Первый день зимы
Сегодня - 7 ноября красный лист календаря первый день англосаксонской зимы.
Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?
Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?
Hwær sindon seledreamas?
Eala beorht bune!
Eala byrnwiga!
Eala þeodnes þrym!
Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm,
swa heo no wære.
Это строки из англосаксонской поэмы "Странник" (В поэме - eardstapa, от eard 'earth' or 'land' (земля), и steppan 'to step' (степан ступать). На английский переводят как "The Wanderer".
Эти строки хорошо известны многим в переложении Толкина и прекрасном переводе Гриншпуна:
Где ныне всадник, где конь боевой, где звонкого рога пенье?
Где шлем и копьё, меча остриё, волос золотых плетенье?
Где твёрдость руки, сжимающей сталь, где алых огней свеченье?
И где по весне над тучной землёй высоких хлебов цветенье?
Исчезли, ушли, как ветер с равнин уходит, устав скитаться,
На Запад, на Запад уходят дни, чтоб там навсегда остаться.
Кто властен сдержать бесконечный дым, летящий над пепелищами?
И годы, спешащие за моря – удержим ли их? Отыщем ли?
Это "Плач Рохиррим" – песня, которую пел Арагорн Гэндальфу, Леголасу и Гимли, когда они приближались к Эдорасу.
.....
The Wanderer, in which an exile, mourning the loss of home, lord and friends, is trapped in a winter which is his own grief:
Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce
mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan
þe ic him modsefan minne durre
sweotule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat
þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw,
þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde,
healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he wille.
Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan,
ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman.
Forðon domgeorne dreorigne oft
in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste;
swa ic modsefan minne sceolde,
oft earmcearig, eðle bidæled,
freomægum feor, feterum sælan,
siþþan geara iu goldwine minne
hrusan heolstre biwrah, ond ic hean þonan
wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind...
Wat se þe cunnað, hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan,
þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena.
Warað hine wræclast, nales wunden gold,
ferðloca freorig, nalæs foldan blæd...
Often I must alone, every day before dawn,
lament my sorrow. There is now none living
to whom I dare openly speak
the thoughts of my mind. I truly know
that it is a noble virtue among warriors
for a man to bind his spirit-chest fast,
conceal his heart, whatever he may think.
The weary mind cannot withstand fate,
nor the troubled heart provide help.
And so those eager for glory often
bind fast sorrowful thoughts in their breasts;
so I have had to keep my mind –
often wretched, deprived of homeland,
far from kinsmen – fastened in fetters,
since long ago I buried my lord
in the darkness of the earth, and I from there
journeyed, winter-sorrowful, over the binding waves...
He who has experienced it knows
how cruel sorrow is as a companion
for him who has few beloved friends.
The path of exile holds him, not twisted gold;
a frozen spirit, not the glory of the earth.
In this poem winter infects you, it gets into your heart: the speaker describes himself as wintercearig, 'winter-sorrowful', perhaps 'as desolate as winter', and he has a 'frozen spirit', ferðloca freorig.
Краткий перевод на русский:
Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?
Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?
Hwær sindon seledreamas?
Eala beorht bune!
Eala byrnwiga!
Eala þeodnes þrym!
Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm,
swa heo no wære.
Это строки из англосаксонской поэмы "Странник" (В поэме - eardstapa, от eard 'earth' or 'land' (земля), и steppan 'to step' (
Эти строки хорошо известны многим в переложении Толкина и прекрасном переводе Гриншпуна:
Где ныне всадник, где конь боевой, где звонкого рога пенье?
Где шлем и копьё, меча остриё, волос золотых плетенье?
Где твёрдость руки, сжимающей сталь, где алых огней свеченье?
И где по весне над тучной землёй высоких хлебов цветенье?
Исчезли, ушли, как ветер с равнин уходит, устав скитаться,
На Запад, на Запад уходят дни, чтоб там навсегда остаться.
Кто властен сдержать бесконечный дым, летящий над пепелищами?
И годы, спешащие за моря – удержим ли их? Отыщем ли?
Это "Плач Рохиррим" – песня, которую пел Арагорн Гэндальфу, Леголасу и Гимли, когда они приближались к Эдорасу.
.....
The Wanderer, in which an exile, mourning the loss of home, lord and friends, is trapped in a winter which is his own grief:
Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce
mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan
þe ic him modsefan minne durre
sweotule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat
þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw,
þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde,
healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he wille.
Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan,
ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman.
Forðon domgeorne dreorigne oft
in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste;
swa ic modsefan minne sceolde,
oft earmcearig, eðle bidæled,
freomægum feor, feterum sælan,
siþþan geara iu goldwine minne
hrusan heolstre biwrah, ond ic hean þonan
wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind...
Wat se þe cunnað, hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan,
þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena.
Warað hine wræclast, nales wunden gold,
ferðloca freorig, nalæs foldan blæd...
Often I must alone, every day before dawn,
lament my sorrow. There is now none living
to whom I dare openly speak
the thoughts of my mind. I truly know
that it is a noble virtue among warriors
for a man to bind his spirit-chest fast,
conceal his heart, whatever he may think.
The weary mind cannot withstand fate,
nor the troubled heart provide help.
And so those eager for glory often
bind fast sorrowful thoughts in their breasts;
so I have had to keep my mind –
often wretched, deprived of homeland,
far from kinsmen – fastened in fetters,
since long ago I buried my lord
in the darkness of the earth, and I from there
journeyed, winter-sorrowful, over the binding waves...
He who has experienced it knows
how cruel sorrow is as a companion
for him who has few beloved friends.
The path of exile holds him, not twisted gold;
a frozen spirit, not the glory of the earth.
In this poem winter infects you, it gets into your heart: the speaker describes himself as wintercearig, 'winter-sorrowful', perhaps 'as desolate as winter', and he has a 'frozen spirit', ferðloca freorig.
Краткий перевод на русский: