“Hush!” cried a voice at his shoulder.

Dutch Pictures

Never thoughtful, wise, or sainted —

This is how the Dutchman painted —

Glossy satin, all a-shine:

Amber rich, as bright as wine.

Red-nosed rascal, cap awry,

Holding flagon to his eye,

Every word a curse or lie.

Utrecht feasts and Zealand dances,

Drunken skips, and reeling prances,

Troopers with red drums and lances.

Gallants robed in purple cloak,

Orange scarfed, who drink and smoke,

Careless what boor’s head is broke.

Ladies trim in scarlet boddice,

Swansdown edged, each one a goddess;

But laughing at an ape — which odd is.

Knaves in steeple hats, who lean

Over door-hatch — vine-leaves green —

Gadding round the window screen.

Brutal boors, who strum a lute —

Screw their faces to a flute —

Grey and scarlet each man’s suit.

Pipers maddening a fair;

Mountebanks who make fools stare;

Drunken fights, with lugging hair.

Cavaliers in silver grey,

Looking, in a mocking way,

At the skittle-players’ fray.

Tranquil groups of dappled kine;

Yellow-red, or dark as wine.

Willows standing in a line;

Long canals ’mid sunny grass,

Where the barges drag and pass,

Stared at by the milking lass.

Cuyp’s rich mellow gold I see;

Teniers’ silver purity;

Potter’s broad serenity —

Jewel colour, clear of dye;

Crystal tender to the eye;

Subtle in each harmony.

Glossy satin’s rolling shine —

Yellow silk, as bright as wine —

Never thoughtful, wise, or sainted —

This is how the Dutchman painted.

The Phantom Ships

The little ships, the phantom ships,

Mere films of cloudy air

Go gliding past through light and shade,

Through gleams and lustres rare;

Or where the moonbeam’s silver path

Sheds glory o’er the sea,

Or where the sunbeam’s splendour

Rests in its majesty.

The little ships, the phantom ships,

Mere tiny films of gray.

Go sailing, sailing, past the cliffs,

And past the frothing bay.

Are they from East or from the West?

From Turkey or from Spain?

Or but the shadows of dream-ships

Gliding across my brain?

Those phantom ships, the phantom ships.

With sailing wings spread gray.

Flaunt forth no crimson pennons

In chivalrous display;

Steer down the channel, past the shoal.

With no rejoicing cheer,

With no resounding cannon.

Nor fire-flash glancing clear.

Those phantom ships are like the hopes

Of days long since rolled by;

O’er dreamland seas they glide along,

Their gray sails mounting high.

Glide on — glide on! ye shadowy fleet,

And bear your dead away.

Past glistening sands and rampart cliffs,

And little frothing bay.

Джордж Уолтер Торнбери (1828–1876)

Придворный летописец

«Низкая империя», ок. 700 г. н. э.

Монах Арнульфус, склянку чернил

откупорив в темноте,

пурпурными буквами начертил

на белом от пемзы листе:

«Храбр басилевс, храбрей не найти,

лев венценосный, Марс во плоти!

Берёт он в жены, по слухам,

роскошную телом фракийку-вдову…»

«Цыц!» — раздалось над ухом.

Немало в палитре у чернеца

красок для дивных картин —

есть стрекозиная зеленца

и золото, и кармин.

Скребёт по пергаменту остриё:

«За князя, что много старше её,

ослабшего телом и духом,

багрянородная Зоя идёт…»

«Цыц!» — раздалось над ухом.

Алым цветут на странице сады,