 'Silence! hush!' And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push. The Blind man's arms, extended wide, Sam slips between:—'O woe betide Thee, clumsy Will!'—But titt'ring Kate Is penn'd up in the corner straight! And now Will's eyes beheld the play; He thought his face was t'other way. 'Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou, Roger so near thee!—Trips, I vow!' She catches him—then Roger ties His own head up—but not his eyes; For thro' the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground!— 'See what it is to play unfair! Where cheating is, there's mischief there.' But Roger still pursues the chase,— 'He sees! he sees!' cries, softly, Grace; 'o Roger, thou, unskill'd in art, Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part!' Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rimes, And Roger turns him round three times, Then pauses ere he starts—but Dick Was mischief bent upon a trick; Down on his hands and knees he lay Directly in the Blind man's way, Then cries out 'Hem!' Hodge heard, and ran With hood-wink'd chance— sure of his man; But down he came.—Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground; Confusion startles all around. Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made; But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief; the blood is stay'd And Hodge again holds up his head. Such are the fortunes of the game, And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws; such as all those Who on the blinded man impose Stand in his stead; as, long a-gone, When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they liv'd, till wantonness And liberty began t' increase, And one man lay in another's way: Then laws were made to keep fair play.