Альфред Теннисон - Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов

КАНУН СВЯТОЙ АГНЕССЫ

Подлунным светом снег блестит,    В морозной мгле, как дым,Мое дыханье ввысь летит —    Лети, душа, за ним.Все резче тени на снегу    От монастырских стен,Все ближе час, когда смогу    Земной покинуть плен,Чиста отныне и навек,    Как этот лунный свет,Как этот нежный первоцвет,    Что на груди согрет.

Как белый мой наряд не бел    Пред снежной белизной,Как огонек свечи несмел    В сравнении с луной,Так и душа моя темна    Перед душой Твоей,Так и земная жизнь бедна    Пред той, что ждет за ней.О, расстели передо мной    Колючих звезд поток,Введи сверкающей звездой    В небесный Твой чертог!

И я иду к златым вратам    В бездонной вышине,И вспышки звезд то тут, то там    Путь освещают мне,Все выше, дальше — и врата    Распахнуты, и вотПред Женихом, светла, чиста,    Невеста предстает.Безбрежный вечности покой    Торжественен и тих.Сʽвет над равниною морской —    С невестою Жених!

MARIANA

ʽMariana in the moated grange.’

With blackest moss the flower-plots    Were thickly crusted, one and all:The rusted nails fell from the knots    That held the pear to the garden-wall.The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:    Unlifted was the clinking latch;    Weeded and worn the ancient thatchUpon the lonely moated grange.         She only said, ʽMy life is dreary,              He cometh not,’ she said;         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,              I would that I were dead!’

Her tears fell with the dews at even;    Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven,    Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats,    When thickest dark did trance the sky,    She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats.         She only said, The night is dreary,              He cometh not,’ she said;         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,              I would that I were dead!’

Upon the middle of the night,    Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light:    From the dark fen the oxen’s lowCame to her: without hope of change,    In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,    Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange.         She only said, ‘The day is dreary,              He cometh not,’ she said;         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,               I would that I were dead!’

About a stone-cast from the wall    A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,And o’er it many, round and small,    The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway,    All silver-green with gnarled bark:    For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray.         She only said, ‘My life is dreary,              He cometh not,’ she said;         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,              I would that I were dead!’

And ever when the moon was low,    And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro,    She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low,    And wild winds bound within their cell,    The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow.         She only said, ‘The night is dreary,              He cometh not,’ she said;         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,              I would that I were dead!’

All day within the dreamy house,    The doors upon their hinges creak’d;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse    Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,Or from the crevice peer’d about.    Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,    Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices called her from without.         She only said, ‘My life is dreary,              He cometh not,’ she said;         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,              I would that I were dead!’

The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,    The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloof    The poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hour    When the thick-moted sunbeam lay    Athwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.         Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,              He will not come,’ she said;         She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,              Oh God, that I were dead!’

МАРИАНА

В усадьбе, обнесенной рвом…

На клумбах мох как черный креп,    Аллеи глухи и мрачны,И гвозди выпали из скреп,    Державших грушу у стены.И в запустенье вековом    Строенья ветхие стоят,    Пустых окон тоскливый ряд —На мызе, окруженной рвом.         «Как жизнь пуста! — она сказала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала,              Уж лучше умереть!»

На небе отгорел закат,    Рассыпался горстями рос.Поднять не в силах скорбный взгляд,    Она лила потоки слез.Мышей летучих вился рой    И становилось все темней.    Закрывши окна, в мир тенейОна вошла ночной порой.         «Как ночь темна! — она сказала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала,              Уж лучше умереть!»

Она проснулась: на земле    Царила ночь, сойдя с высот.Бык сонно замычал во мгле,    Выпь закричала средь болот.Во сне она брела с трудом,    Сама не ведая, куда.    Заря зажглась осколком льдаНад мызой, окруженной рвом.         «Как день тосклив! — она сказала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала,              Уж лучше умереть!»

Дремал под каменной стеной    Забытый, почерневший шлюз,И мох ползучей пеленой    Воды с землей скреплял союз.Над шлюзом тополь-исполин    Стряхнул листву, коряв и гол.    На много миль лишь этот стволТорчал над пустошью трясин.         «Как жизнь пуста! — она сказала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала,              Уж лучше умереть!»

Когда всходила ввысь луна,    И ветер дул, и вечер гас,На белой завеси окна    Тень тополя пускалась в пляс.Но если ясной ночь была,    А ветры прекращали дуть,    То спящей на лицо и грудьЛожилась тень, как вестник зла.         «Как ночь темна! — она сказала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала,              Уж лучше умереть!»

Влачился мирно скучный день.    Все было тихо, слышно лишь,Как дверь скрипит, жужжит слепень,    Пищит под половицей мышь.Но зов былого все властней    Звучал: то задрожит крыльцо,    То вдруг в окне мелькнет лицоИз навсегда ушедших дней.         «Как жизнь пуста! — она сказала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала,              Уж лучше умереть!»

Со стенки — тиканье часов,    Гвалт воробьиный средь ветвейИ ветра заунывный зов —    Все было нестерпимо ей.Но ненавистнее стократ    Тот час, когда тонул весь дом    В сиянье солнца золотомИ день клонился на закат.         «Как страшно мне! — она рыдала. —              Он не придет и впредь.         А я устала, так устала!              Господь, дай умереть!»

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro’ the field the road runs by            To many-tower’d Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,            The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro’ the wave that runs for everBy the island in the river            Flowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowers            The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’dSlide the heavy barges trail’dBy slow horses; and unhail’dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail’d            Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,            The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,            Down to tower’d Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers ʽʼTis the fairy            Lady of Shalott.’

There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stay            To look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,            The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the yearShadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway near            Winding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirlsAnd there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls            Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,            Goes by to tower’d Camelot;And sometimes thro’ the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,            The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights            And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed.‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said            The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greaves            Of bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel’dTo a lady in his shieldThat sparkled on the yellow field,            Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle-bells rang merrily            As he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazon’d baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,            Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn’d like one burning flame together,            As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro’ the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,            Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow’dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,            As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash’d into the crystal mirror,ʽTirra lirra,’ by the river            Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro’ the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,            She look’d down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack’d from side to side;‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried            The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale-yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky raining            Over tower’d Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote            The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse —Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance —With a glassy countenance            Did she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,            The Lady of Shalott.

Lying robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right —The leaves upon her falling light —Thro’ the noises of the night            She floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,            The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darken’d wholly,            Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;For ere she reach’d upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,            The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,            Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,            The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross’d themselves for fear,            All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, ‘She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,            The Lady of Shalott.’

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