"I had been leaving coast of misty Albion."
How divine they are — this sadness and this height!
I see the dingy waves fall down and rise on,
The dingy firmament... I know that all by hart.
I see the youth that leaned upon the high mast's rope,
As beautiful as if he were by fairies born,
Wrapped in a coat. O! Let every virgin sob!
Cry, manhood! Cry, my misty Albion!
It's done! He is alone between these sky and flow!
There is a school for you who have been ‘gainst schools all!
And in a fatal heart, pierced with a star's arrow,
There enters in the king of fatal winds — Aeoll!
The roar of dingy waves is making the new ballad
Of wonderful his death from stars that libeled him on
Cry, Youth! Cry, Love! Cry, World! O, sob my dear Aellad!
Cry, little Ada! Cry, my misty Albion!
Я берег покидал туманный Альбиона…
Батюшков.
«Я берег покидал туманный Альбиона»…
Божественная высь! — Божественная грусть!
Я вижу тусклых вод взволнованное лоно
И тусклый небосвод, знакомый наизусть.
И, прислонённого к вольнолюбивой мачте,
Укутанного в плащ — прекрасного, как сон —
Я вижу юношу. — О плачьте, девы, плачьте!
Плачь, мужественность! — Плачь, туманный Альбион!
Свершилось! — Он один меж небом и водою!
Вот школа для тебя, о ненавистник школ!
И в роковую грудь, пронзённую звездою,
Царь роковых ветров врывается — Эол.
А рокот тусклых вод слагается в балладу
О том, как он погиб, звездою заклеймён…
Плачь, Юность! — Плачь, Любовь! — Плачь, Мир! — Рыдай, Эллада!
Плачь, крошка Ада! — Плачь, туманный Альбион!
«While the poet is not required / For holy sacrifice unto Apollo, / Within the bustling worldly cares / He is faint-heartedly immersed; / Silent is his sacred lyre; / His soul lies deep in wintry sleep, / And of the humble children of this world, / He is, perhaps, most humble. B...»
«Until the poet’s summoned thus / By great Apollo to be martyred, / Within the world of bustling fuss / He stays immersed and faint-hearted; / His lyre’s silent, hushed and cold, / His soul lies deep in wintry slumber, / Among the humble of the world / He is, for now, perhaps, most ...»
«Wandering the noisy streets, / Entering the crowded church, / Sitting among wild young men, / I am lost in my thoughts. I say to myself: the years will fly, / And however many are here, we shall all / Go down under the eternal vaults. / Someone's hour is already at hand. Gazing at a so...»
«Through the murk the moon is veering, / Ghost-accompanist of night, / On the melancholy clearings / Pouring melancholy light. Runs the troika with its dreary / Toneless jangling sleigh-bell on / Over dismal snow' I'm weary, / Hungry, frozen to the bone. Coachman in a homely fashion's ...»