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

so,

As ever in my great Task-master’s eye.

When The Assault Was Intended To The City

Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless dores may sease,

If ever deed of honour did thee please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms,

He can requite thee, for he knows the charms

That call Fame on such gentle acts as these,

And he can spred thy Name o’re Lands and Seas,

What ever clime the Suns bright circle warms.

Lift not thy spear against the Muses Bowre,

The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when Temple and Towre

Went to the ground: And the repeated air

Of sad Electra’s Poet had the power

To save th’ Athenian Walls from ruine bare.

On the Lord Gen. Fairfax at the Siege of Colchester

Fairfax, whose name in armes through Europe rings

Filling each mouth with envy, or with praise,

And all her jealous monarchs with amaze,

And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,

Thy firm unshak’n vertue ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise

Their Hydra heads, & the fals North displaies

Her brok’n league, to impe their serpent wings,

O yet a nobler task awaites thy hand;

Yet what can Warr, but endless warr still breed,

Till Truth, & Right from Violence be freed,

And Public Faith cleard from the shamefull brand

Of Public Fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed

While Avarice, & Rapine share the land.

To the Lord General Cromwell

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud

Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough’d,

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

Hast rear’d God’s trophies, and his work pursu’d,

While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbru’d,

And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,

And Worcester’s laureate wreath; yet much remains

To conquer still: peace hath her victories

No less renown’d than war. New foes arise

Threat’ning to bind our souls with secular chains:

Help us to save free Conscience from the paw

Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold,

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones;

Forget not: in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold

Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow

O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway

The triple tyrant; that from these may grow

A hundredfold, who having learnt thy way

Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need

Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed

And post o’er land and ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and wait”.

To Mr. Cyriack Skinner Upon His Blindness

Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear

To outward view, of blemish or of spot;

Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot,

Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear

Of Sun or Moon or Starre throughout the year,

Or man or woman. Yet I argue not

Against heavns hand or will, nor bate a jot

Of heart or hope; but still bear vp and steer

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?

The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply’d

In libertyes defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe talks from side to side.

This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask

Content though blind, had I no better guide.

On His Deceased Wife

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,

Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.

Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,

Purification in the old Law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have

Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:

Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d

So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O as to embrace me she enclin’d

I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.