Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения - [40]

He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;

We did so laugh and cry with you,

I’ve half a mind to die with you,

Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,

But all his merry quips are o’er.

To see him die, across the waste

His son and heir doth ride post-haste,

But he’ll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow

I heard just now the crowing cock.

The shadows flicker to and fro:

The cricket chirps: the light burns low:

’Tis nearly twelve o’clock.

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you:

What is it we can do for you?

Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.

Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:

Step from the corpse, and let him in

That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

СМЕРТЬ СТАРОГО ГОДА

Печальна песня зимних вьюг,

Все тише колокола глас.

Бесшумно соберемся в круг,

Ведь Старый Год — наш давний друг

Встречает смертный час.

О Старый Год, не умирай!

С тобою так сдружились мы.

С тобою так сроднились мы.

О Старый Год, не умирай!

Он слег, уже не встанет вновь

И не увидит вновь восход.

Все тише в нем струится кровь…

Он дал мне друга, дал любовь,

А Новый Год — возьмет.

О Старый Год, не уходи!

Ты слишком долго жил средь нас,

Смеялся и любил средь нас.

О Старый Год, не уходи!

Он был на выдумки богат,

В забавах кто сравнится с ним?

И пусть мутнеет ясный взгляд,

И пусть враги его чернят,

Он другом был моим.

О Старый Год, не умирай!

Нам было по пути с тобой,

Позволь и мне уйти с тобой.

О Старый Год, не умирай!

Он чашу жизни до краев

Черпал. Увы! Что сталось с ней?

Его наследник средь снегов

Торопится под отчий кров,

Но смерть придет быстрей.

У каждого свои права.

Сияет небосвод, мой друг,

Беспечный Новый Год, мой друг,

Спешит войти в свои права.

Он тяжко дышит. За стеной

Пропел петух. Трещит сверчок.

Мелькают тени предо мной.

Лег снег, неярок свет ночной.

Уж полночь — близок срок.

Пожми нам руки в смертный час,

Поверь, нам жаль терять тебя.

Позволь еще обнять тебя.

Простись же с нами в смертный час.

Он умер. Пробил час потерь

И нас покинул Старый Год.

Друзья, проститесь с ним теперь,

Всплакните — и откройте дверь

Тому, кто молча ждет.

А ну-ка выйди на крыльцо.

Взгляни-ка на крыльцо, мой друг.

Там новое лицо, мой друг.

Там новое лицо.

М. Виноградова

ST. SIMEON STYLITES

Altho’ I be the basest of mankind,

From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,

Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet

For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,

I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold

Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob,

Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,

Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,

This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,

Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,

In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,

In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps,

A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,

Patient on this tall pillar I have borne

Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow;

And I had hoped that ere this period closed

Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,

Denying not these weather-beaten limbs

The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.

О take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,

Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.

Pain heap’d ten-hundred-fold to this, were still

Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,

Than were those lead-like tons of sin that crush’d

My spirit flat before thee.

О Lord, Lord,

Thou knowest I bore this better at the first,

For I was strong and hale of body then;

And tho’ my teeth, which now are dropt away,

Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard

Was tagg’d with icy fringes in the moon,

I drown’d the whoopings of the owl with sound

Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw

An angel stand and watch me, as I sang.

Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;

I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am,

So that I scarce can hear the people hum

About the column’s base, and almost blind,

And scarce can recognise the fields I know,

And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;

Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry,

While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,

Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,

Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.

О Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,

Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?

Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?

Show me the man hath suffer’d more than I.

For did not all thy martyrs die one death?

For either they were stoned or crucified

Or burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawn

In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here

To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.

Bear witness, if I could have found a way

(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)

More slowly-painful to subdue this home

Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,

I had not stinted practice, О my God.

For not alone this pillar-punishment,

Not this alone I bore: but while I lived