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ВЕРГИЛИЮ
О Вергилий, певший битвы, Кровь, пожар и бегство на заре, Гибель Трои, славу Рима, Храм в огне, Дидону на костре. О блюститель красноречья, Чьи слова, как золото и мед, Возносивший гимн природе Ярче и звучней, чем Гесиод; Воспевавший нивы, пашни, Ульи, виноградники, сады, — У кого в едином слове Все звучали струны и лады; Свищет Титир на свирели, И подпаски надорвут бока, Потешаясь над Сатиром, Певшим про царицу и быка. Поллиону — век блаженный Ты сулил: вол сбросит свой ярем; Ни змеи в траве, ни плуга На поле, ни на море трирем. Ты познал Всемирный Разум И людскую участь ты постиг, С величавою печалью Ты оплакал нашей жизни миг; Светоч, озаривший сумрак Позабытых накрепко времен, Золотая ветвь в загробной Сутолоке канувших племен. Пусть лежит в руинах форум, И с обломков статуй стерся грим, Ты, воздвигший колоннады Дактилей, нетленный создал Рим. И теперь, когда свободны Римляне, я — житель островной, Из краев, где прежде варвар Дни свои влачил в глуши лесной, — Я, которого бессменно Вдохновляет твой высокий слог, Шлю тебе, о Мантуанец, Свой привет, как верности залог.Г. Стариковский
THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE
I I was the chief of the race — he had stricken my father dead — But I gather’d my fellows together, I swore I would strike off his head. Each of them look’d like a king, and was noble in birth as in worth, And each of them boasted he sprang from the oldest race upon earth. Each was as brave in the fight as the bravest hero of song, And each of them liefer had died than have done one another a wrong. He lived on an isle in the ocean — we sail’d on a Friday morn — He that had slain my father the day before I was born. II And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he. But a sudden blast blew us out and away thro’ a boundless sea. III And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touch’d at before, Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore, And the brooks glitter’d on in the light without sound, and the long waterfalls Pour’d in a thunderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls, And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourish’d up beyond sight, And the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height, And high in the heaven above it there flicker’d a songless lark, And the cock couldn’t crow, and the bull couldn’t low, and the dog couldn’t bark. And round it we went, and thro’ it, but never a murmur, a breath — It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death, And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speak Our voices were thier and fainter than any flittermouse-shriek; And the men that were mighty of tongue and could raise such a battle-cry That a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die — O they to be dumb’d by the charm! — so fluster’d with anger were they They almost fell on each other; but after we sail’d away. IV And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birds Cried from the topmost summit with human voices and words; Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices peal’d The steer fell down at the plow and the harvest died from the field, And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame, And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame; And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew, Till they shouted along with the shouting and seized one another and slew; But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that we could not stay, And we left the dead to the birds and we sail’d with our wounded away. V And we came to the Isle of Flowers: their breath met us out on the seas, For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on the lap of the breeze; And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the darkblue clematis, clung, And starr’d with a myriad blossom the long convolvulus hung; And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies in lieu of snow, And the lilies like glaciers winded down, ruing out below Thro’ the fire of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of gorse, and the blush Of millions of roses that sprang without leaf or a thorn from the bush; And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea; And we roll’d upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and our kin, And we wallow’d in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Fi, Till each like a golden image was pollen’d from head to feet And each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle-day heat. Blossom and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit! And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute, And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay, And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail’d away.