Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах
(билингва)
John Audelay the Blind (ca. 1350 (?) — ca. 1426)
Timor mortis conturbat me
Ladé, helpe! Jhesu, mercé!
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Dred of deth, sorow of syn,
Trobils my hert ful grevysly;
My soule hit nyth with my lust then —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Fore blyndnes is a hevé thyng,
And to be def therwith only,
To lese my lyght and my herying —
Passio Christi conforta me.
And to lese my tast and my smellyng,
And to be seke in my body,
Here have I lost al my lykyng —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Thus God he geves and takys away,
And, as he wil, so mot hit be;
His name be blessid both nyght and daye —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Here is a cause of gret mornyng —
Of myselfe nothyng I se,
Save filth, unclennes, vile stynkyng —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Into this word no more I broght,
No more I gete with me, trewly,
Save good ded, word, wil, and thoght —
Passio Christi conforta me.
The fyve wondis of Jhesu Crist,
My midsyne now mot thai be,
The Fyndis pouere downe to cast —
Passio Christi conforta me.
As I lay seke in my langure,
With sorow of hert and teere of ye,
This caral I made with gret doloure —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Oft with these prayere I me blest,
In manus tuas, Domine,
Thou take my soule into thi rest —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Maré moder, merceful may,
Fore the joys thou hadist, lady,
To thi Sun, fore me thou pray —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Lerne this lesson of Blynd Awdlay:
When bale is hyest, then bot may be,
Yif thou be nyd nyght or day,
Say “Passio Christi conforta me”.
Джон Одли Слепой (ок. 1350 (?) — ок. 1426)
Timor mortis conturbat me[1]
Матерь, Сын, зову в мольбе!
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Страх смертный, искушенья власть —
Вот что царит в моей душе;
Овладевает ею страсть —
Passio Christi conforta me[2].
Терзает слепота мой дух,
И ждет мучение меня везде:
Утратив свет, утратил слух —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Теперь слабеют нюх и вкус,
И тело все горит в огне,
И я в недуге тяжком бьюсь —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Бог дал, Бог взял — таков закон,
Пора принять его вполне;
Господь да будет восхвален —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Печаль давно меня гнетет —
Я зрю вместилище в себе
Для мерзостей и нечистот.
Passio Christi conforta me.
Но вот спасения удел:
Оставить много на земле
Благих мышлений, слов и дел —
Passio Christi conforta me.
Христа распятого пять ран
Да будут исцеленьем мне,
Да будет сатана попран!
Passio Christi conforta me.
И я, страданья претерпев,
В сердечной боли и тоске
Сложил печальный сей напев —
Passio Christi conforta me.
И вновь рекут уста мои:
«In manus tuas, Domine[3]
Ты душу грешника прими».
Passio Christi conforta me.
Мария! В благостной дали
Пять радостей даны тебе.
Меня пред Сыном отмоли!
Passio Christi conforta me.
Вам Одли говорит слепой:
Одно спасение в беде —
Творить молитву в час любой:
«Passio Christi conforta me».
Thomas Hoccleve (ca. 1368 — ca. 1450)
A Description of His Ugly Lady
Of my lady well me rejoise I may!
Hir golden forheed is full narw and smal;
Hir browes been lik to dim, reed coral;
And as the jeet hir yen glistren ay.
Of my lady, etc.
Hir bowgy cheekes been as softe as clay,
With large jowes and substancial.
Of my lady, etc.
Hir nose a pentice is that it ne shal
Reine in hir mouth thogh she uprightes lay.
Of my lady, etc.
Hir mouth is nothing scant with lippes gray;
Hir chin unnethe may be seen at al.
Hir comly body shape as a footbal,
And she singeth full like a papejay.
Of my lady, etc.
Hoccleve’s Complaint to Lady Money
Wel may I pleyne on yow, lady moneye,
þat in the prison of your sharp scantnesse
Souffren me bathe in wo and heuynesse
And deynen nat of socour me pourueye.
Whan þat I baar of your prison the keye
Kepte I yow streite? Nay, God to witnesse,
Wel may I pleyne, etc.
I leet yow out. O, now of your noblesse
Seeth vnto me, in your deffaute I deye.
Wel may I pleyne, etc.
Yee saillen al to fer. Retourne, I preye,
Conforteth me ageyn this Christemesse.
Elles I moot in right a feynt gladnesse
Synge of yow thus and yow accuse and seye,
Wel may I pleyne, etc.
Lady Money’s Response to Hoccleve
Hoccleue, I wole it to thee knowen be,
I, lady moneie, of the world goddesse,
þat haue al thyng vndir my buxumnesse,
Nat sette by thy pleynte risshes three.
Myn hy might haddest thow in no cheertee
Whyle I was in thy slipir sikirnesse.
Hoccleue, I wole it, etc.
At instance of thyn excessif largesse
Becam I of my body delauee
Hoccleue, I wole it, etc.
And syn þat lordes grete obeien me,
Sholde I me dreede of thy poore symplenesse?
Go, poore wrecche. Who settith aght by thee?
Hoccleue, I wole it, etc.