class="v">Дитя морей, из лотоса венок

Случайно ухватил ты проплывавший;

Текучий звук русалочьего пенья

Пленил твой слух; но всё же твой рассказ

О зыбях и пучинах повествует,

Он — горечь вод, что душу тяготит.

Несчастный мореход! Ты упустил

Главнейшее из всех чудес подводных.

Разведай ты старательней пещеры,

Увидь, как блещет многоценный Жемчуг

Средь бури в непорочной чистоте,

Ты пел бы радость; с грузом боле ценным,

Чем водоросль с морского камня, ты

Отплыл бы с миром к Островам Блаженных.

Не так в твоих твореньях: видно в них —

Ты в море ищешь бурь, а не Жемчужин.

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Andrew Park (1807–1863)

The Auld Folks

The auld folks sit by the fire,

When the winter nichts are chill;

The auld wife she plies her wire,

The auld man he quaffs his yill.

An’ meikle an’ lang they speak

O’ their youthfu’ days gane by,

When the rose it was on the cheek,

And the pearl was on the eye!

They talk o’ their bairnies’ bairns,

They talk o’ the brave an’ free,

They talk o’ their mountain-cairns,

And they talk of the rolling sea.—

And meikle an’ lang they speak

O’ their youthfu’ days gane by,

When the rose it was on the cheek,

An’ the pearl was on the eye!

They talk o’ their friends lang gane,

And the tear-draps blin’ their e’e;

They talk o’ the cauld kirk-stane

Whare sune they baith maun be.

Yet each has had their half

0’ the joys o’ this fitful sphere,

So whiles the auld folk laugh,

And whiles they drap a tear!

Эндрю Парк (1807–1863)

Старики

Зима на дворе, у огня старики,

Под вечер, сидят себе двое.

Старуха за прялкой, за кружкой старик.

Сидят, вспоминая былое.

И много и долго толкуют они

О днях, что казалось забыты,

Когда у ней перлы сверкали в очах,

Пылали румянцем ланиты.

О детях детей, о своих земляках

Толкуют, друг другу все вторя,

О зелени яркой лугов и долин,

О шуме угрюмого моря.

И много и долго толкуют они

О днях, что, казалось, забыты,

Когда у ней перлы сверкали в очах,

Пылали румянцем ланиты.

Они вспоминали усопших друзей,

Лежащих на тихом погосте;

И грустно им вздумать, что скоро свезут

Туда же их старые кости!

Но каждый из них взял у жизни что мог.

Любила их радость живая.

И вот — то смеются, то плачут они,

О старых годах вспоминая.

Перевод А.Н. Плещеева

Helen Selina Blackwood (1807–1867)

Lament of the Irish Emigrant

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,

 Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin’ long ago,

 When first you were my bride;

The corn was springin’ fresh and green,

 And the lark sang loud and high—

And the red was on your lip, Mary,

 And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,

 The day is bright as then,

The lark’s loud song is in my ear,

 And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

 And your breath warm on my cheek,

And I still keep listening for the words

 You never more will speak.

‘Tis but a step down yonder lane,

 And the little church stands near,

The church where we were wed, Mary,

 I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

 And my step might break your rest —

For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep,

 With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,

 For the poor make no new friends,

But, O, they love the better still,

 The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary,

 My blessin’ and my pride:

There’s nothing’ left to care for now,

 Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

 That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

 And my arm’s young strength was gone

There was comfort ever on your lip,

 And the kind look on your brow—

I bless you, Mary, for that same,

 Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

 When your heart was fit to break,

When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there,

 And you hid it, for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,

 When your heart was sad and sore —

O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,

 Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,

 My Mary kind and true!

But I’ll not forget you, darling!

 In the land I’m goin’ to;

They say there’s bread and work for all,

 And the sun shines always there —

But I’ll not forget old Ireland,

 Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods

 I’ll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again

 To the place where Mary lies;