Уценённое рыцарство -Э. Фитцджералд, перевод-

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

Кузина, друг мой! Век златой
Романтики в забвеньи;
Поэтам – слава звук пустой,
А девам – преклоненье.
Их губы немы, в сердце – лёд,
Их дУши очерствели,
Копьё и лютню свалка ждёт,
И не в чести дуэли…

Плачь, Красота, о временах
Любви, цветов, баллад! И
Где вздохи, море слёз в строфах,
Ночные серенады?
Брак – сделка, плата за товар
Где сразу, где в рассрочку;
Цепь Гименей отнёс в ломбард,
Священник, кольца… точка.

Страсть, словно лука тетива,
Сердца соединяет,
Любовь тогда была жива,
Поэтов вдохновляя;
Галантен каждый удалец,
И девы-чаровницы
В шестнадцать лет шли под венец,
(А на тот свет – под тридцать).

Хороший сокол был в цене,
А шахматы – в почёте;
Охотник жил как на войне,
Боец – как на охоте;
Был каждый рыцарь горд и лих,
И на пирах вечерних
Трубил о подвигах своих
(Но врал иной без меры!)

Шлем в перьях, на копье – флажок,
Бой благородный, честный…
Звал к схватке воинов рожок
Во славу дам прелестных.
И Красота, сразив бойца,
Лечила в то же время;
Теряли воины сердца -
Но не теряли стремя!

Расчёт не лез во все дела,
Страх почитался вздором;
И Вера искренней была,
Предательство – позором.
Воители с душой детей
Подъемлют дружно кубки
И за врагов, и за друзей,
И за прелестниц губки…

Ах, золотые времена!
Рож (лиц) нет в помине сонных,
И божеством была Луна
Поэтов и влюблённых.
И страсть была без берегов –
Готов любовник бравый
Сразиться с тысячью врагов
За милой взор лукавый.

Портным – не лучшая пора:
Эпоха кож и стали!
Лишь дел железных мастера
Тогда преуспевали.
Доспехи в моде, а не фрак;
И надевали важно
Шут – с колокольцами колпак,
А рыцарь – шлем с плюмажем.

Свободны нравы были там,
Брак не был наказаньем,
И все платили докторам
За знанье, а не званья…
Мон шер! Живи мы в веке том,
За взгляд Ваш я охотно
Мечом бы бился и копьём –
Не пачкою банкнотов!


Edward Fitzgerald


Fair cousin mine! the golden days
Of old romance are over;
And minstrels now care naught for bays,
Nor damsels for a lover;
And hearts are cold, and lips are mute
That kindled once with passion,
And now we've neither lance nor lute,
And tilting's out of fashion.

Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time
When Love found words in flowers;
When softest test sighs were breathed in rhyme,
And sweetest songs in bowers;
Now wedlock is a sober thing -
No more of chains or forges! -
A plain young man - a plain gold ring -
The curate - and St. George's.

Then every cross-bow had a string,
And every heart a fetter;
And making love was quite the thing,
And making verses better;
And maiden-aunts were never seen,
And gallant beaux were plenty;
And lasses married at sixteen,
And died at one-and-twenty.

Then hawking was a noble sport,
And chess a pretty science;
And huntsmen learned to blow a morte,
And heralds a defiance;
And knights and spearmen showed their might,
And timid hinds took warning;
And hypocras was warmed at night,
And coursers in the morning.

Then plumes and pennons were prepared,
And patron-saints were lauded;
And noble deeds were bravely dared,
And noble dames applauded;
And Beauty played the leech's part,
And wounds were healed with syrup;
And warriors sometimes lost a heart,
But never lost a stirrup.

Then there was no such thing as Fear,
And no such word as Reason;
And Faith was like a pointed spear,
And Fickleness was treason;
And hearts were soft, though blows were hard;
But when the fight was over,
A brimming goblet cheered the board,
His Lady's smile the lover.

Ay, those were golden days! The moon
Had then her true adorers;
And there were lyres and lutes in tune,
And no such thing as snorers;
And lovers swam, and held at naught
Streams broader than the Mersey;
And fifty thousand would have fought
For a smile from Lady Jersey.

Then people wore an iron vest,
And bad no use for tailors;
And the artizans who lived the best
Were armorers and nailers;
And steel was measured by the ell
And trousers lined with leather;
And jesters wore a cap and bell,
And knights a cap and feather.

Then single folks might live at ease,
And married ones might sever;
Uncommon doctors had their fees,
But Doctor's Commons never;
O! had we in those times been bred,
Fair cousin, for thy glances,
Instead of breaking Priscian's head,
I had been breaking lances!