Стихотворения семьи Бронте

sandy_kil — 21.04.2010 Главная проблема - отрывок из "Узницы". Я уже пыталась с ним совладать, но без малейшего успеха.

I. Стихотворения в тексте книги

1. Отрывок из "Узницы" Эмили Бронте - burrru (перевод: http://sandy-kil.livejournal.com/782338.html?thread=6069506#t6069506)

Thus ruth and selfish love together striving tore
The heart all newly taught to pity and adore;
If I should break the chain, I felt my bird would go;
Yet I must break the chain or seal the prisoner's woe.

Short strife, what rest could soothe—what peace could visit me
While she lay pining there for Death to set her free?
"Rochelle, the dungeons teem with foes to gorge our hate—
Thou are too young to die by such a bitter fate!

Этот фрагмент, насколько я поняла, не входит в канонический текст стихотворения и тем более не переводился на русский. Контекст можно посмотреть здесь. Соответствующий абзац из книги:

Драматическая баллада была озаглавлена просто "Джулиан М. и А. Дж. Рошель" и повествовала о молодой женщине в темнице во время войны (великой и жестокой гондальской войны республиканцев и роялистов, как я позднее узнала) и мужчине, терзаемом любовью и долгом, который не мог решиться ее отпустить.

Сверхзадача - попасть в ритм и стилистику известного перевода другого фрагмента "Узницы".

В комментариях дам подстрочник, очень примерный, т.к. самой не все в оригинале понятно.

2. Ирландский тост - bukin (перевод: http://sandy-kil.livejournal.com/782338.html?thread=6060290#t6060290)

May your mornings bring joy, and your evenings bring peace.
May your troubles grow few, and your blessings increase.
Your lives are very special; God has touched you in many ways.
May his blessings rest upon you, and fill all your coming days.

II. Стихотворения в приложении.

Авторская подборка стихотворений, связанная с текстом книги. Большую часть стихотворений я нашла. Ниже то, что найти не удалось. Стихотворения большие, так что если решитесь, надо как-то скоординировать усилия, чтобы не переводить одно и то же.

3. "Gilbert, Part I: The Garden" by Currer Bell (Charlotte Bront?) - свободно

Above the city hung the moon,
Right o'er a plot of ground
Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced
With lofty walls around:
'Twas Gilbert's garden—there to-night
Awhile he walked alone;
And, tired with sedentary toil,
Mused where the moonlight shone. . .

Gilbert has paced the single walk
An hour, yet is not weary;
And, though it be a winter night
He feels nor cold nor dreary.
The prime of life is in his veins,
And sends his blood fast flowing,
And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
Now in his bosom glowing.

Those thoughts recur to early love,
Or what he love would name,
Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds
Might other title claim.
Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,
He to the world clings fast,
And too much for the present lives,
To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose
Has glided to his soul;
That moonlight falls on Memory,
And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every line
The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and still repeats
That one name—Elinor.

There is no sorrow in his smile,
No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish heart
Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: "She loved me more than life;
And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel,
In bondage, at my feet.

"There was a sort of quiet bliss
To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness
And sit myself unmoved.
And when it pleased my pride to grant
At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that hand
My fingers deigned to press.

"'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with despot-might
Her destiny to wield.
I knew myself no perfect man,
Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was glorious—but
By her reflected shine;

"Her youth, her native energy,
Her powers new-born and fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified
My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a God did I descend
At last, to meet her love;
And, like a god, I then withdrew
To my own heaven above.

"And never more could she invoke
My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
Would ne'er my deeds betray,
And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
I went my tranquil way.

"Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
The fond and flattering pain
Of passion's anguish to create
In her young breast again.
Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
When they caught fire from mine;
If I had power—this very hour,
Again I'd light their shine."

4. "Home" By Acton Bell (Anne Bront?) - dariafierce (не против конкуренции)

How brightly glistening in the sun,
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs...

But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well. . .

Restore me to that little spot,
With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within—
Oh, give me back my home!

5. Celebrating Mr. Nicholls's Victory Over the Washerwomen of Haworth By Patrick Bront? - pelipejchenko

In Haworth, a parish of ancient renown,
Some preach in their surplice, and others their gown . . .
The Parson, an old man, but hotter than cold,
Of late in reforming, has grown very bold,
And in his fierce zeal, as report loudly tells,
Through legal resort, has reformed the bells.
His curate, who follows—with all due regard,
Though foild by the Church, has reformed the Churchyard.

The females all routed have fled with their clothes
To stackyards, and backyards, and where no one knows,
And loudly have sworn by the suds which they swim in,
They'll wring off his head, for his warring with women.
Whilst their husbands combine and roar out in their fury,
They'll lynch him at once, without trial by jury.
But saddest of all, the fair maiden declare,
Of marriage or love, he must ever despair.

6. I Saw A Picture, Yesterday By Branwell Bront? (неопубликованный черновик) - vymenets

Her effort shews a picture made
To contradict its meaning
Where should be sunshine painting shade,
And smile with sadness screening;
Where God has given a cheerful view
A gloomy vista showing
Where heart and face, are fair and true
A shade of doubt bestowing

Ah Lady if to me you give
The power your sketch to adorn
How little of it shall I leave
Save smiles that shine like morn.
Ide keep the hue of happy light
That shines from summer skies
Ide drive the shades from smiles so bright
And dry such shining eyes

Ide give a calm to one whose heart
Has banished calm from mine
Ide brighten up Gods work of art
Where thou hast dimmed it shine
And all the wages I should ask
For such a happy toil
I'll name them—far beyond my task— THY PRESENCE AND THY SMILE.

7. Lydia Gisborne By Branwell Bront? (не опубликовано) - bukin

Cannot my soul depart where it will fly?
Asks my tormented heart, willing to die.
When will this restlessness tossing in sleeplessness—
Stranger to happiness—slumbering lie.

Cannot I chase away life in my tomb
Rather than pass away lifetime in gloom,
With sorrows employing their arts in destroying
The power of enjoying the comforts of home?

Home it is not with me bright as of yore
Joys are forgot with me, taught to deplore
My home has ta'en its rest in an afflicted breast
That I have often pressed but—may no more.

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