Там, где тоску поет ночная птица,

Себя я поселю.

Угасни, луч обманный, ложный!

Ночь вовсе не темна, о нет,

Тем, кто живет в печали невозможной, —

Их унижает свет.

Меня мученья истерзали,

Остался только стон,

И горести, и вздохи тяжких дней, тяжких дней, —

Я радостей лишен.

C высот блаженства и довольства,

Меня низринул рок;

Лишь страх, лишь скорбь средь пустошей, средь пустошей,

От счастья я далек.

О тени, вы в ночи беззвездной

Презрите свет дневной;

Блажен, блажен укрытый адской бездной

От подлости людской.

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

The Battle Of Agincourt

Fair stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,

At Caux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,

Furnished in warlike sort,

Marcheth towards Agincourt

In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,

Where the French gen’ral lay

With all his power;

Which, in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

Unto him sending;

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,

Quoth our brave Henry then,

“Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.

Yet have we well begun,

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

“And for myself (quoth he),

This my full rest shall be;

England ne’er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain;

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

“Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,

Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies”.

The Duke of York so dread

The eager vaward led;

With the main Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen.

Exeter had the rear,

A braver man not there;—

O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,

Armour on armour shone,

Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make

The very earth did shake;

Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,

O noble Erpingham,

Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces!

When from a meadow by,

Like a storm suddenly,

The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,

Arrows a cloth-yard long,

That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather;

None from his fellow starts,

But, playing manly parts,

And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,

And forth their bilbos drew,

And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent,

Scalps to the teeth were rent,

Down the French peasants went—

Our men were hardy!

This while our noble king,

His broadsword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding,