Я верю: Бог не слишком строг,

А небо терпеливо,

И не грешны его сыны,

Что так жизнелюбивы.

Нас обратит в эфир и свет

В раю святое пламя,

Но пусть напитки прежних лет

И там пребудут с нами!

Перевод Ю. Лукача

William Bell Scott (1811–1890)

A Rhyme of the Sun-Dial

The dial is dark, ‘tis but half-past one:

But the crow is abroad, and the day’s begun.

The dial is dim, ‘tis but half-past two:

Fit the small foot with its neat first shoe.

The light gains fast, it is half-past three:

Now the blossom appears all over the tree.

The gnomon tells it is but half-past four:

Shut upon him the old school-door.

The sun is strong, it is half-past five:

Through this and through that let him hustle and strive.

Ha, thunder and rain! it is half-past six:

Hither and thither, go, wander and fix.

The shadows are sharp, it is half-past seven:

The Titan dares to scale even heaven!

The rain soon dries, it is half-past eight:

Time faster flies, but it is not late!

The sky now is clear, it is half-past nine:

Draw all the threads and make them entwine.

Clearer and calmer, ‘tis half-past ten:

Count we gains? not yet: try again.

The shadows lengthen, half-past eleven:

He looks back, alas! let the man be shriven!

The mist falls cold, it is half-past twelve:

Hark, the bell tolls! up, sexton and delve!

Уильям Белл Скотт (1811–1890)

Стихи о солнечных часах

Полвторого еще. Темный сумрак гнетет.

Но вот ворон умчался, и день настает.

Полтретьего. На циферблат не взглянуть.

Ножку пора первой туфлей обуть.

Полчетвертого. Дня проступили черты.

На ветках уже распустились цветы.

«Полпятого» — вот что говорит нам гномон.

Дверь заприте за ним — со школой знаком он.

Полшестого. Солнце на высоте.

Пусть туда-сюда бегает он в суете.

Полседьмого. Дождь пошел, грянул гром!

Пусть побродит, помыслит о том да о сем.

Полвосьмого. Тени все резче и резче.

Небесам титан угрожает зловеще!

Полдевятого. Высохли быстро дожди.

Время летит — сам не мчись, подожди!

Полдесятого. Небо прояснилось почти.

Время ткань распустить и переплести.

Пол-одиннадцатого. Нет больше тумана.

Не время итог подводить! Еще рано!

Полдвенадцатого. Удлинились тени.

Время исповеди для былых прегрешений.

Полпервого. Мрак холодный, густой.

Колокол бьет! Могильщик, рой!

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Robert Browning (1812–1889)

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

“Good speed!” cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew;

“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;

I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight,

Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,

Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;

At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,

So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,

And against him the cattle stood black every one,

To stare through the mist at us galloping past,

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,

With resolute shoulders, each butting away

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;

And one eye’s black intelligence, — ever that glance

O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!

And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon

His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!

"Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,

"We’ll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And “Gallop”, gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”

“How they’ll