Он на колени стал,

Моля Творца, чтоб он к себе

Дух страждущий приял.

Колена преклонив, главу

      На плаху опустил

И в тот же миг ее палач

      От тела отделил.

И хлынула потоком кровь,

      Забрызгав эшафот,

И плакал тронутый в душе,

      Собравшийся народ.

И плоть палач четвертовал

      И нанизал на шест,

И тлели части на шестах,

      Страх наводя окрест.

Одна — на Кинвильфском холме

      Грозою горожан;

Одна — на башне; третью часть

      Клюет пред замком вран.

У врат святого Павла — здесь

      Четвертая висит,

Глава же Чарльза на кресте

      Пугает весь Хай-стрит.

Вот Чарльза Бовдина конец:

      Пусть наш король живет

И славу с Чарльзовой душой

      Пусть небу воздает.

Перевод М. Талова

К Хорасу Уолполу

Уолпол! Как же слеп я был, пока

Не видел, что душа твоя низка!

Ты, роскоши дитя, пригреть не мог

Мальчишку нищего, что, одинок,

О том молил? Назвал его лжецом?

А ты ужель с обманом не знаком?

«Отранто» вспомни! Нет, упрек, постой!

Презреньем пущим встречу гонор твой,

Уолпол! Так строчи потоки глав

И, письма Несравненной накропав,

Пред критиками снова спину гни,

Хотя и так поют хвалы они,

А честных простофиль гони взашей…

Я беден; будь счастливей мой удел,

Ты оскорблять меня бы не посмел!

Но Роули повсюду прогремит,

Когда ты будешь проклят и забыт!

Перевод М. Савченко

Последние стихи

Бристолия, прощай! С тобой уютней

Поклонникам Маммоны, хитрых плутней.

Отвергла ты певца, чьих песен строй

Ты встретила бесчувственной хвалой.

Прощайте, вы, шуты и ольдермены,

Вы, данники разврата и измены!

Я ухожу для неземных услад,

Но вы!.. По смерти вы сойдете в ад.

Прощай, о мать! Умолкни, скорби гений.

Не погружусь я в волны наслаждений.

О, небо! Нет иного мне пути…

Последний акт отчаянья прости!

Перевод М. Талова

George Crabbe (1754–1832)

Peter Grimes

Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ,

His wife he cabin’d with him and his boy,

And seem’d that life laborious to enjoy:

To town came quiet Peter with his fish,

And had of all a civil word and wish.

He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day,

And took young Peter in his hand to pray:

But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,

At first refused, then added his abuse:

His father’s love he scorn’d, his power defied,

But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.

   Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came

Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame, —

How he had oft the good old man reviled,

And never paid the duty of a child;

How, when the father in his Bible read,

He in contempt and anger left the shed:

“It is the word of life”, the parent cried;

– “This is the life itself”, the boy replied.

And while old Peter in amazement stood,

Gave the hot spirits to his boiling blood: —

How he, with oath and furious speech, began

To prove his freedom and assert the man;

And when the parent check’d his impious rage,

How he had cursed the tyranny of age, —

Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow

On his bare head, and laid his parent low;

The father groan’d — “If thou art old”, said he,

“And hast a son — thou wilt remember me:

Thy mother left me in a happy time,

Thou kill’dst not her — heav’n spares the double crime”.

   On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief,

This he resolved, and drank for his relief.

   Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr’d

From constant pleasures, and he thought it hard;

Hard that he could not every wish obey,

But must awhile relinquish ale and play;

Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,

But must acquire the money he would spend.

   With greedy eye he look’d on all he saw,

He knew not justice, and he laugh’d at law;

On all he mark’d, he stretch’d his ready hand;

He fish’d by water and he filch’d by land:

Oft in the night has Peter dropp’d his oar,

Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on shore;

Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back

Bearing the orchard’s produce in a sack,

Or farm-yard load, tugg’d fiercely from the stack;

And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose,

The more he look’d on all men as his foes.

   He built a mud-wall’d hovel, where he kept

His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept;

But no success could please his cruel soul,

He wish’d for one to trouble and control;

He wanted some obedient boy to stand

And bear the blow of his outrageous hand;

And hoped to find in some propitious hour

A feeling creature subject to his power.

Peter had heard there were in London then, —

Still have they being! — workhouse-clearing men,

Who, undisturb’d by feelings just