Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах - Антология

of thy Verse with blame;

Thy fault is only Wit in its Excess,

But Wit like thine in any shape will please.

What Muse but thine cou’d equal Hints inspire,

And fit the Deep-Mouth’d Pindar to thy Lyre:

Pindar, whom others in a Labour’d strain

And forc’d Expression, imitate in vain?

Well-pleas’d in thee he Soars with new delight,

And Plays in more unbounded Verse, and takes a nobler flight.

Blest Man! whose spotless Life and Charming Lays

Employ’d the Tuneful Prelate in thy Praise:

Blest Man! who now shall be for ever known

In Sprat’s successful Labours and thy own.

But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks,

Unfetter’d in Majestic Numbers walks;

No vulgar Heroe can his Muse ingage;

Nor Earth’s wide Scene confine his hallow’d Rage.

See! see, he upward Springs, and Tow’ring high,

Spurns the dull Province of Mortality;

Shakes Heav’ns Eternal Throne with dire Alarms,

And sets the Almighty Thunderer in Arms.

What-e’er his Pen describes I more then see,

Whilst ev’ry Verse array’d in Majesty,

Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws,

And seems above the Criticks nicer Laws.

How are you struck with Terrour and Delight,

When Angel with Arch-Angel Cope’s in Fight!

When Great Messiah’s out-spread Banner shines,

How does the Chariot Rattel in his Lines!

What sounds of Brazen Wheels, what Thunder, scare,

And stun the Reader with the Din of War!

With Fear my Spirits and my Blood retire,

To see the Seraphs sunk in Clouds of Fire;

But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,

And view the first gay Scenes of Paradise;

What Tongue, what words of Rapture, can express

A Vision so profuse of pleasantness.

Oh had the Poet ne’er profan’d his Pen,

To varnish o’er the Guilt of Faithless Men,

His other works might have deserv’d applause!

But now the Language can’t support the Cause;

While the clean Current, tho’ serene and bright,

Betray’s a bottom odious to the sight.

But now my Muse, a softer strain rehearse.

Turn every Line with Art, and smooth thy Verse;

The Courtly Waller next commands thy Lays:

Muse Tune thy Verse, with Art, to Waller’s Praise.

While tender Airs and lovely Dames inspire

Soft melting Thoughts, and propagate Desire;

So long shall Waller’s strains our Passion move,

And Sacharissa’s Beauties kindle Love.

Thy Verse, Harmonious Bard, and flatt’ring Song,

Can make the Vanquish’d Great, the Coward strong.

Thy Verse can show ev’n Cromwell’s innocence,

And Compliment the Storms that bore him hence.

But seen Great Nassaw on the British Throne!

How had his Triumphs glitter’d in thy Page,

And warm’d Thee to a more Exalted Rage!

What Scenes of Death and Horrour had we viewd,

And how had Boine’s wide Current Reek’d in Blood!

Or if Maria’s Charms thou wou’dst rehearse,

In smoother Numbers and a softer Verse,

Thy Pen had well describ’d her Graceful Air,

And Gloriana wou’d have seem’d more Fair.

Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,

That makes ev’n Rules a noble Poetry:

Rules who’s deep Sense and Heav’nly Numbers show

The best of Critticks, and of Poets too.

Nor Denham must we e’er forget thy Strains,

While Cooper’s Hill commands the neighb’ring Plains.

But see where artful Dryden next appears,

Grown old in Rhime, but Charming ev’n in Years.

Great Dryden next! whose Tuneful Muse affords

The sweetest Numbers, and the fittest words.

Whether in Comick sounds or Tragick Airs

She form’s her voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears.

Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon,

If Satire or Heroick Strains she writes,

Her Heroe pleases, and her Satire Bites.

From her no harsh, unartful Numbers fall,

She wears all Dresses, and she Charms in all:

How might we fear our English Poetry,

That long has flourish’d, shou’d decay with Thee;

Did not the Muses other Hope appear,

Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our Fear.

Congreve! whose Fancies unexhausted Store

Has given already much, and promis’d more.

Congreve shall still preserve thy Fame alive

And Dryden’s Muse shall in his Friend survive.

I’m tir’d with Rhiming, and wou’d fain give o’er,

But Justice still demands one Labour more:

The Noble Montague remains unnam’d,

For Wit, for Humour, and for Judgment fam’d;

To Dorset he directs his Artful Muse,

In numbers such as Dorset’s self might use.

How negligently Graceful he unrein’s

His Verse, and writes in loose Familiar strains;

How Nassau’s Godlike Acts adorn his Lines,

And all the Heroe in full Glory Shines.

We see his Army set in just Array,

And Boine’s Di’d Waves run purple to the Sea.

Nor Simois chok’d with men, and Arms, and Blood;

Nor rapid Xanthus’ celebrated Flood:

Shall longer be the Poet’s highest Themes.

Tho’ Gods and Heroes fought, Promiscuous in they’re streams.

But now, to Nassau’s secret Councils rais’d,

He Aids the Heroe, whom before he Prais’d.

I’ve done, at length, and now, Dear Friend, receive

The last poor Present that my Muse can give.

I leave the Arts of Poetry and Verse

To them that practise ’em with more success.

Of greater Truths I’ll now prepare to tell,

And so at once, Dear Friend and Muse, Farewell.

Джозеф Аддисон (1672–1719)

Гимн

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