Поэзия Канады (Люси Мод Монтгомери) - страница 8



Не жертвовать заставят ли враги?

Молитву слышит Бог, и я скажу вам так,

Терпение – триумф души живой!


Я будущее вижу, братья, далеко,

Могучая земля лежит под нами,

На троне среди множества племен

Свободе, счастью властвовать легко,

Завеса поднята, грядущего устами

Мне говорит она, что пусть невелико

Везение в бою, истории страница

Для нас в небесном блеске возродится,

Прозреет край, достойно укреплен.


«С тех пор, как сотворен был мир вокруг,

И жизнь свою отдал создатель-человек,

Свобода, безопасность верных слуг

Добыты личной жертвою святою,

И материнский поцелуй, готовясь к бою,

Припомни, бейся в бреши против сотен рук,

Товарищи мои, не станем трусами навек,

Мужчин любимых не бросает верный друг!»


В его словах команде всей хватило места,

А смерть – невеста!

Почти юнцы тогда отважно пали.

Я, менее удачливый, вернулся

От выстрелов, гортанных криков, стали,

Медлительно и тяжко, чтоб изведать

Мученья перед жуткою концовкой,

Страшней своей агонии короткой.

Сквозь пытки, боль и муки – через это

Мой дух тогда измученный уйдет,

Ищу друзей, но весть терплю, однако,

О том, что мы в отчаянии сейчас,

Засоленный надолго случай землю спас,

Бог внял теперь молитвам Даулака.


At the Long Sault


A prisoner under the stars I lie,

With no friend near;

To-morrow they lead me forth to die,

The stake is ready, the torments set,

They will pay in full their deadly debt;

But I fear them not! Oh, none could fear

Of those who stood by Daulac’s side

While he prayed and laughed and sang and fought

In the very reek of death and caught

The martyr passion that flamed from his face

As he died!


Where he led us we followed glad,

For we loved him well;

Some there were that held him mad,

But we knew that a heavenly rage had place

In that dauntless soul; the good God spake

To us through him; we had naught to do

Save only obey; and when his eyes

Flashed and kindled like storm-swept skies,

And his voice like a trumpet thrilled us through,

We would have marched with delight for his sake

To the jaws of hell.


The mists hung blue and still on the stream

At the marge of dawn;

The rapids laughed till we saw their teeth

Like a snarling wolf’s fangs glisten and gleam;

Sweetly the pine trees underneath

The shadows slept in the moonlight wan;

Sweetly beneath the steps of the spring

The great, grim forest was blossoming;

And we fought, that springs for other men

Might blossom again.


Faint, thirst-maddened we prayed and fought

By night and by day;

Eyes glared at us with serpent hate

Yet sometimes a hush fell, and then we heard naught

Save the wind’s shrill harping far away,

The piping of birds, and the softened calls

Of the merry, distant water-falls;

Then of other scenes we thought

Of valleys beloved in sunny France,

Purple vineyards of song and dance,

Hopes and visions roseate;

Of many a holy festal morn,

And many a dream at vesper bell

But anon the shuddering air was torn

By noises such as the fiends of hell

Might make in holding high holiday!

Once, so bitter the death-storm hailed,

We shrank and quailed.


Daulac sprang out before us then,

Shamed in our fears;

Glorious was his face to see,

The face of one who listens and hears

Voices unearthly, summonings high

Rang his tone like a clarion, ”Men,

See yonder star in the golden sky,

Such a man’s duty is to him,

A beacon that will not flicker nor dim,

Shining through darkness and despair.

Almost the martyr’s crown is yours!

Thinking the price too high to be paid,