Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах (билингва)

Madam Life’s a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere:
She’s the tenant of the room,
He’s the ruffian on the stair.

You shall see her as a friend,

You shall bilk him once and twice;
But he’ll trap you in the end,
And he’ll stick you for her price.

With his knee bones 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