Кошмар По-эта

скачать книгу бесплатно

В тоске по песне глубже все вздыхает.

Temperance Song

[Tune: “The Bonnie Blue Flag”]

1. We are a band of brothers
Who fight the demon Rum,
With all our strength until at length
A better time shall come.

(Chorus)
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Temperance, Hurrah!
‘Tis sweet to think that deadly drink
Some day no more shall mar!

2. We’ll drive from off our table,
We’ll drive from out our gate
The gross offence that clouds our sense,
And leads to dismal Fate.

3. We’ll stop the bloated brewer,
We’ll close the foul saloon,
We’ll teach the land to understand
How mighty is our boon.

4. If aught our progress hinder,
Or check our upward course,
We’ll scorn the hand that threats our stand
And strive with double force.

5. And when at last we triumph;
When whiskey fades from view;
The drunkard slave no more shall crave,
But join our legions, too!

Песнь трезвости

На мелодию «Прекрасного Синего Флага»

1. Отряд мы братьев стойкий,
1. Мы бьемся с Ромом злым
1. И в силу всю идем ко дню,
1. Настанет что благим.

Припев:
Ура! Ура! И Трезвости ура!
Я верить рад, что спирта яд
Уйдет с пути добра!

2. Мы скинем со стола,
1. Изгоним за порог
1. Греха тот вид, что ум мутит
1. И жизни косит срок.

3. Закроем пивоварни
1. И каждый мерзкий бар,
1. Поймут тогда, и навсегда,
1. Огромен как наш дар.

4. Мешать нам вдруг что будет,
1. Иль сдержит наш подъем,
1. Презрим мы то, грозит нам что,
1. И снова в бой пойдем.

5. Когда ж придет победа,
1. И сгинет виски вон,
1. Пропойца-раб не будет слаб,
1. В наш вступит легион!

The Poe-et’s Nightmare

A Fable

Luxus tumultus semper causa est.

Lucullus Languish, student of the skies,
And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies,
A bard by choice, a grocer’s clerk by trade,
(Grown pessimist through honours long delay’d)
A secret yearning bore, that he might shine
In breathing numbers, and in song divine.
Each day his fountain pen was wont to drop
An ode or dirge or two about the shop,
Yet naught could strike the chord within his heart
That throbb’d for poesy, and cry’d for art.
Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wake
With overdoses of ice cream and cake,
But though th’ ambitious youth a dreamer grew,
Th’ Aonian Nymph delcin’d to come to view.
Sometimes at dusk he scour’d the heav’ns afar
Searching for raptures in the evening star;
One night he strove to catch a tale untold
In crystal deeps – but only caught a cold.
So pin’d Lucullus with his lofty woe,
Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe:
Charm’d with the cheerful horrors there display’d,
He vow’d with gloom to woo the Heav’nly Maid.
Of Auber’s Tarn and Yaanek’s slope he dreams,
And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes.
Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home,
Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.
Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,
He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;
When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,
And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,
He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools,
(Depending on which bard his fancy rules).
‘Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire
On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;
And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,
Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.
Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,
Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:
With this grave retinue he trod the grove
And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.
But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,
The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;
Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,
And soon above the groaning table bends.
Though it were too prosaic to relate
Th’ exact particulars of what he ate,
(Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips,
Like Homer’s well-known catalogue of ships)
This much we swear: that as adjournment near’d,
A monstrous lot of cake had disappear’d!
Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs,
And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs;
Thro’ open casement scans the star-strown deep,
And ‘neath Orion’s beams sinks off to sleep.
Now start from airy dell the elfin train
That dance each midnight o’er the sleeping plain,
To bless the just, or cast a warning spell
On those who dine not wisely, but too well.
First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glow
Comes from what Holmes hath call’d “Elixir Pro”;
Group’d round the couch his visage they deride,
Whilst through his dreams unnumber’d serpents glide.
Next troop the little folk into the room
Where snore our young Endymion, swath’d in gloom:
A smile lights up his boyish face, whilst he
Dreams of the moon – or what he ate at tea.
The chieftain elf th’ unconscious youth surveys,
And on his form a strange enchantment lays:
Those lips, that lately trill’d with frosted cake,
Uneasy sounds in slumbrous fashion make;
At length their owner’s fancies they rehearse,
And lisp this awesome Poe-em in blank verse:

Небылица

Чрезмерность враг покоя неизменно.

Лукулл, что Лэнгвиш, астроном-любитель
Гренков и сладких пирожков ценитель,
Душою бард, занятьем – продавец,
(Унынья полон: славы где ж венец?)
Желанье тайное имел: блистать
Живым стихом и песнею вещать.
Перо ж строчило ежедневно с ходу
О лавке панихиду или оду:
Увы, не полнилось высоким чувством
Поэта сердце, билось что искусством.
Взывал он к музе робкой вечерами
Пирожными и прочими сластями,
Хоть из подростка вырос фантазер,
Не тешил образ аониды взор.
На небо он смотрел в закатный час,
В звезде вечерней чтоб обресть экстаз;
Раз ночью взялся ухватить гимн чуду
В глуби кристальной – подхватил простуду.
Тужил Лукулл от горя своего,
Пока однажды не купил книг По:
Пленившись ужасами на страницах,
Поклялся хмуро, что придет девица.
Зрит в грезах Йанек, озеро Обера,