Ворон

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
        Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
        At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
        How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
        No more – no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
        Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more —
Thy memory no more! Accurséd ground
        Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
О hyacinthine isle! О purple Zante!
        “ Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”

Занте [78]

Прекрасный остров! Лучший из цветов[79]
Тебе свое дал нежное названье.
Как много ослепительных часов
Ты будишь в глубине воспоминанья!
Как много снов, чей умер яркий свет,
Как много дум, надежд похороненных!
Видений той, которой больше нет,
Нет больше на твоих зеленых склонах!

Нет больше! скорбный звук, чье волшебство
Меняет все. За этой тишиною
Нет больше чар! Отныне предо мною
Ты проклят средь расцвета своего!
О, гиацинтный остров! Алый Занте!
«Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!»

The Haunted Palace [80]

In the greenest of our valleys
        By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace —
        Radiant palace – reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion —
        It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
        Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
        On its roof did float and flow —
(This – all this – was in the olden
        Time long ago);
And every gentle air that dallied,
        In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
        A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
        Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
        To a lute’s well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
        (Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting
        The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
        Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
        And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
        Was but to sing,
In voices of suprassing beauty,
        The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
        Assailed the monarch’s high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn! – for never morrow
        Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
        That bushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
        Of the old-time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
        Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
        To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
        Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
        And laugh – but smile no more.