Audisne haec amphiarae, Слышишь ли ты это, Амфиарей
sub terram abdite? скрытый под землею?
10 lyric frafments 10 лирических отрывков
Лирическая драма "Прометей
освобождённый" – грандиозное произведение Шелли. Её 4 акта составляют в
целом 2608 строк. И я ни в коем случае не покушался на перевод всей драмы.
Скорее наоборот – я осознанно переводил оттуда отдельные фрагменты, вне
драматического контекста, выбирая те, которые, на мой взгляд, были особо
проникнуты лирическим чувством поэта.
В настоящей публикации наряду с Введением я объединяю все 10 мною переведенных разрозненных лирических фрагментов из драмы в единое целое (из ранее не опубликованных на Сайте я включил только один под N 5 - "Сколь дивна ты, Земля"). Составляя лишь малую часть этого гигантского произведения и не будучи увязанными единой драматической канвой, они всё-таки дают определённое представление о поэтических красотах драмы.
С огромным воодушевлением я переводил текст Введения к драме, эту поистине программную статью Шелли, которую он, начав с Греческих трагиков и экзотических условий создания своей драмы, посвятил в основном природе поэтического творчества, проблемам формирования поэта в современном обществе, соотношению формы и творческого гения.
В заключение он произносит гордые слова о священной задаче поэзии в ознакомлении наиболее чуткого читателя с прекрасным идеализмом морального превосходства, которые, на мой взгляд, дают ключ и к нашей сегодняшней жизни.
Percy Bysshe Shelley PROMETHEUS UNBOUND (A lyrical drama in four acts):
The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject any portion of
their national history or mythology, employed in their treatment of it
a certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means conceived themselves
bound to adhere to the common interpretation or to imitate in story as
in title their rivals and predecessors. Such a system would have
amounted to a resignation of those claims to preference over their
competitors which incited the composition. The Agamemnonian story was
exhibited on the Athenian theatre with as many variations as dramas.
I have presumed to employ a similar license. The "Prometheus Unbound"
of Aeschylus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as
the price of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his empire by
the consummation of his marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to
this view of the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus, and
Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered from his captivity
by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this model, I should have done
no more than have attempted to restore the lost drama of Aeschylus; an
ambition which, if my preference to this mode of treating the subject
had incited me to cherish, the recollection of the high comparison
such an attempt would challenge might well abate. But, in truth, I was
averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling the
Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of the
fable, which is so powerfully sustained by the sufferings and
endurance of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could conceive of
him as unsaying his high language and quailing before his successful
and perfidious adversary. The only imaginary being resembling in any
degree Prometheus, is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a
more poetical character than Satan, because, in addition to courage,
and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he
is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of
ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement,
which, in the Hero of "Paradise Lost", interfere with the interest.
The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry
which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the
former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those
who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling it
engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of
the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by
the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends.
This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths
of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous
blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon
its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The
bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening
spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it
drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of
The imagery which I have employed will be found, in many instances, to
have been drawn from the operations of the human mind, or from those
external actions by which they are expressed. This is unusual in
modern poetry, although Dante and Shakespeare are full of instances of
the same kind: Dante indeed more than any other poet, and with greater
success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no resource of
awakening the sympathy of their contemporaries was unknown, were in
the habitual use of this power; and it is the study of their works
(since a higher merit would probably be denied me) to which I am
willing that my readers should impute this singularity.
One word is due in candour to the degree in which the study of
contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has
been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and
indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any
one who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in
the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that
his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the
study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is
true, that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it
has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own
minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition
of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of
writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom,
it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of
the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated
lightning of their own mind.
The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which
distinguishes the modern literature of England has not been, as a
general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer.
The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same;
the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If
England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population
and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under
institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce
philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare)
have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age
of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which
shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian
religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same
spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a
republican, and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The great
writers of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, the companions
and forerunners of some unimagined change in our social condition or
the opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is discharging its
collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and
opinions is now restoring, or is about to be restored.
As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates
by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful
and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no
previous existence in the mind of man or in nature, but because the
whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and
beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought, and with
the contemporary condition of them: one great poet is a masterpiece of
nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might
as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be
the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude
from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a
great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in
any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained,
unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such
internal powers as modify the nature of others; and of such external
influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but
both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the
objects of nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he
ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon
which all forms are reflected, and in which they compose one form.
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and
musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the
creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not
escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between
Aeschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and
Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope;
each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions
are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am
willing to confess that I have imitated.
Let this opportunity be conceded to me of acknowledging that I have,
what a Scotch philosopher characteristically terms, 'a passion for
reforming the world:' what passion incited him to write and publish
his book, he omits to explain. For my part I had rather be damned with
Plato and Lord Bacon, than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus. But it
is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my poetical compositions
solely to the direct enforcement of reform, or that I consider them in
any degree as containing a reasoned system on the theory of human
life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence; nothing can be equally well
expressed in prose that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. My
purpose has hitherto been simply to familiarise the highly refined
imagination of the more select classes of poetical readers with
beautiful idealisms of moral excellence; aware that until the mind can
love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles
of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the
unconscious passenger tramples into dust, although they would bear the
harvest of his happiness. Should I live to accomplish what I purpose,
that is, produce a systematical history of what appear to me to be the
genuine elements of human society, let not the advocates of injustice
and superstition flatter themselves that I should take Aeschylus
rather than Plato as my model.
