Читаем Стихотворения полностью

Стихотворения

William Blake , Алексей Матвеевич Зверев , Уильям Блейк

Gwin, King of Norway

Come, kings, and listen to my song:When Gwin, the son of Nore,Over the nations of the NorthHis cruel sceptre bore;The nobles of the land did feedUpon the hungry poor;They tear the poor man's lamb, and driveThe needy from their door.'The land is desolate; our wivesAnd children cry for bread;Arise, and pull the tyrant down!Let Gwin be humbled!'Gordred the giant rous'd himselfFrom sleeping in his cave;He shook the hills, and in the cloudsThe troubl'd banners wave.Beneath them rolPd, like tempests black,The num'rous sons of blood;Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,Seeking their nightly food.Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,Their cry ascends the clouds;The trampling horse and clanging armsLike rushing mighty floods!Their wives and children, weeping loud,Follow in wild array,Howling like ghosts, furious as wolvesIn the bleak wintry day'Pull down the tyrant to the dust,Let Gwin be humbled,'They cry, 'and let ten thousand livesPay for the tyrant's head.'From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry,'O Gwin, the son of Nore,Arouse thyself! the nations, blackLike clouds, come rolling o'er!'Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,His chiefs come rushing round;Each, like an awful thunder cloud,With voice of solemn sound:Like reared stones around a graveThey stand around the King!Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear,And clashing steel does ring.The husbandman does leave his ploughTo wade thro' fields of gore;The merchant binds his brows in steel,And leaves the trading shore;The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,And sounds the trumpet shrill;The workman throws his hammer downTo heave the bloody bill.Like the tall ghost of BarratonWho sports in stormy sky,Gwin leads his host, as black as nightWhen pestilence does fly,With horses and with chariots—And all his spearmen boldMarch to the sound of mournful song,Like clouds around him roll'd.Gwin lifts his hand—the nations halt,'Prepare for war!' he cries—Gordred appears!—his frowning browTroubles our northern skies.The armies stand, like balancesHeld in th' Almighty's hand;—'Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up:Thou'rt swept from out the land.'And now the raging armies rush'dLike warring mighty seas;The heav'ns are shook with roaring war,The dust ascends the skies!Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakesTo drink her children's gore,A sea of blood; nor can the eyeSee to the trembling shore!And on the verge of this wild seaFamine and death doth cry;The cries of women and of babesOver the field doth fly.The King is seen raging afar,With all his men of might;Like blazing comets scattering deathThro' the red fev'rous night.Beneath his arm like sheep they die,And groan upon the plain;The battle faints, and bloody menFight upon hills of slain.Now death is sick, and riven menLabour and toil for life;Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,Sunk in this sea of strife!The god of war is drunk with blood;The earth doth faint and fail;The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns;Ghosts glut the throat of hell!О what have kings to answer forBefore that awfiil throne;When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,And ghosts accusing groan!Like blazing comets in the skyThat shake the stars of light,Which drop like fruit unto the earthThro' the fierce burning night;Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet,And the first blow decides;Down from the brow unto the breastGordred his head divides!The river Dorman roll'd their bloodInto the northern sea;Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'dThe pleasant south country.Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled,All that remain'd alive;The rest did fill the vale of death,For them the eagles strive.The river Dorman roll'd their bloodInto the northern sea;Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'dThe pleasant south country.

Перейти на страницу: