Страница 429 из 462
И не прозреет Вартимей,
И край одежд Его опять
Не будет исцелять людей».
Но видел я: вкушают мир
В Его объятьях те, кто сир.
«И больше милосердья зов
Не потревожит злых сердец.
Не нужно жалостливых слов:
Умерший дважды — впрямь мертвец».
Вот что толкует праздный сброд,
Но Бог всегда меня ведет.
Перевод А. Серебренникова
Thomas Boyd (1867–1927)
The Heath
Through the purple dusk on this pathless heath
Wanders a horse with his rider, Death.
The steed like his master is old and grim,
And the flame in his eye is burning dim.
The crown of the rider is red with gold.
For he is lord of the lea and the wold.
A-tween his ribs, against the sky
Glimmer the stars as he rideth by.
A hungry scythe o’er his shoulder bare
Glints afar through the darkening air.
And the sullen clank of his horse’s hoof
Frightens the Wanderer aloof.
Томас Бойд (1867–1927)
Вересковая пустошь
Сквозь багровый мрак, сквозь заросший лог
Конь бредет, а на нем — Смерть-седок.
Всаднику под стать стар и мрачен конь,
Тускло мерцает в глазу огонь.
Злат и красен венец на том, кто в седле, —
Он царит и в песчаной, и в цветущей земле.
Между ребер его виден небосвод,
Светят звезды с неба, а конь бредет.
На плечах блестит хищная коса,
Виден блеск ее сквозь густые леса,
И внезапный стук лошадиных копыт
Дальнего Путника страшит.
Перевод А. Серебренникова
John Millington Synge (1871–1909)
Da
One night a score of Erris men,
A score I’m told and nine,
Said, “We’ll get shut of Da
Of girls and widows dyin’.
There’s not his like from Binghamstown
To Boyle and Ballycroy,
At playing hell on decent girls,
At beating man and boy.
He’s left two pairs of female twins
Beyond in Killacreest,
And twice in Crossmolina fair
He’s struck the parish priest.
But we’ll come round him in the night
A mile beyond the Mullet;
Ten will quench his bloody eyes,
And ten will choke his gullet”.
It wasn’t long till Da
From Bangor making way,
And he was damning moon and stars
And whistling grand and gay.
Till in a gap of hazel glen —
And not a hare in sight —
Out lepped the nine-and-twenty lads
Along his left and right.
Then Da
He split the lips on three,
And bit across the right hand thumb
Of one Red Shawn Magee.
But seven tripped him up behind,
And seven kicked before,
And seven squeezed around his throat
Till Da
Then some destroyed him with their heels,
Some tramped him in the mud,
Some stole his purse and timber pipe,
And some washed off his blood.
And when you’re walking out the way
From Bangor to Belmullet,
You’ll see a flat cross on a stone
Where men choked Da
A Question
I asked if I got sick and died, would you
With my black funeral go, walking too,
If you’d stand close to hear them talk or pray
While I’m let down in that steep bank of clay.
And, No, you said, for if you saw a crew
Of living idiots pressing round that new
Oak coffin — they alive, I dead beneath
That board — you’d rave and rend them with your teeth.
Winter
There’s snow in every street
Where I go up and down,
And there’s no woman, man, or dog
That knows me in the town.
I know each shop, and all
These Jews, and Russian Poles,