The having spoken of myself with unaffected freedom will need little
apology with the candid; and let the uncandid consider that they
injure me less than their own hearts and minds by misrepresentation.
Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be
they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his
attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished
purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the
dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his
grave which might otherwise have been unknown.
Percy Bysshe Shelley From PROMETHEUS UNBOUND (A lyrical drama in four acts)
A RAVINE OF ICY ROCKS IN THE INDIAN CAUCASUS.
PROMETHEUS IS DISCOVERED BOUND TO THE PRECIPICE.
PANTEA AND IONE ARE SEATED AT HIS FEET.
DURING, THE SCENE MORNING SLOWLY BREAKS.
On a poet's lips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept;
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, _740
But feeds on the aereal kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.
He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, _745
Nor heed nor see, what things they be;
But from these create he can
Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of immortality!
One of these awakened me, _750
And I sped to succour thee.
A LOVELY VALE IN THE INDIAN CAUCASUS.
From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended:
Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes
Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes,
And beatings haunt the desolated heart,
Which should have learnt repose: thou hast descended _5
Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring!
O child of many winds! As suddenly
Thou comest as the memory of a dream,
Which now is sad because it hath been sweet;
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up _10
As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds
The desert of our life.
This is the season, this the day, the hour;
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine,
Too long desired, too long delaying, come! _15
How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl!
The point of one white star is quivering still
Deep in the orange light of widening morn
Beyond the purple mountains: through a chasm
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake _20
Reflects it: now it wanes: it gleams again
As the waves fade, and as the burning threads
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air:
'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow
The roseate sunlight quivers: hear I not _25
The Aeolian music of her sea-green plumes
Winnowing the crimson dawn?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Oh, follow, follow,
As our voice recedeth
Through the caverns hollow, _175
Where the forest spreadeth;
Oh, follow, follow!
Through the caverns hollow,
As the song floats thou pursue,
Where the wild bee never flew, _180
Through the noontide darkness deep,
By the odour-breathing sleep
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves
At the fountain-lighted caves,
While our music, wild and sweet, _185
Mocks thy gently falling feet,
Child of Ocean!
Shall we pursue the sound? It grows more faint
List! the strain floats nearer now.
In the world unknown _190
Sleeps a voice unspoken;
By thy step alone
Can its rest be broken;
Child of Ocean!
How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind! _195
Oh, follow, follow!
Through the caverns hollow,
As the song floats thou pursue,
By the woodland noontide dew;
By the forests, lakes, and fountains, _200
Through the many-folded mountains;
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms,
Where the Earth reposed from spasms,
On the day when He and thou
Parted, to commingle now; _205
Child of Ocean!
A PINNACLE OF ROCK AMONG MOUNTAINS.
ASIA AND PANTHEA.
. . .
How glorious art thou, Earth! And if thou be
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still,
Though evil stain its work, and it should be
Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, _15
I could fall down and worship that and thee.
. . .
THE CAVE OF DEMOGORGON.
ASIA AND PANTHEA.
. . .
He gave man speech, and speech created thought,
Which is the measure of the universe;
And Science struck the thrones of earth and heaven,
Which shook, but fell not; and the harmonious mind _75
Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song;
And music lifted up the listening spirit
Until it walked, exempt from mortal care,
Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet sound.
. . .
If the abysm
Could vomit forth its secrets...But a voice _115
Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless;
For what would it avail to bid thee gaze
On the revolving world? What to bid speak
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance and Change? To these
All things are subject but eternal Love. _120
THE CAR PAUSES WITHIN A CLOUD ON THE TOP OF A SNOWY MOUNTAIN.
ASIA, PANTHEA, AND THE SPIRIT OF THE HOUR.
Thy words are sweeter than aught else but his
Whose echoes they are; yet all love is sweet,
Given or returned. Common as light is love, _40
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air,
It makes the reptile equal to the God:
They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most _45
Are happier still, after long sufferings,
As I shall soon become.
A PART OF THE FOREST NEAR THE CAVE OF PROMETHEUS.
PANTHEA AND IONE ARE SLEEPING: THEY AWAKEN GRADUALLY DURING THE FIRST SONG.
. . .
Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, _400
Whose nature is its own divine control,
Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea;
Familiar acts are beautiful through love;
Labour, and pain, and grief, in life's green grove
Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they could be! _405
His will, with all mean passions, bad delights,
And selfish cares, its trembling satellites,
A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey,
Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose helm
Love rules, through waves which dare not overwhelm, _410
Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign sway.
. . .
. . .
To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; _570
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; _575
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory!
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