Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения - [22]

Была вполне недурственная». — «Вздор! —

Отрезал Холл. — Кому нужны легенды

О героических веках? То время

Ушло, как мамонт. До которых пор

Жить в долг у старины? Моя поэма

Была гомеровским неверным эхом,

Мякиной, годной только для огня».

«Но я одну из песен, — молвил Фрэнк, —

Успел спасти из пламени. Уверен,

Ее черед настанет. Пусть лежит,

Как леденцы имбирные для Холмса».

Фрэнк засмеялся. Я же, полусонный,

Вдруг уши навострил, как жеребец,

При скрипе яслей: Холл был знаменит

У нас на первом курсе. Я взмолился,

И рукопись была принесена.

Поэт отнекивался для порядка,

Потом с пренебреженьем взял тетрадь

И стал, растягивая «о» и «а»,

Гудеть стихи. И вот что получилось.

Г. Кружков

MORTE D’ARTHUR

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d

Among the mountains by the winter sea;

Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,

Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

A broken chancel with a broken cross,

That stood on a dark strait of barren land.

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

‘The sequel of to-day unsolders all

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep

They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,

Walking about the gardens and the halls

Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made, —

Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again

To rule once more - but let what will be, be,

I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm

That without help I cannot last till morn.

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

Holding the sword — and how I row’d across

And took it, and have worn it, like a king:

And, wheresoever I am sung or told

In aftertime, this also shall be known:

But now delay not: take Excalibur,

And fling him far into the middle mere:

Watch what thou seёst, and lightly bring me word.’

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:

‘It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.

A little thing may harm a wounded man.

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,

Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’

So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down

By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,

Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:

For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long

That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,

This way and that dividing the swift mind,

In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d

Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d

There in the many-knotted waterflags,

That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

‘Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?

What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

‘I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,

And the wild water lapping on the crag.’

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

‘Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,

Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d

Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:

For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again

As thou art life and dear, and do the thing

I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time

Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;

But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,

How curiously and strangely chased, he smote

His palms together, and he cried aloud,

‘And if indeed I cast the brand away,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

An act unprofitable, against himself?

The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

What record, or what relic of my lord

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps