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Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears;
A doubtful choice of these things one to crave,
A kingdom or a cottage or a grave.
№16 Будь я король
Будь я король, я мог бы править светом,
Будь я никто, во тьме смыкал бы вежды,
А будь я мертв, не думал бы об этом,
Ни слов, ни чувств, ни страха, ни надежды.
Так выбирай, поэт, с кем будущая сила —
Земное царство, хижина, могила…
№17 Sitting Alone Upon My Thought (Echo Verses)
Sitting alone upon my thought, in melancholy mood,
In sight of sea, and at my back an ancient hoary wood,
I saw a fair young lady come, her secret fears to wail,
Clad all in colour of a nun, and covered with a veil.
Yet, for the day was clear and calm, I might discern her face,
As one might see a damask rose hid under crystal glass.
Three times with her soft hand full hard on her left side she knocks,
And sighed so sore as might have moved some pity in the rocks.
From sighs, and shedding amber tears, into sweet song she brake,
When thus the echo answered her to every word she spake.
«O heavens, who was the first that bred in me this fever?»
[echo] Vere.
«Who was the first that gave the wound, whose scar I wear for ever?»
A doubtful choice of these things one to crave,
A kingdom or a cottage or a grave.
№16 Будь я король
Будь я король, я мог бы править светом,
Будь я никто, во тьме смыкал бы вежды,
А будь я мертв, не думал бы об этом,
Ни слов, ни чувств, ни страха, ни надежды.
Так выбирай, поэт, с кем будущая сила —
Земное царство, хижина, могила…
№17 Sitting Alone Upon My Thought (Echo Verses)
Sitting alone upon my thought, in melancholy mood,
In sight of sea, and at my back an ancient hoary wood,
I saw a fair young lady come, her secret fears to wail,
Clad all in colour of a nun, and covered with a veil.
Yet, for the day was clear and calm, I might discern her face,
As one might see a damask rose hid under crystal glass.
Three times with her soft hand full hard on her left side she knocks,
And sighed so sore as might have moved some pity in the rocks.
From sighs, and shedding amber tears, into sweet song she brake,
When thus the echo answered her to every word she spake.
«O heavens, who was the first that bred in me this fever?»
[echo] Vere.
«Who was the first that gave the wound, whose scar I wear for ever?»
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