– 59-

ЭПИТАФИЯ ТОМИКУ

Над лесопарком взошла луна.Мерцают стволы берез.Отсюда могила твоя не видна,Мой черный и глупый пес.Там под сосной во земле сыройПокоится плоть твоя.Но дух бестолковый и озорнойВ иные отбыл края.Архангел «Апорт!» не устанет кричать,Бросать тебе мячик твой.И целую вечность ты будешь гулять.Не то что с ленивым мной.

– LX-

Now hollow fires burn out to black,And lights are guttering low:Square your shoulders, lift your pack,And leave your friends and go.Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread,Look not to left nor right:In all the endless road you treadThere's nothing but the night.

– 60-

Ну что же, и правда на посошок…Пора, ну правда пора!Вот Бог, вот порог, а вот вещмешок.Чего ж сидеть до утра?..Ведь долгих проводов, лишних слезМы вряд ли дождемся тут.В Рим – без турусов и без колес —Проложен прямой маршрут.

– LXI-

HUGHLEY STEEPLE

The vane on Hughley steepleVeers bright, a far-known sign,And there lie Hughley peopleAnd there lie friends of mine.Tall in their midst the towerDivides the shade and sun,And the clock strikes the hourAnd tells the time to none.To south the headstones cluster,The sunny mounds lie thick;The dead are more in musterAt Hughley than the quick.North, for a soon-told number,Chill graves the sexton delves,And steeple-shadowed slumberThe slayers of themselves.To north, to south, lie parted,With Hughley tower above,The kind, the single-hearted,The lads I used to love.And, south or north, 'tis onlyA choice of friends one knows,And I shall ne'er be lonelyAsleep with these or those.

– 61-

СЕЛЬСКОЕ КЛАДБИЩЕ

Как странно, что все мы смертны,А что бессмертны – странней.И что существуют чертиИ нет никаких чертей.И Бог, как гласит наколка,Не фраер и все простит,Поставит на вид и только,Как дедушка, пожурит.С одной стороны, конечно,Наколка сия верна.Но знаю аз многогрешный —Другая есть сторона.Что это – соблазн и ересь,Любой растолкует поп,Но как же бы мне хотелось,Чистилище было чтоб!..– Так, веря – не веря чуду,По кладбищу я гулял.Погожий денек безлюдныйСиял, стрекотал и врал,Что вечен покой кладбища,Что все еще не пора,Что лет остаются тыщиДо радостного утра.

– LXII-

'Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer.But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,It gives a chap the belly-ache.The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head:We poor lads, 'tis our turn nowTo hear such tunes as killed the cow.Pretty friendship 'tis to rhymeYour friends to death before their timeMoping melancholy mad:Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,There's brisker pipes than poetry.Say, for what were hop-yards meant,Or why was Burton built on Trent?Oh many a peer of England brewsLivelier liquor than the Muse,And malt does more than Milton canTo justify God's ways to man.Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drinkFor fellows whom it hurts to think:Look into the pewter potTo see the world as the world's not.And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:The mischief is that 'twill not last.Oh I have been to Ludlow fairAnd left my necktie God knows where,And carried half way home, or near,Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:Then the world seemed none so bad,And I myself a sterling lad;And down in lovely muck I've lain,Happy till I woke again.Then I saw the morning sky:Heigho, the tale was all a lie;The world, it was the old world yet,I was I, my things were wet,And nothing now remained to doBut begin the game anew.Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill,And while the sun and moon endureLuck's a chance, but trouble's sure,I'd face it as a wise man would,And train for ill and not for good.'Tis true, the stuff I bring for saleIs not so brisk a brew as ale:Out of a stem that scored the handI wrung it in a weary land.But take it: if the smack is sourThe better for the embittered hour;It will do good to heart and headWhen your soul is in my soul's stead;And I will friend you, if I may,In the dark and cloudy day.There was a king reigned in the east:There, when kings will sit to feast,They get their fill before they thinkWith poisoned meat and poisoned drink.He gathered all that springs to birthFrom the many-venomed earth;First a little, thence to more,He sampled all her killing store;And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,Sate the king when healths went round.They put arsenic in his meatAnd stared aghast to watch him eat;They poured strychnine in his cupAnd shook to see him drink it up:They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:Them it was their poison hurt.– I tell the tale that I heard told.Mithridates, he died old.