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Стихотворения - Блейк Уильям - Страница 41

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«Я встал, когда редела ночь...»

Перевод С. Маршака

Я встал, когда редела ночь.

— Поди ты-прочь! Поди ты прочь!

О чем ты молишься, поклоны

Кладя пред капищем Мамоны?

Я был немало удивлен —

Я думал, — это Божий трон.

Всего хватает мне, но мало

В кармане звонкого металла.

Есть у меня богатство дум,

Восторги духа, здравый ум,

Жена любимая со мною.

Но беден я казной земною.

Я перед Богом день и ночь.

С меня Он глаз не сводит прочь.

Но дьявол тоже неотлучен:

Мой кошелек ему поручен.

Он мой невольный казначей.

Я ел бы пищу богачей,

Когда бы стал ему молиться.

Я не хочу, а дьявол злится.

Итак, не быть мне богачом.

К чему ж молиться и о чем?

Желаний у меня немного,

И за других молю я Бога.

Пускай дает мне злобный черт

Одежды, пищи худший сорт, —

Мне и в нужде живется славно..

И все же, черт, служи исправно!

The Pickering Manuscript

Манускрипт Пикеринга

1800-1803

The Smile

There is a smile of love,

And there is a smile of deceit,

And there is a smile of smiles

In which these two smiles meet.

And there is a frown of hate,

And there is a frown of disdain,

And there is a frown of frowns

Which you strive to forget in vain,

For it sticks in the heart's deep core

And it sticks in the deep backbone—

And no smile that ever was smil'd,

But only one smile alone,

That betwixt the cradle and grave

It only once smil'd can be;

And, when it once is smil'd,

There's an end to all misery.

Улыбка.

Перевод А. Парина

Есть Улыбка Любви,

Есть Улыбка притворной Личины,

Есть Улыбка Улыбок —

В ней обе Улыбки едины.

Есть Ухмылка Вражды,

Есть Ухмылка Презренья,

Есть Ухмылка Ухмылок,

От которой не знают забвенья,

Ибо в струпьях душа от нее

И нутро в несчислимых увечьях;

Но единой Великой Улыбке

Суждено на устах человечьих

Единожды вспыхнуть в пути

От Колыбели до Гроба;

Но достаточно ей расцвести —

И впадает в ничтожество Злоба.

The Golden Net

Three Virgins at the break of day:—

'Whither, young man, whither away?

Alas for woe! alas for woe!'

They cry, and tears for ever flow.

The one was cloth'd in flames of fire,

The other cloth'd in iron wire,

The other cloth'd in tears and sighs

Dazzling bright before my eyes.

They bore a Net of golden twine

To hang upon the branches fine.

Pitying I wept to see the woe

That Love and Beauty undergo,

To be consum'd in burning fires

And in ungratified desires,

And in tears cloth'd night and day

Melted all my soul away.

When they saw my tears, a smile

That did Heaven itself beguile,

Bore the Golden Net aloft,

As on downy pinions soft,

Over the Morning of my day.

Underneath the net I stray,

Now entreating Burning Fire

Now entreating Iron Wire,

Now entreating Tears and Sighs—

O! when will the morning rise?

Златая сеть.

Перевод В. Потаповой

Три девы в предрассветный час:

«Куда ты, юноша, от нас?

О горе, горе!» Из очей

У каждой хлынул слез ручей.

Одна — огнем одела стан,

Другой — наряд железный дан.

На третьей — полное сиянья,

Из слез и вздохов одеянье.

И сеть из пряжи золотой

Несут, рыдая, в лес густой.

Заплакав с ними, я узрел

Любви и Красоты удел:

Они двойным огнем палимы.

Желанья их неутолимы.

До слез я жаждал им помочь, —

Одетым в слезы день и ночь.

Тут вызвал я у них улыбку,

Что небеса ввела б в ошибку, —

Улыбку, что златую сеть

Заставила, как пух, взлететь

И захлестнуть начало дней

Моих, чтоб я блуждал под ней.

Взываю к Ярому Огню,

Молю Железную Броню,

Слезам и Вздохам говорю:

— Когда увижу я зарю?

The Mental Traveller

I travell'd thro' a land of men,

A land of men and women too;

And heard and saw such dreadful things

As cold earth-wanderers never knew.

For there the Babe is born in joy

That was begotten in dire woe;

Just as we reap in joy the fruit

Which we in bitter tears did sow.

And if the Babe is born a boy

He's given to a Woman Old,

Who nails him down upon a rock,

Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.

She binds iron thorns around his head,

She pierces both his hands and feet,

She cuts his heart out at his side,

To make it feel both cold and heat.

Her fingers number every nerve,

Just as a miser counts his gold;

She lives upon his shrieks and cries,

And she grows young as he grows old.

Till he becomes a bleeding Youth,

And she becomes a Virgin bright;

Then he rends up his manacles,

And binds her down for his delight.

He plants himself in all her nerves,

Just as a husbandman his mould;

And she becomes his dwelling-place

And garden fruitful seventyfold.

An aged Shadow, soon he fades,

Wandering round an earthly cot,

Full filled all with gems and gold

Which he by industry had got.

And these are the gems of the human soul,

The rabies and pearls of a love-sick eye,

The countless gold of the aching heart,

The martyr's groan and the lover's sigh.

They are his meat, they are his drink;

He feeds the beggar and the poor

And the wayfaring traveller:

For ever open is his door.

His grief is their eternal joy;

They make the roofs and walls to ring;

Till from the fire on the hearth

A little Female Babe does spring.

And she is all of solid fire

And gems and gold, that none his hand

Dares stretch to touch her baby form,

Or wrap her in his swaddling-band.

But she comes to the man she loves,

If young or old, or rich or poor;

They soon drive out the Aged Host,

A beggar at another's door.

He wanders weeping far away,

Until some other take him in;

Oft blind and age-bent, sore distrest,

Until he can a Maiden win.

And to allay his freezing age,

The poor man takes her in his arms;

The cottage fades before his sight,

The garden and its lovely charms.

The guests are scatter'd thro' the land,

For the eye altering alters all;

The senses roll themselves in fear,

And the flat earth becomes a ball;

The stars, sun, moon, all shrink away,

A desert vast without a bound,

And nothing left to eat or drink,

And a dark desert all around.

The honey of her infant lips,

The bread and wine of her sweet smile,

The wild game of her roving eye,

Does him to infancy beguile;

For as he eats and drinks he grows

Younger and younger every day;

And on the desert wild they both

Wander in terror and dismay.

Like the wild stag she flees away,

Her fear plants many a thicket wild;

While he pursues her night and day,

By various arts of love beguil'd;

By various arts of love and hate,

Till the wide desert planted o'er

With labyrinths of wayward love,

Where roam the lion, wolf, and boar.

Till he becomes a wayward Babe,

And she a weeping Woman Old.

Then many a lover wanders here;

The sun and stars are nearer roll'd;

The trees bring forth sweet ecstasy

To all who in the desert roam;

Till many a city there is built,

And many a pleasant shepherd's home.

But when they find the Frowning Babe,

Terror strikes thro' the region wide:

They cry 'The Babe! the Babe is born!'

And flee away on every side.

For who dare touch the Frowning Form,

His arm is wither'd to its root;

Lions, boars, wolves, all howling flee,

And every tree does shed its fruit.

And none can touch that Frowning Form,

Except it be a Woman Old;

She nails him down upon the rock,

And all is done as i have told.

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