Дом на холме

A melancholy face Charles Carville had,
But not so melancholy as it seemed,
When once you knew him, for his mouth redeemed
His insufficient eyes, forever sad:
In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad,
Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed;
His mouth was all of him that ever beamed,
His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad.

He never was a fellow that said much,

And half of what he did say was not heard
By many of us: we were out of touch
With all his whims and all his theories
Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his
Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word.

Глаза Чарльза Карвилла

Печальный вид имел всегда Чарльз Карвилл,
Хотя для тех, кто лучше знал его,
Улыбку на лице себе оставил,
Смягчая тем грусть взгляда своего.
В глазах его ни радости, ни страсти,
Они всегда печальны и грустны,
Его улыбка светится так счастьем,
Его глаза печальны и пусты.

Живя, он много слов не говорил,

И половину слов не разбирали;
Казался странным нам, пока он жил;
И мы его всегда не понимали,
Пока не умер он. И в этот раз
Слова услышим опустевших глаз.

Перевод А. Корякова

Atherton’s gambit

The Master played the bishop's pawn,
For jest, while Atherton looked on;
The master played this way and that,
And Atherton, amazed thereat,
Said "Now I have a thing in view
That will enlighten one or two,
And make a difference or so
In what it is they do not know."

The morning stars together sang

And forth a mighty music rang —
Not heard by many, save as told
Again through magic manifold
By such a few as have to play
For others, in the Master's way,
The music that the Master made
When all the morning stars obeyed.

Atherton played the bishop's pawn

While more than one or two looked on;
Atherton played this way and that,
And many a friend, amused thereat,
Went on about his business
Nor cared for Atherton the less;
A few stood longer by the game,
With Atherton to them the same.

The morning stars are singing still,

To crown, to challenge, and to kill;
And if perforce there falls a voice
On pious ears that have no choice
Except to urge an erring hand
To wreak its homage on the land,
Who of us that is worth his while
Will, if he listen, more than smile?

Who of us, being what he is,

May scoff at others' ecstasies?
However we may shine to-day,
More-shining ones are on the way;
And so it were not wholly well
To be at odds with Azrael, —
Nor were it kind of any one
To sing the end of Atherton.

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