Эдвард Роуленд Силл. Свой чужак

Strange

He died at night. Next day they came
To weep and praise him: sudden fame
These suddenly warm comrades gave.
They called him pure, they called him brave;
One praised his heart, and one his brain;
All said, You'd seek his like in vain,—
Gentle, and strong, and good: none saw
In all his character a flaw.

At noon he wakened from his trance,
Mended, was well! They looked askance;
Took his hand coldly; loved him not,
Though they had wept him; quite forgot
His virtues; lent an easy ear
To slanderous tongues; professed a fear

He was not what he seemed to be;
Thanked God they were not such as he;
Gave to his hunger stones for bread;
And made him, living, wish him dead.

Edward Rowland Sill
(1841–1887)




Свой чужак

Он умер. Утром те пришли
его, оплакав, восхвалить–
взгордились мёртвым храбрецом,
великим мужем и отцом,
которому замены нет
в делах, деяньях, на войне
столь безупречным и святым,
что сникли мёртвые цветы...

Очнулся он не тем, каким
в гробу на час казался им–
не добродетельный святой,
но жалкий пария, изгой.

Ему швыряли корки грызть,
страдай де, бейся и борись–
он жаждал, жив едва, в гробу
обресть посмертную судьбу.

перевод с английского Терджимана Кырымлы