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

Клыков Харибды избежать помог нам Капитан —

Но Сциллу встретили, глупцы… А южный ураган

Погибель нашу довершил, неистов и жесток…

И вот — плывём, мой друг и я, куда направит рок…

Лишь скалы, отмели вокруг, и не уплыть нам прочь!

Теченья нет, и ветра нет, и некому помочь.

Вдали от курса кораблей, вдали от берегов —

Отчаяться ли нам теперь, коль наш не слышен зов?

Нет! Бог не позабудет нас. Он Благ. Придёт пора —

И море возмутится вдруг, а сильные ветра

Корабль наш от опасных мест отгонят поскорей…

Удачу нам вернёт Господь — мы насладимся ей!

На суше, в море мы найдём сохранные пути…

Молись о помощи, мой друг — она должна прийти!

Перевод Д. Якубова

Голубь

Наивный голубь дом и кров

Нашёл среди ворон,

И пищу от своих врагов

Беспечно принял он.

Меж тем коварный птицелов

Им приготовил сеть —

Рыдают птицы! Голубь стал

О выборе жалеть.

Но ловчий — такова судьба! —

За ним следил, и вот

Он лишь ворону видит в нём,

И потому убьёт.

Перевод Д. Якубова

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

Of the Thoughtes He Nourished by Night When He was Retired to Bed

The sun his iourney ending in the west

Taking his lodging vp in Thetis bed

Though from oure sightes his beames be banished

Yet with his light the Antipodes be blest.

Now when the same tyme brings my sun to rest

Which me so oft of rest hath hindered

And whiter skin with white sheete couered

And softer cheeke doth on softe pillow rest.

Then I Oh sun of suns and light of lights

Wish me with those Antipodes to be

Which see and feele thy beames and heate by night

Well though the night both cold and darksome is

Yet halfe the dayes delight the night grants me

I feele my suns heate though his light I misse.

To God the Father

Greate God: within whose symple essence, wee

nothyng but that, which ys thy self can fynde:

when on thyself thou dydd’st reflect thy mynde,

thy thought was God, which tooke the forme of thee:

And when this God thus borne, thou lov’st, & hee

lov’d thee agayne, with passion of lyke kynde,

(as lovers syghes, which meete, become one wynde,)

both breath’d one spryght of aequall deitye.

Aeternall father, whence theis twoe do come

and wil’st the tytle of my father have,

and heavenly knowledge in my mynde engrave,

That yt thy sonnes true Image may become;

and sence my hart, with syghes of holy Love,

that yt the temple of the Spright may prove.

To St. Michael the Archangel

When as the prynce of Angells puft’d with pryde

styrr’d his seditious spyrittes to rebell:

God choose for cheife, his Champion Michaell:

and gave hym charge the hoste of heaven to guyde.

And when the Angells of the Rebells syde

vanquish’t in battayle from theyr glory fell,

the pryde of heaven became the Drake of hell,

and in the dungeon of dispayre was tyed.

Thys Dragon synce lett loose, goddes Church assail’d,

and shee by helpe of Mychaells swoarde prevail’d.

Who ever try’d adventures lyke thys knyght?

Which generall of heaven, hell overthrewe;

for such a Lady as Goddes spouse dyd fyght:

and such a monster as the Dyvell subdue.

Of the Prowesse of His Ladie

Sweete Soueraigne sith so many mynds remayne

Obedient subiects at thy beautyes call

So many thoughts bound in thy hayre as thrall

So many hearts dye with one lookes disdayne.

Goe seeke that glorie which doth thee pertayne

That the fift monarchie may thee befall

Thow hast such meanes to conquer men withall

As all the world must yeeld or else be slayne.

To fight thow needst no weapons but thyne eyes

Thy hayre hath gold enough to pay thy men

And for theyre foode thy beautie will suffice

For men and armoure (Ladie) care haue none

For one will soonest yeeld vnto thee then

When he shall meet thee naked and alone.

Of His Ladies Vayle Wherewith She Covered Her

The fouler hydes as closely as he may

The net where caught the sillie byrd should be

Least that the threatning prison it should see

And so for feare be forst to flye away

My Ladie so the while she doth assay

In curled knotts fast to entangle me

Puts on her vayle to th’end I should not flee

The golden net wherein I am a pray

Alas (most sweete) what need is of a nette

To catch a byrd which is allreadie tame

Sith with youre hand alone yow may it gette

For it desires to fly into the same

What needs such arte my thoughts then to intrap

When of them selues they flye into youre lap.

Генри Констебл (1562–1613)

Некие мысли, посетившие поэта ночной порою, когда он улёгся в постель

На западе нисходит солнце к водам,

В пуховые ложится облака,

И будет нам невидимо, пока

Лучи его сияют антиподам.

И ты с моим рассталась небосводом,

И рядом спишь,