Михаил Лермонтов «Родина» на английском языке
Родина
Люблю отчизну я, но странною любовью!
Не победит ее рассудок мой.
Ни слава, купленная кровью,
Ни полный гордого доверия покой,
Ни темной старины заветные преданья
Не шевелят во мне отрадного мечтанья.
Но я люблю — за что, не знаю сам —
Ее степей холодное молчанье,
Ее лесов безбрежных колыханье,
Разливы рек ее, подобные морям;
Проселочным путем люблю скакать в телеге
И, взором медленным пронзая ночи тень,
Встречать по сторонам, вздыхая о ночлеге,
Дрожащие огни печальных деревень.
Люблю дымок спаленной жнивы,
В степи ночующий обоз
И на холме средь желтой нивы
Чету белеющих берез.
С отрадой, многим незнакомой,
Я вижу полное гумно,
Избу, покрытую соломой,
С резными ставнями окно;
И в праздник, вечером росистым,
Смотреть до полночи готов
На пляску с топаньем и свистом
Под говор пьяных мужичков.
1841 г.
Михаил Лермонтов (1814-1941)
My Native Land
I love my country, but my love is strange
And rare, a love that reason cannot change.
It is not my country’s victories, nor fame
So dearly bought with blood, nor ancient claim
Of rich tradition, glory, and command
That stir sweet reveries about my native land.
Not these bring quiet joy. I love — I know
Not why — her rivers at the flood like seas,
The voices of her boundless forest trees,
The frozen silence of her plains in snow.
I love to ride for days inside a jolting cart
On dusty lanes, and, searching slow the evening shadows,
To dream of lodgings near and hail with thankful heart
A blur of trembling village light among the meadows.
I love the smell of stubble burning,
The wagons huddled on the plain
At night, a pair of silver birches
Above a field of yellow grain.
With gladness few can share, I see
The grain upon the threshing floor,
The lowly cottage with its trim
Above the window and the door.
I’m glad to watch on holidays
The stamp of dancers on the ground,
And hear until the morning’s near
The talk of tipsy peasants round.
Mikhail Lermontov
translated by Eugene M. Kayden
My Country
I love my country, but with a strange love —
stronger than reason!..
Neither the fame that blood can buy,
nor the calm pride of confidence,
nor the time-honoured gifts of ignorant days
can stir my soul with dreams of happiness.
But what I love — for some strange reason —
is the cold silence of her plains,
the swaying branches of her endless forests,
her rivers as wide-spreading as the sea;
galloping in a cart on country tracks
and gazing slowly deep into the dark,
seeing on either side, longing for sleep,
the poor sad villages’ bright windows.
I love the smoke of burning stubble,
the lines of carts crossing the steppe,
and in bright meadows, on a hill,
a pair of birches gleaming white.
I feel a pleasure few can share
seeing the barns piled high with grain,
the hut beneath a roof of thatch
with fretted shutters on the windows;
and on a dewy feast-day evening
I’ll gaze till late into the night
at whistling dancers, stamping feet,
and hear the drunken peasants talk.
Mikhail Lermontov
translated by Peter France
My Country
Patriot I am, but in so strange a fashion
No reasons of the mind must rule this passion.
Russia’s blood-purchased glory.
The calm that best her haughty trust beseems.
Her dark and ancient day of hallowed story:
— ’Tis none of these that prompts my happier dreams.
I love her steppe, — I know not why it is, —
Better, the steppe and the cold silences;
Forests that wave illimitable and free;
And river-floods big-brimming like a sea.
And oh ! a sleigh that posts
Along a byway track, — and unaware
You meet a tardy beam that pricks the proof
Shadow of night, — the spirit of hearth and roof
Far out upon the air!
The trembling fire some wretched hovel boasts!
Give me the smoke of Stubblefields alight:
A caravan of nomad wains that winds
Across the enormous weald;
And on the hill, in the dun fallowfield,
A pair of stems, two birches glistening white!
I take such joy as many men know not,
To see a barn-door heaped, a straw-thatched cot,
A window and the carven shutter-blinds.
Some dewy holiday evening I’ll sit by
To watch them dance, long hours, nor tire — not I —
Of the trampling and the whistling: how it glads
The heart to hear their talk, these tipsy lads!
Mikhail Lermontov
translated by J. S. Phillimore
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