Джеймс Расселл Лоуэлл. Размышления...

Fancies About A Rosebud,
Pressed In An Old Copy Of Spencer

Who prest you here? The Past can tell,
When summer skies were bright above,
And some full heart did leap and swell
Beneath the white new moon of love.

Some Poet, haply, when the world
Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue,
Ere its cold, inky waves had curled
O'er the numb heart once warm and true;

When, with his soul brimful of morn,
He looked beyond the vale of Time,
Nor saw therein the dullard scorn
That made his heavenliness a crime;

When, musing o'er the Poets olden,
His soul did like a sun upstart
To shoot its arrows, clear and golden,
Through slavery's cold and darksome heart.

Alas! too soon the veil is lifted
That hangs between the soul and pain,
Too soon the morning-red hath drifted
Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain!

Or were you prest by one who nurst
Bleak memories of love gone by,
Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst
In dark and erring vacancy?

To him you still were fresh and green
As when you grew upon the stalk,
And many a breezy summer scene
Came back—and many a moonlit walk;

And there would be a hum of bees,
A smell of childhood in the air,
And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze
That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair!

Then would you suddenly be blasted
By the keen wind of one dark thought,
One nameless woe, that had outlasted
The sudden blow whereby 'twas brought.

Or were you prest here by two lovers
Who seemed to read these verses rare,
But found between the antique covers
What Spenser could not prison there:

Songs which his glorious soul had heard,
But his dull pen could never write,
Which flew, like some gold-wing;d bird,
Through the blue heaven out of sight?

My heart is with them as they sit,
I see the rosebud in her breast,
I see her small hand taking it
From out its odorous, snowy nest;

I hear him swear that he will keep it,
In memory of that blessed day,
To smile on it or over-weep it
When she and spring are far away.

Ah me! I needs must droop my head,
And brush away a happy tear,
For they are gone, and, dry and dead,
The rosebud lies before me here.

Yet is it in no stranger's hand,
For I will guard it tenderly,
And it shall be a magic wand
To bring mine own true love to me.

My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises,
The while my fancy weaves her rhyme,
Kind hopes and musical surprises
Throng round me from the olden time.

I do not care to know who prest you:
Enough for me to feel and know
That some heart's love and longing blest you,
Knitting to-day with long-ago.

James Russell Lowell
1819– 1891




Размышления о забытом бутоне розы в старом томе Спенсера

Ты чей, бутон? Живых сердец
в лазури неба в летний зной
носивших юности венец,
любивших полною луной.

Поэт тебя оставил нам
на память лета и весны,
пока не сырость, тьма без дна,
безмолвье гроба– книге сны,

на память сердца и души
летящих Времени в укор
на пламя Творчества зажить
над Смертью с Вечностью на спор,

сиявших славой древних строк,
мостивших новыми тропу
в грядущее –свободным прок,
невольным воля и побуд?..

...увы, недолог рай земной,
грядут уныние и боль,
сметают бури цвет и зной,
наносят холод, лёд и голь.

Не ты ль упавшая звезда,
осколок сердца, крест любви,
что в никуда и навсегда,
тоскливой памятью новим,

где ты остался молодым,
свидетель долгих вешних дней
от майской страсти до беды,
ночных свиданий при луне?

Пчела мела цветной мирок,
сад детским сном благоухал,
а свежий, резвый ветерок
любовно локоны ласкал,

но вдруг тоска брала своё,
а память меркла в тот же миг:
всё это в прошлом, без неё
жить одному, не быть двоим.

Или влюблённые тебя
забыли, вместе в оны дни
в заветной книге обретя
что Спенсер не досочинил.

перевод с английского Терджимана Кырымлы
отрывок, завтра допишу, прим.