Китс Джон. Моему брату Джорджу 1816

 ДЖОН КИТС

 МОЕМУ БРАТУ ДЖОРДЖУ

 В унынии провел я много дней:
 Душа была в смятенье - и над ней
 Сгущалась мгла. Дано ли мне судьбою
 (Так думал я) под высью голубою
 5 Созвучьям гармоническим внимать?
 Я острый взор не уставал вперять
 Во мрак небес, где сполохов блистанье;
 Там я читал судьбы предначертанья:
 Да, лиру не вручит мне Аполлон -
 10 Пусть на закате рдеет небосклон
 И в дальних облаках, едва приметный,
 Волшебных струн мерцает ряд заветный;
 Гуденье пчёл среди лесных дерев
 Не обращу в пастушеский напев;
 15 У девы не займу очарованья,
 И сердце жаром древнего преданья,
 Увы, не возгорится никогда,
 И не восславлю прежние года!

 Но кто о лаврах грезит, тот порою
 20 Возносится над горестной землёю:
 Божественным наитьем озарён,
 Поэзию повсюду видит он.
 Ведь сказано, мой Джордж: когда поэтов
 (Либертасу сам Спенсер молвил это)
 25 Охватывает сладостный экстаз,
 Им чудеса являются тотчас,
 И скачут кони в небе горделиво,
 И рыцари турнир ведут шутливый.
 Мгновенный блеск распахнутых ворот
 30 Непосвященный сполохом зовёт;
 Когда рожок привратника играет
 И чуткий слух Поэта наполняет,
 Немедленно Поэта зоркий взгляд
 Узрит, как всадники сквозь свет летят

 35 На пиршество, окончив подвиг ратный.
 Он созерцает в зале необъятной
 Прекрасных дам у мраморных колонн -
 И думает: то серафима сон.
 Без счёта кубки, до краев налиты,
 40 Прочерчивают вкруг столов орбиты -
 И капли влаги с кромки золотой
 Срываются падучею звездой.
 О кущах благодатных в отдаленье
 И смутное составить представленье
 45 Не в силах смертный: сочини поэт
 О тех цветах восторженный сонет -
 Склонённый восхищённо перед ними,
 Рассорился б он с розами земными.
 Всё, что открыто взорам вдохновенным,
 50 Подобно водомётам белопенным,
 Когда потоки серебристых струй
 Друг другу дарят чистый поцелуй
 И падают стремительно с вершины,
 Играя, как весёлые дельфины.

 55 Такие чудеса провидит тот,
 В ком гений поэтический живет.
 Блуждает ли он вечером приятным,
 Лицо подставив бризам благодатным, -
 Пучина необъятная до дна
 60 В алмазах трепетных ему видна.
 Царица ль ночи в кружеве волнистом
 Прозрачных туч взойдёт на небе мглистом,
 Надев монашенки святой убор, -
 Вослед он устремляет пылкий взор.
 65 О, сколько тайн его подвластно зренью,
 Волшебному подобных сновиденью:
 Случись мне вдруг свидетелем их стать,
 О многом мог бы я порассказать!

 Ждут барда в жизни многие отрады,
 70 Но драгоценней в будущем награды.
 Глаза его тускнеют; отягчён
 Предсмертной мукой, тихо шепчет он:
 "Из праха я взойду к небесным кущам,
 Но дух мой обратит к векам грядущим
 75 Возвышенную речь - и патриот,
 Заслышав клич мой, в руки меч возьмёт.
 В сенате гром стихов моих разящих
 Властителей пробудит, мирно спящих.
 Раздумиям в моем стихотворенье
 80 Живую действенность нравоученья
 Придаст мудрец - и, вдохновлённый мною,
 Витийством возгорится пред толпою.
 А ранним майским утром поселянки,
 Устав от игр беспечных, на полянке
 85 Усядутся белеющим кружком
 В траве зелёной. Девушка с венком -
 Их королева - сядет посредине:
 Сплелись цвета пурпурный, желтый, синий;
 Лилея рядом с розою прекрасной -
 90 Эмблема страсти, пылкой и несчастной.
 Фиалки, к ней прильнувшие на грудь,
 Тревог еще не знавшую ничуть,
 Покойно дремлют за корсажем. Вот,
 В корзинке спрятанный, она берёт
 95 Изящный томик: радости подруг
 Конца и края нет - теснее круг,
 Объятья, вскрики, смех и восклицанья...
 Мной сложенные в юности сказанья
 Они услышат вновь - и с нежных век
 100 Сорвутся перлы, устремляя бег
 К невинным ямочкам... Моим стихом
 Младенца убаюкают - и сном,
 Прижавшись к матери, заснёт он мирным.
 Прости, юдоль земная! Я к эфирным
 105 Просторам уношусь неизмеримым,
 Ширяясь крыльями над миром зримым.
 Восторга преисполнен мой полёт:
 Мой стих у дев сочувствие найдёт
 И юношей воспламенит!" Мой брат,
 110 Мой друг! Я б стал счастливее стократ
 И обществу полезней, без сомненья,
 Когда б сломил тщеславные стремленья.
 Но стоит мысли светлой появиться,
 Воспрянет дух и сердце оживится
 115 Куда сильней, чем если бы бесценный
 Отрыл я клад, дотоле сокровенный.
 Мне радостно, коль ты мои сонеты
 Прочтёшь - пускай они достойны Леты.
 Бродили эти мысли в голове
 120 Не столь давно: я, лёжа на траве,
 Любимому занятью предавался -
 Строчил тебе; щёк легкий бриз касался.
 Да и сейчас я на утёс пустынный,
 Вознёсшийся над шумною пучиной,
 125 Взобрался - и среди цветов прилёг.
 Страницу эту вдоль и поперёк,
 Легко колеблясь, исчертили тени
 От стебельков. Я вижу в отдаленье,
 Как средь овса алеют там и сям
 130 Головки сорных маков - сразу нам
 Они на ум приводят пурпур алый
 Мундиров, вред чинящий нам немалый.
 А океана голубой покров
 Вздымается - то зелен, то лилов.
 135 Вот парусник над серебристым валом;
 Вот чайка вольная, крылом усталым
 Круг описав, садится на волну -
 То взмоет ввысь, то вновь пойдёт ко дну.
 Смотрю на запад в огненном сиянье.
 140 Зачем? С тобой проститься... На прощанье,
 Мой милый Джордж (не сетуй на разлуку),
 Тебе я шлю привет - дай, брат, мне руку!

1816JOHN KEATS

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE


Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times.—The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
Happier, and dearer to society.
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest,
And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

 
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times.—The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
Happier, and dearer to society.
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest,
And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

1816


 (Перевод Сергея Сухарева – 1981)
 

 - В кн.: Китс Дж. Стихотворения. Ламия, Изабелла,
 Канун святой Агнесы и другие стихи. Л.: Наука, 1986
 (Лит. памятники). С.33-36.