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Г.Ф. Лавкрафт: Жизнь
С.Т. Джоши
по изданию Necronomicon Press, 1996
7. Метрический Механик (1914-1917 [II])
Then did He see and search, and then proclaim
The truth supreme, that He alone could frame:
"Behold," He cries unto the mortal throng,
"This is the Wisdom ye have sought so long:
To reverence the Lord, and leave the paths of wrong!"
Say, waking Muse, where ages best unfold,
And tales of times forgotten most are told;
Where weary pedants, dryer than the dust,
Like some lov'd incense scent their letter'd must;
Where crumbling tomes upon the groaning shelves
Cast their lost centuries about ourselves.
Upon the door, in Sol's enfeebled blaze,
The coal-black puss with youthful ardour plays;
Yet what more ancient symbol may we scan
Than puss, the age-long satellite of Man?
Egyptian days a feline worship knew,
And Roman consuls heard the plaintive mew:
The glossy mite can win a scholar's glance,
Whilst sages pause to watch a kitten prance.
A curious fellow in his time,
Fond of old books and prone to rhyme -
A scribbling pedant, of the sort
That scorn the age, and write for sport.
A little wit he sometimes had,
But half of what he wrote was bad;
In metre he was very fair;
Of rhetoric he had his share -
But of the past so much he'd prate,
That he was always out of date!
So many strugglers he befriended,
That rougher bards on him depended:
His death will still more pens than his -
I wonder where the fellow is!
He's in a better land - or worse -
(I wonder who'll revise this verse?)
Well, now it's over! (Hello, Jack!
Enjoy your trip? I'm glad you're back!)
Yes - Bookworm's dead - what's that? Go slow!
Thought he was dead a year ago?
When the evening shadows come
Then my fancies they go roam
Round the dear old rustic cottage by the lane,
Where in days that are no more
Liv'd the maid I did adore,
Liv'd my own beloved sweetheart, darling Jane!
(Chorus)
O my dearest, sweetest pride,
Thou couldst never be my bride,
For the angels snatch'd you up one summer day;
Yet my heart is ever true,
And I love you yes I do,
And I'll mourn for you until I pine away!
I - pine - a - way - (by 1st Tenor).
Your silks and sapphires rouse my heart,
But I can penetrate your art -
My seventh husband fool'd my taste
With shoddy silks and stone of paste!
Behold great Whitman, whose licentious line
Delights the rake, and warms the souls of swine;
Whose fever'd fancy shuns the measur'd place,
And copies Ovid's filth without the grace.
And here in the swirl of the vapours
I saw the divine Nathicana;
The garlanded, white Nathicana;
The slender, blach-hair'd Nathicana;
The sloe-eye'd, red-lipp'd Nathicana;
The silver-voic'd, sweet Nathicana;
The pale-rob'd, belov'd Nathicana.
How might we praise the lines so soft and sweet,
Were they not lame in their poetic feel!
Just as the readers' heart bursts into flame,
The fire is quenched by rhyming "gain" with "name",
And ecstasy becomes no easy task
When fields of "grass" in Sol's bright radiance "bask"!
Yet see on ev'ry hand the antic train
That swarm uncheck'd, and gibber o'er the plain.
Here Librist, Cubist, Spectrist forms arise;
With foetid vapours cloud the crystal skies;
Or led by transient madness, rend the air
With shrieks of bliss and whinings of despair.
Whilst the brave Semite loud of freedom cants,
Against this freedom he, forgetful, rants:
Eternal licence for himself he pleads,
Yet seeks restraint for his opponents' deeds;
With the same force that at oppression rails,
He'd bar the Jeffersonian from the mails!
Ochone! Ochone! Where am Oi now? What conflict am Oi in?
Do Oi belong in Dublin town or back in Ould Berlin?
A week ago me son was born; his christ'nin's not far off;
Oi wonder will I call him Mike, or Friedrich Wilhelm Hoff?
The youthful Tom, with Dionysiac might,
Waylaid and robb'd an aged Jew last night,
Whilst reeling Dick, with Bacchic ire possess'd,
Shot down his best beloved friend in jest.
Shriek with delight, and writhe in ghoulish mirth;
With every draught another sin hath birth;
Beat your black wings, and prance with cloven feet;
With hideous rites the friends of Chaos greet!
Minions of Hell, your fiendish tones combine,
And chant in chorus of the Pow'r of Wine!
C17H19N
O3 + H2O
The hapless youth took now and then,
And knew De Quincey's woe.
Your eyes, we vow, surpass the stars;
Your mouth is like the bow of Cupid;
Your rose-ting'd cheeks no wrinkle marks -
Yet why are you so sweetly stupid?
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Новые книги авторов СИ, вышедшие из печати:
О.Болдырева "Крадуш. Чужие души"
М.Николаев "Вторжение на Землю"