Стихи. (В переводах разных авторов) - Уильям Йейтс

And where the stone struck fire, while in the leaves

A squirrel whinnied and a bird screamed out;

But when at last he forced those sinewy flanks

Against a beech bole, he threw down the beast

And knelt above it with drawn knife. On the instant

It vanished like a shadow, and a cry

So mournful that it seemed the cry of one

Who had lost some unimaginable treasure

Wandered between the blue and the green leaf

And climbed into the air, crumbling away,

Till all had seemed a shadow or a vision

But for the trodden mire, the pool of blood,

The disembowelled horse.

King Eochaid ran,

Toward peopled Tara, nor stood to draw his breath

Until he came before the painted wall,

The posts of polished yew, circled with bronze,

Of the great door; but though the hanging lamps

Showed their faint light through the unshuttered windows,

Nor door, nor mouth, nor slipper made a noise,

Nor on the ancient beaten paths, that wound

From well-side or from plough-land, was there noise;

Nor had there been the noise of living thing

Before him or behind, but that far-off

On the horizon edge bellowed the herds.

Knowing that silence brings no good to kings,

And mocks returning victory, he passed

Between the pillars with a beating heart

And saw where in the midst of the great hall

Pale-faced, alone upon a bench, Edain

Sat upright with a sword before her feet.

Her hands on either side had gripped the bench,

Her eyes were cold and steady, her lips tight.

Some passion had made her stone. Hearing a foot

She started and then knew whose foot it was;

But when he thought to take her in his arms

She motioned him afar, and rose and spoke:

"I have sent among the fields or to the woods

The fighting men and servants of this house,

For I would have your judgment upon one

Who is self-accused. If she be innocent

She would not look in any known man's face

Till judgment has been given, and if guilty,

Will never look again on known man's face."

And at these words he paled, as she had paled,

Knowing that he should find upon her lips

The meaning of that monstrous day.

Then she:

"You brought me where your brother Ardan sat

Always in his one seat, and bid me care him

Through that strange illness that had fixed him there,

And should he die to heap his burial mound

And carve his name in Ogham." Eochaid said,

"He lives?" "He lives and is a healthy man."

"While I have him and you it matters little

What man you have lost, what evil you have found."

"I bid them make his bed under this roof

And carried him his food with my own hands,

And so the weeks passed by. But when I said

'What is this trouble?' he would answer nothing,

Though always at my words his trouble grew;

And I but asked the more, till he cried out,

Weary of many questions: 'There are things

That make the heart akin to the dumb stone.'

Then I replied: 'Although you hide a secret,

Hopeless and dear, or terrible to think on,

Speak it, that I may send through the wide world

For medicine.' Thereon he cried aloud:

'Day after day you question me, and I,

Because there is such a storm amid my thoughts

I shall be carried in the gust, command,

Forbid, beseech and waste my breath.' Then I,

'Although the thing that you have hid were evil,

The speaking of it could be no great wrong,

And evil must it be, if done ’twere worse

Than mound and stone that keep all virtue in,

And loosen on us dreams that waste our life,

Shadows and shows that can but turn the brain.'

But finding him still silent I stooped down

And whispering that none but he should hear,

Said: 'If a woman has put this on you,

My men, whether it please her or displease,

And though they have to cross the Loughlan waters

And take her in the middle of armed men,

Shall make her look upon her handiwork,

That she may quench the rick she has fired; and though

She may have worn silk clothes, or worn a crown,

She'll not be proud, knowing within her heart

That our sufficient portion of the world

Is that we give, although it be brief giving,

Happiness to children and to men.'

Then he, driven by his thought beyond his thought,

And speaking what he would not though he would,

Sighed: 'You, even you yourself, could work the cure!'

And at those words I rose and I went out

And for nine days he had food from other hands,

And for nine days my mind went whirling round

The one disastrous zodiac, muttering

That the immedicable mound's beyond

Our questioning, beyond our pity even.

But when nine days had gone I stood again

Before his chair and bending down my head

Told him, that when Orion rose, and all

The women of his household were asleep,

To go--for hope would give his limbs the power--

To an old empty woodman's house that's hidden

Close to a clump of beech trees in the wood

Westward of Tara, there to await a friend

That could, as he had told her, work his cure

And would be no harsh friend.

When night had deepened,

I groped my way through boughs, and over roots,

Till oak and hazel ceased and beech began,

And found the house, a sputtering torch within,

And stretched out sleeping on a pile of skins

Ardan, and though I called to him and tried

To shake him out of sleep, I could not rouse him.

I waited till the night was on the turn,

Then fearing that some labourer, on his way

To plough or pasture-land, might see me there,

Went out.

Among the ivy-covered rocks,

As on the blue light of a sword, a man

Who had unnatural majesty, and eyes

Like the eyes of some great kite scouring the woods,

Stood on my path. Trembling from head to foot

I gazed at him like grouse upon a kite;

But with a voice that had unnatural music,

'A weary wooing and a long,' he said,

'Speaking of love through other lips and looking

Under the eyelids of another, for it was my craft

That put a passion in the sleeper there,

And when I had got my will and drawn you here,

Where I may speak to you alone, my craft

Sucked up the passion out of him again

And left mere sleep. He'll wake when the sun wakes,

Push out his vigorous limbs and rub his eyes,

And wonder what has ailed him these twelve months.'

I cowered back upon the wall in terror,

But that sweet-sounding voice ran on: 'Woman,

I was your husband when you rode the air,

Danced in the whirling foam and in the dust,

In days you have not kept in memory,

Being betrayed into a cradle, and I come

That I may claim you as my wife again.'

