Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly chaiger borne
Thro’ dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o’er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight — to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel’s hand
This mortal armour that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro’ the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
‘O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on! the prize is near.’
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.

СЭР ГАЛАХАД

Мой добрый меч крушит булат,
Копье стремится в бой;
Я силой десяти богат —
Поскольку чист душой.
Высок и ясен трубный гуд,
Дрожат клинки, ударив в бронь;
Трещат щиты; вот-вот падут
И верховой, и конь.
Вспять прянут, съедутся, гремя;
Когда ж стихает битвы гам,
Дожди духов и лепестков
Роняют руки знатных дам.

Сколь нежный взор они дарят
Тем, кто у них в чести!
От плена и от смерти рад
Я дам в бою спасти.
Но, внемля зову высших нужд,
Я чту удел Господних слуг;
Я поцелуям страсти чужд,
И ласкам женских рук.
Иных восторгов знаю власть,
Провижу свет иных наград;
Так веры путь, молитвы суть
Мне сердце в чистоте хранят.

Едва луна сойдет с небес,
Свет различит мой взор: