Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения - Теннисон Альфред (2007)

Как жрец, с судьбой вступивший в спор,

Свой прозревает приговор,

Сквозь дымку, за речной простор

Она остекленевший взор

Вперила вдаль, на Камелот.

А в предзакатной тишине

Цепь отвязала, и в челне

Вдаль заскользила вслед волне

Волшебница Шалотт.

Под дуновеньем ветерка

Дрожали белые шелка;

Клонились ветви ивняка;

Сквозь ночь ладью влекла река

К воротам замка Камелот.

Ладья, потоку покорясь,

Вдоль взгорьев и полей неслась,

И песнь последняя лилась

Волшебницы Шалотт.

Звучала песнь, свята, грустна,

То звонко, то едва ясна;

Кровь остывала, пелена

Застлала взор, пока она

Глядела вдаль, на Камелот.

И только речка донесла

Ладью до первого села,

Напев прервался: умерла

Волшебница Шалотт.

Вдоль галереи, под мостом,

Минуя башню, сад и дом,

Скользил мерцающий фантом,

Потоком в тишине влеком

В гордый замок Камелот.

Люд собрался на причале:

Лорды, дамы, сенешали,

И вдоль борта прочитали:

«Волшебница Шалотт».

Кто пред нами? Что случилось?

В башне, где окно светилось,

Ожиданье воцарилось.

Оробев, перекрестилась

Стража замка Камелот.

Но Ланцелот, помедлив миг,

Сказал: «Ее прекрасен лик;

Господь, во благости велик,

Будь милостив к Шалотт».

Д. Катар

ULYSSES

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy’d

Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle —

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me —

That ever with a frolic welcome took