Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов - [10]

ST. AGNESʼ EVE

Deep on the convent-roof the snows

    Are sparkling to the moon:

My breath to heaven like vapour goes;

    May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers

    Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the creeping hours

    That lead me to my Lord:

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

    As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year

    That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil’d and dark,

    To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper’s earthly spark,

    To yonder argent round;

So shows my soul before the Lamb,

    My spirit before Thee;

So in mine earthly house I am,

    To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, О Lord! and far,

    Thro’ all yon starlight keen,

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,

    In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors;

    The flashes come and go;

All heaven bursts her starry floors,

    And straws her lights below,

And deepens on and up! The gates

    Roll back, and far within

For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,

    To make me pure of sin.

The sabbaths of Eternity,

    One sabbath deep and wide —

A light upon the shining sea —

    The Bridegroom with his bride!

John Everett Millais ST AGNES’ EVE Engraved by Dalziel Brothers Reproduced in: Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poems. London, 1857

Джон Эверетт Миллес КАНУН СВЯТОЙ АГНЕССЫ Гравюра изготовлена фирмой «Дэлзил Бразерз» Воспроизведена в книге: Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poems. London, 1857

КАНУН СВЯТОЙ АГНЕССЫ

Подлунным светом снег блестит,

    В морозной мгле, как дым,

Мое дыханье ввысь летит —

    Лети, душа, за ним.

Все резче тени на снегу

    От монастырских стен,

Все ближе час, когда смогу

    Земной покинуть плен,

Чиста отныне и навек,

    Как этот лунный свет,

Как этот нежный первоцвет,

    Что на груди согрет.

Как белый мой наряд не бел

    Пред снежной белизной,

Как огонек свечи несмел

    В сравнении с луной,

Так и душа моя темна

    Перед душой Твоей,

Так и земная жизнь бедна

    Пред той, что ждет за ней.

О, расстели передо мной

    Колючих звезд поток,

Введи сверкающей звездой

    В небесный Твой чертог!

И я иду к златым вратам

    В бездонной вышине,

И вспышки звезд то тут, то там

    Путь освещают мне,

Все выше, дальше — и врата

    Распахнуты, и вот

Пред Женихом, светла, чиста,

    Невеста предстает.

Безбрежный вечности покой

    Торжественен и тих.

Сʽвет над равниною морской —

    С невестою Жених!

Перевод О. Полей

MARIANA

ʽMariana in the moated grange.’

— Measure for Measure.

With blackest moss the flower-plots

    Were thickly crusted, one and all:

The rusted nails fell from the knots

    That held the pear to the garden-wall.

The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:

    Unlifted was the clinking latch;

    Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

Upon the lonely moated grange.

         She only said, ʽMy life is dreary,

              He cometh not,’ she said;

         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

              I would that I were dead!’

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

    Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;

She could not look on the sweet heaven,

    Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

    When thickest dark did trance the sky,

    She drew her casement-curtain by,

And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

         She only said, The night is dreary,

              He cometh not,’ she said;

         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

              I would that I were dead!’

Upon the middle of the night,

    Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:

The cock sung out an hour ere light:

    From the dark fen the oxen’s low

Came to her: without hope of change,

    In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,

    Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn

About the lonely moated grange.

         She only said, ‘The day is dreary,

              He cometh not,’ she said;

         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

               I would that I were dead!’

About a stone-cast from the wall

    A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,

And o’er it many, round and small,

    The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

    All silver-green with gnarled bark:

    For leagues no other tree did mark

The level waste, the rounding gray.

         She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

              He cometh not,’ she said;

         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

              I would that I were dead!’

And ever when the moon was low,

    And the shrill winds were up and away,

In the white curtain, to and fro,

    She saw the gusty shadow sway.

But when the moon was very low,

    And wild winds bound within their cell,

    The shadow of the poplar fell

Upon her bed, across her brow.

         She only said, ‘The night is dreary,

              He cometh not,’ she said;

         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

              I would that I were dead!’

All day within the dreamy house,

    The doors upon their hinges creak’d;

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse

    Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,

Or from the crevice peer’d about.

    Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,

    Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Old voices called her from without.

         She only said, ‘My life is dreary,