Тут вскрикнул он и через рвы, канавы

От пугала помчался прочь.

Оглянется и видит — длинной тенью

Бежать не надоело привиденью,

Лишь чуть светлее стала ночь.

Вот и застава. — Помогите! — вскрикнул. —

Что делать мне? Какая тьма!

За мною призрак с выгона несется.

Ах, я боюсь, хозяин, сердце бьется…

Что, что там? Я сойду с ума!

— Ах, кляча старая, — тот молвил, — Дженни,

Постой-ка, я тебе задам!

Не бойтесь, господин, — не злая сила,

А Гафферова серая кобыла

Неслась за вами по пятам.

Перевод Г. Адамовича

Mary Tighe (1772–1810)

Written at Scarborough

As musing pensive in my silent home

I hear far off the sullen ocean’s roar,

Where the rude wave just sweeps the level shore

Or bursts upon the rocks with whitening foam,

I think upon the scenes my life has known —

On days of sorrow, and some hours of joy;

Both which alike Time could so soon destroy!

And now they seem a busy dream alone;

While on the earth exists no single trace

Of all that shook my agitated soul,

As on the beach new waves for ever roll

And fill their past forgotten brother’s place;

But I, like the worn sand, exposed remain

To each new storm which frets the angry main.

Мэри Тайг (1772–1810)

Сонет, сочиненный в Скарборо

В раздумьях сидя в доме молчаливом,

Я слышу, как далече бьет прибой,

Там вал на берег катится приливом

Иль белой пеной бьется под скалой.

Как много сцен моих былых времен

Мне видится: дни горя, миги счастья!

Но Время их сотрет своею властью,

Они забудутся, как странный сон.

Нет больше ни малейшего следа

Того, что душу сотрясло когда-то, —

Сменив в забвенье ввергнутого брата,

Так вал за валом катится всегда;

Но я все там же, как песок прибрежный,

Чтоб снова грянул океан мятежный.

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Robert Southey (1774–1843)

God’s Judgment on a Wicked Bishop

The summer and autumn had been so wet,

That in winter the corn was growing yet,

’Twas a piteous sight to see all around

The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor

Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door,

For he had a plentiful last-year’s store,

And all the neighbourhood could tell

His granaries were furnish’d well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day

To quiet the poor without delay;

He bade them to his great Barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,

The poor folk flock’d from far and near;

The great barn was full as it could hold

Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,

Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;

And while for mercy on Christ they call,

He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.

“I’faith ‘tis an excellent bonfire!” quoth he,

“And the country is greatly obliged to me,

For ridding it in these times forlorn

Of Rats that only consume the corn”.

So then to his palace returned he,

And he sat down to supper merrily,

And he slept that night like an innocent man;

But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter’d the hall

Where his picture hung against the wall,

A sweat like death all over him came,

For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look’d there came a man from his farm —

He had a countenance white with alarm;

“My Lord, I open’d your granaries this morn,

And the Rats had eaten all your corn”.

Another came running presently,

And he was pale as pale could be,

“Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly”, quoth he,

“Ten thousand Rats are coming this way….

The Lord forgive you for yesterday!”

“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine”, replied he,

“’Tis the safest place in Germany;

The walls are high and the shores are steep,

And the stream is strong and the water deep”.

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten’d away,

And he crost the Rhine without delay,

And reach’d his tower, and barr’d with care

All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes…

But soon a scream made him arise,

He started and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow from whence the screaming came.

He listen’d and look’d… it was only the Cat;

And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,

For she sat screaming, mad with fear

At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,

And they have climb’d the shores so steep,

And up the Tower their way is bent,

To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score,

By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,

Such numbers had never been