I was no longer terrified, his voice

Had half awakened some old memory,

Yet answered him: 'I am King Eochaid's wife

And with him have found every happiness

Women can find.' With a most masterful voice,

That made the body seem as it were a string

Under a bow, he cried: 'What happiness

Can lovers have that know their happiness

Must end at the dumb stone? But where we build

Our sudden palaces in the still air

Pleasure itself can bring no weariness,

Nor can time waste the cheek, nor is there foot

That has grown weary of the whirling dance,

Nor an unlaughing mouth, but mine that mourns,

Among those mouths that sing their sweethearts' praise,

Your empty bed.' 'How should I love,' I answered,

'Were it not that when the dawn has lit my bed

And shown my husband sleeping there, I have sighed,

"Your strength and nobleness will pass away."

Or how should love be worth its pains were it not

That when he has fallen asleep within my arms,

Being wearied out, I love in man the child?

What can they know of love that do not know

She builds her nest upon a narrow ledge

Above a windy precipice?' Then he:

'Seeing that when you come to the deathbed

You must return, whether you would or no,

This human life blotted from memory,

Why must I live some thirty, forty years,

Alone with all this useless happiness?'

Thereon he seized me in his arms, but I

Thrust him away with both my hands and cried,

'Never will I believe there is any change

Can blot out of my memory this life

Sweetened by death, but if I could believe

That were a double hunger in my lips

For what is doubly brief.'

And now the shape,

My hands were pressed to, vanished suddenly.

I staggered, but a beech tree stayed my fall,

And clinging to it I could hear the cocks

Crow upon Tara."

King Eochaid bowed his head

And thanked her for her kindness to his brother,

For that she promised, and for that refused.

Thereon the bellowing of the empounded herds

Rose round the walls, and through the bronze-ringed door

Jostled and shouted those war-wasted men,

And in the midst King Eochaid's brother stood,

And bade all welcome, being ignorant.

Странствия Ойсина

КНИГА I

Св. Патрик.

Ты слеп, и лыс, и дряхлостью согбен,

В потемках мысли, и на сердце – тлен.

Но триста лет, как в песнях говорится,

Ты, Ойсин, наслаждался с дьяволицей.

Ойсин.

Да, все прошло. И только память мучит.

Еще я помню всадников могучих

С летящими по ветру волосами,

И чаши пива, меда и вина,

И пляски, и веселые напевы,

И ночь, и тело белогрудой девы…

Так пусть рассказ о том живет меж вами,

Доколе в небе странствует луна.

Килте и Конан, Финн и Сгеолан -

Мы мчались за оленем, вслед за псами,

И были с нами и Ломар, и Бран.

Дорога меж могильными холмами

Племен Фир Болг вела к кургану Мейв,

Чья страсть застыла камнем средь камней.

И там, над сизо-серою водой,

Заметили мы всадницу вдали

На скакуне с серебряной уздой.

Закатный свет сиял в устах ее,

Как луч над обречённою ладьей,

В кудрях шафранных догорало пламя,

А белый плащ струился до земли,

И пурпуром пылали и цвели

На нем узоры длинной чередой,

И брошь из перламутра колыхалась,

Когда, ручья июльского плавней,

Дыханьем мерным грудь ее вздымалась.

Св. Патрик.

Язычник! Все мечтаешь ты о ней!

Ойсин.

“Что ж не трубите в рог? – она спросила, -

Что все герои клонятся без силы?

Лесной олень и тот не столь печален,

Олень безрогий, мирный и усталый,

Полевка-мышь и та не столь тиха

В норе укромной из листвы и мха,

Что среди папоротников таится.

Охоте воинов не должно быть унылой!”

Финн отвечал: “О, милая девица,

Скорбим мы об Оскаровой гробнице

И о героях, что лежат убиты

На поле Габры, вороньем покрытом;

Но где же вся твоя родня и свита,

И из какой ты едешь стороны?”

“Отец мой – Энгус, мать Этайн зовут,

Меня же – Ниав; я пришла оттуда,

Где волны вечно плещут и поют,

Скрывая берега моей страны”.

“Какая привела тебя причуда

Сквозь ярость волн морских и клочья пены?

Иль спутник твой скитается далёко

От Энгусовых птиц и рощ зеленых?”

Ответ ее был сладок и надменен:

“Еще ни с кем, о воин утомленный,

Я в жизни не была обручена;

Но вот – мой выбор, и сквозь клочья пены

И ярость волн сюда примчалась я,

Чтоб сына твоего избрать в мужья”.

“Неужто лучше сына моего

В своей стране не знаешь никого?”

“Моей любви искали короли,

Но с той поры, как барды принесли

Строку, где имя Ойсина звучало,

О нем лишь сердце ноет и болит,

И лишь о нем я думаю в печали,

О том, как Ойсин в битвах побеждал,

О песне, что из уст его струится,

Подобная азийским пестрым птицам

В пустынных землях, жаждущих дождя”.

Клянусь, о Патрик, колоколом медным

Твоим, что был пленен я ликом бледным

И смят волною безудержной страсти!

И я воскликнул: “Ты моя невеста!

Я сотни песен о тебе сложу,

Превознесу тебя своею властью

И пленникам склониться прикажу

Перед тобой, повергнув их во прах

В моих туманных западных краях”.

“Нет, Ойсин, вместе на одном седле

Поскачем сквозь прибой к моей земле!

Там люди усыпальниц не возводят,

И дни бегут напевом беззаботным,

Там ни измен, ни подлости не знают,