at your chest,

And his knuckles in your throat,

You would reason — plead — protest!

Clutching at her petticoat;

But she’s heard it all before,

Well she knows you’ve had your fun,

Gingerly she gains the door,

      And your little job is done.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

To R. L. S

A child,

Curious and innocent,

Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing

Loses himself in the Fair.

Thro’ the jostle and din

Wandering, he revels,

Dreaming, desiring, possessing;

Till, of a sudden

Tired and afraid, he beholds

The sordid assemblage

Just as it is; and he runs

With a sob to his Nurse

(Lighting at last on him),

And in her motherly bosom

Cries him to sleep.

Thus thro’ the World,

Seeing and feeling and knowing,

Goes Man: till at last,

Tired of experience, he turns

To the friendly and comforting breast

Of the old nurse, Death.

A New Song to an Old Tune

Sоns of Shannon, Tamar, Trent,

Men of the Lothians, Men of Kent,

Essex, Wessex, shore and shire,

Mates of the net, the mine, the fire,

Lads of the wheel and desk and loom,

Noble and trader, squire and groom,

Come where the bugles of England play,

“Over the hills and far away!”

Southern Cross and Polar Star —

Here are the Britons bred afar;

Serry, O serry them, fierce and keen,

Under the flag of the Empress-Queen;

Shoulder to shoulder down the track,

Where, to the unretreating Jack,

The victor bugles of England play,

“Over the hills and far away!”

What if the best of our wages be

An empty sleeve, a stiff-set knee,

A crutch for the rest of life — who cares,

So long as the One Flag floats and dares?

So long as the One Race dares and grows?

Death — what is death but God’s own rose?

Let but the bugles of England play,

“Over the hills and far away!”

Pro Rege Nostro

What have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,

England —

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,

England, my England,

Match the master-work you’ve done,

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,

England —

Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England: —

“Take and break us: we are yours,

“England, my own!

“Life is good, and joy runs high

“Between English earth and sky:

“Death is death; but we shall die

“To the Song on your bugles blown,

“England —

“To the stars on your bugles blown!”

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,

England —

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,

England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There’s the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,

England —

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

Уильям Эрнест Хенли (1849–1903)

Моей жене

Прими баллад моих тетрадь:

Все до одной

Они должны принадлежать

Тебе, друг мой,

Чтоб ты припомнила скорей

И те из них,

Что жили в памяти моей

Всего лишь миг.

Перевод А. Васина

Двойная баллада о ничтожности сущего

Сменяются картины,

Веков мелькает ряд;

А впрочем, всё едино —

Доходов и утрат

Ничтожен результат.

Вожак или орава —

На всех одна управа

Исчезнут в даль туманную

Хвала или навет,

Всех «измов» «исты» рьяные:

Всё — суета сует!