дома наконец!»

Затих погони звук,

Иссяк источник мук.

Он ласково мое погладил темя:

«Теперь ты, слаб и мал,

Нашел, кого искал.

Приняв Мою любовь — ты принят всеми!»

Перевод М. Калинина

Sir Henry Newbolt (1862–1938)

The Guides at Cabul (1879)

Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell,

Who speak of your fathers’ battles with lips that burn,

The deed of an alien legion hear me tell,

And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn,

When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn,

To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride,

To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died.

For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud,

Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one,

Answered a thousand yelling for English blood

With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun,

And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun,

Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay,

And dead or dying half of the seventy lay.

Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold,

Twice toiled in vain to drag it back,

Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold,

Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack,

Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track.

"Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout,

And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt.

And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again,

And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke:

“Come, for we know that the English all are slain,

We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk;

Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror’s yolk”.

Silence fell for a moment, then was heard

A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word.

“Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong,

That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight?

We that live-do ye doubt that our hands are strong?

They that are fallen-ye know that their blood was bright!

Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light

The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred,

Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?”

Then the joy that spurs the warrior’s heart

To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap

Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart

The doors not all their valour could longer keep;

They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep,

And with never a foot lagging or head bent

To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went.

Vitaï Lampada

There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night —

Ten to make and the match to win —

A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play and the last man in.

And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,

But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote

“Play up! play up! and play the game!”

The sand of the desert is sodden red, —

Red with the wreck of a square that broke; —

The Gatling’s jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed his banks,

And England’s far, and Honour a name,

But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,

“Play up! play up! and play the game!”

This is the word that year by year

While in her place the School is set

Every one of her sons must hear,

And none that hears it dare forget.

This they all with a joyful mind

Bear through life like a torch in flame,

And falling fling to the host behind —

“Play up! play up! and play the game!”

Drake’s Drum

Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand mile away,

(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,

Wi’ sailor lads a-dancin’ heel-an’-toe,

An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an’ ruled the Devon seas,

(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?),

Rovin’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease,

An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe,

“Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,

Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,

An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago”.

Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come,

(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?),

Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum,

An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’,

They shall find him, ware