Альфред Теннисон - Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения

О Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?
Show me the man hath suffer’d more than I.
For did not all thy martyrs die one death?
For either they were stoned or crucified
Or burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawn
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.
Bear witness, if I could have found a way
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)
More slowly-painful to subdue this home
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,
I had not stinted practice, О my God.

For not alone this pillar-punishment,
Not this alone I bore: but while I lived
In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;
And spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating thro’ my skin,
Betray’d my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvell’d greatly. More than this
I bore, whereof, О God, thou knowest all.

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,
I lived up there on yonder mountain side.
My right leg chain’d into the crag, I lay
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones;
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice
Black’d with thy branding thunder, and sometimes
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came
To touch my body and be heal’d, and live:
And they say then that I work’d miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, О God,
Knowest alone whether this was or no.
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with thee,
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouch’d on one that rose
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew
Twice ten long weary weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this —
Or else I dream — and for so long a time,
If I may measure time by yon slow light,
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns —
So much — even so.

And yet I know not well,
For that the evil ones come here, and say,
‘Fall down, О Simeon: thou hast suffer’d long
For ages and for ages!’ then they prate
Of penances I cannot have gone thro’,
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked.

But yet
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth
House in the shade of comfortable roofs,
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,
I, ’tween the spring and downfall of the light,
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;
Or in the night, after a little sleep,
I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.
I wear an undress’d goatskin on my back;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
О mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:
’Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,
That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!
They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)
Have all in all endured as much, and more
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are register’d and calendar’d for saints.

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?
I am a sinner viler than you all.
It may be I have wrought some miracles,
And cured some halt and maim’d; but what of that?
It may be, no one, even among the saints,
May match his pains with mine; but what of that?
Yet do not rise; for you may look on me,
And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maim’d?
I think you know I have some power with Heaven
From my long penance: let him speak his wish.

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me.
They say that they are heal’d. Ah, hark! they shout
‘St. Simeon Stylites.’ Why, if so,
God reaps a harvest in me. О my soul,
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,
Can I work miracles and not be saved?
This is not told of any. They were saints.
It cannot be but that I shall be saved;
Yea, crown’d a saint. They shout, ‘Behold a saint!’
And lower voices saint me from above.
Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all
My mortal archives.

О my sons, my sons,
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname
Stylites, among men; I, Simeon,
The watcher on the column till the end;
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now
From my high nest of penance here proclaim
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side
Show’d like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath
Made me boil over. Devils pluck’d my sleeve;
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.
I smote them with the cross; they swarm’d again.
In bed like monstrous apes they crush’d my chest:
They flapp’d my light out as I read: I saw
Their faces grow between me and my book:
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left,
And by this way I ’scaped them. Mortify
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns;
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps,
With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain,
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise:
God only thro’ his bounty hath thought fit,
Among the powers and princes of this world,
To make me an example to mankind,
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say
But that a time may come — yea, even now,
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors
When you may worship me without reproach;
For I will leave my relics in your land,
And you may carve a shrine about my dust,
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,
When I am gather’d to the glorious saints.

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain
Ran shrivelling thro’ me, and a cloudlike change,
In passing, with a grosser film made thick
These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!
Surely the end! What’s here? a shape, a shade,
A flash of light. Is that the angel there
That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come.
I know thy glittering face. I waited long;
My brows are ready. What! deny it now?
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ!
’Tis gone: ’tis here again; the crown! the crown!
So now ’tis fitted on and grows to me,
And from it melt the dews of Paradise,
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.
Ah! let me not be fool’d, sweet saints: I trust
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
Among you there, and let him presently
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,
And climbing up into my airy home,
Deliver me the blessed sacrament;
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,
I prophesy that I shall die to-night,
A quarter before twelve.

But thou, О Lord,
Aid all this foolish people; let them take
Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.

Пусть я — ничтожнейший из всех людей,
Коростою греха покрытый, чуждый
Земле и небу, лакомый кусок
Для богохульных и безумных бесов, —
Надежд своих на святость не оставлю,
И буду восклицать, скорбеть, рыдать,
Стучать грозой молитвы в двери неба.
Спаси, Господь, избави от греха.

Великий, справедливый, крепкий Боже,
Сверши, чтоб не напрасно тридцать лет,
Утроенных мученьями моими,
В жару и холод, в голоде и жажде
Я выносил страданья, горечь, боль,
Как знаменье меж небом и землей
Все на столпе своем претерпевая:
Снега, дожди, морозы, ветер, солнце,
Надеясь, что не кончится сей срок,
Как Ты меня в покой к Себе восхитишь,
Истерзанному телу дав награду:
И ризу белую, и пальмы ветвь.

Внемли, Господь: вовек не прошепчу,
Не выдохну и тени недовольства.
Ведь боль, усиленная в сотни раз,
Была бы легче в сотни раз, чем бремя
Свинцовой тяжести греха, сломившей
Мой дух перед Тобой.

Господь, Господь!
Ты знаешь, что вначале было легче
Мне все сносить — я был здоров, силен;
И пусть от холода стучали зубы,
Что ныне выпали, а борода,
Покрывшись льдом, сияла в лунном свете,
Крик филина я заглушал псалмами
И песнопеньями — и часто видел,
Как ангел молчаливо мне внимал.
Теперь я ослабел: конец мой близок;
Надеюсь, близок — я почти оглох,
И еле слышу изумленный говор
Внизу столпа; к тому ж почти ослеп —
Знакомый луг едва ли я узнаю;
И бедра изъязвила мне роса;
Но я не прекращу взывать, рыдать,
Пока главу поддерживает выя,
И не распалась плоть моя на части.
Помилуй и избави от греха.

Коль не спасешь меня ты, Иисус,
То кто спасется? Кто спасется, молви!
Кто может стать святым, коли не я?
Кто более меня страдал, ответь мне!
Все мученики умерли лишь раз,
Камнями ль их побили, иль распяли,
Сожгли в огне, сварили в масле или
Меж ребер распилили их пилой;
Моя же смерть — сегодня и всегда.
Свидетельствуй, сумел ли кто найти
(А я искал меж помыслов глубоко)
Еще ужасней способ покорить
Вот эту плоть, сей дом греха, который
Я взненавидел и презрел, о Боже?!