Стихи и поэмы | страница 11



      Ошеломляя, озаряя, сметая, и угасая,
      И бурля, и кругля, и беля, и хмеля,
        Гарцуя, танцуя, лупцуя, глянцуя —
             В бесконечном паденье,
             Непрерывном смешенье,
         В шуме, и рёве, и мощном напоре —
         Так падают воды в могучем Лодоре.
2.04.11
The Cataract of Lodore
Robert Southey[9]
                "How does the Water
               Come down at Lodore?"
               My little boy ask'd me
                Thus, once on a time;
              And moreover he task'd me
                To tell him in rhyme.
                  Anon at the word
           There came first one daughter
               And then came another,
                To second and third
           The request of their brother
             And to hear how the water
               Comes down at Lodore
             With its rush and its roar,
                  As many a time
              They had seen it before.
              So I told them in rhyme,
             For of rhymes I had store:
              And 'twas in my vocation
               For their recreation
               That so should I sing
               Because I was Laureate
               To them and the King.
             From its sources which well
              In the Tarn on the fell;
                 From its fountains
                 In the mountains,
              Its rills and its gills;
           Through moss and through brake,
               It runs and it creeps
             For awhile till it sleeps
              In its own little Lake.
              And thence at departing,
              Awakening and starting,
             It runs through the reeds
               And away it proceeds,
             Through meadow and glade,
               In sun and in shade,
           And through the wood-shelter,
             Among crags in its flurry,
                  Helter-skelter,
                   Hurry-scurry.
              Here it comes sparkling,
             And there it lies darkling;
              Now smoking and frothing
              Its tumult and wrath in,
              Till in this rapid race
                On which it is bent,
               It reaches the place
               Of its steep descent.
                The Cataract strong
                Then plunges along,
                Striking and raging
                As if a war waging
           Its caverns and rocks among:
                Rising and leaping,
               Sinking and creeping,