|The Devil return’d to hell by two,
And he stay’d at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew–
And bethought himself what next to do,
‘And’ quoth he, ‘I’ll take a drive.
I walk’d in the morning, I’ll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I’ll see how my favourites thrive,
|Sosit la două în lăcaş,
Rebel, gătit cu papricaş,
Tocană de sinucigaş,
Iar pe la cinci îşi zice: – „M-aş
Plimba oleacă prin oraş.
Să fac rost de-un rădăvan.
S-a-ntunecat. Să-i dau deci zor.
Ce-or fi făcând ai mei? Mi-e dor.
Nu i-am văzut de-un an.
|‘And what shall I ride in?’ quoth Lucifer then–
‘If I follow’d my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish’d again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach’d away.
|Cu ce să plec? Aud un zvon.
Pesemne trece vreun furgon
Plin cu răniţi. Ia să vedem!
Îmi place să-i aud cum gem.
Dar teamă mi-e c-or sta în drum
Răniţi să-ncarce, că-s duium.
Aş vrea mai repede s-ajung
Şi drumu-i lung.
|‘I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they’re lent to two friends, who make me amends,
By driving my favourite pace:
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.
‘So now for the earth to take my chance:’
Then up to the earth sprang he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp’d across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop’s abode.
|Caretă-n piaţa Seymour am,
Cupeu la Carlton House.
Pocnesc din bici, doi buni amici
Căci vizitii i-am pus.
Eu pentru truda lor le-am spus
Că-i răsplătesc. Ce-ar fi, pe sus,
S-o tai de-a dreptul?” Dintr-un salt
Din Moscova, sosi, Satan
În Franţa şi spre ţărmul nalt
Zburând peste ocean, –
Şi s-a oprit din goană, hop!
În casa unui episcop.
|But first as he flew, I forgot to say
That he hover’d a moment upon his way,
To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
That he perch’d on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush’d like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh’d he:
‘Methinks they have here little need of me!’
|Pe-un câmp de luptă a rămas
Să facă scurt popas,
Să tragă-n nări aroma grea
De pulbere şi pe răniţi
Şi morţi să-i vadă-ngrămădiţi.
Urcat pe-un stog de morţi privea,
Vrăjit, acest pârjol
Şi corbii-n stol, pe câmpul gol
Pe-ntregul plai, te cufundai
În sânge pân’ la brâu.
Râzând şi-a zis în sine:
„E bine. Nu-i de mine!”
|But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying–
As round her fell her long fair hair
And she look’d to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seem ‘d to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch’d by the wall of a ruin’d hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,
And the fall of the vainly flying!
|Bocea o fată pe-un viteaz:
I se păru un cânt.
Iar când cu lacrimi pe obraz
Şi părul ca un blond talaz
Ea peste mort s-a frânt,
Satan căzu-n extaz.
Spre cer şi mort, căta merez, –
Parcă-ntreba de-un Dumnezeu.
Lângă bordeiul prăbuşit
Un prunc, în scutec învelit,
Zăcea ca vi de el, –
Toţi în cătun, loviţi de tun
|But the Devil has reach’d our, cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:
But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,
Who bid pretty well–but they cheated him, though!
|Pe stânca noastră se opri
Şi ce-i trecu prin cap?
În noapte, el, ca-n plină zi,
Vedea. O luă la trap
Măreţe fapte ce se-ascund
În beznă le-nsemnă, pe rând,
Într-un Jurnal şi, oameni buni,
El îl vându, drept acţiuni,
Celor din Row, pe-un preţ sărat.
Nici vorbă: i-a-nşelat.
|The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
Its coachman and his coat
So instead of a pistol he cock’d his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
‘Aha!’ quoth he, ‘what have we here?
‘Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!’
So he sat him on his box again,
And bade him have no fear,
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;
‘Next to seeing a lord at the council board,
I would rather see him here.’
|Zări-o momâie de postav
Într-un rădvan de fier,
Răcni, săltându-şi coada grav,
În chip de revolver:
„Căruţa-i nouă, văd şi eu,
Birjaru-i piesă de muzeu!”
I-a spus să-şi vadă, deci, de hăţ,
De berea din pahar,
De bici, de micul lui desmăţ.
„Ca vajnic demnitar,
Îmi place mult un lord s-ascult.
Nu-i rău nici ca birjar!”
|The Devil gat next to Westminster,
And he turn’d to ‘the room’ of the Commons;
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,
That ‘the Lords’ had received a summons;
And he thought, as a ‘ quondam aristocrat,’
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;
And he walk’d up the house so like one of our own,
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.
|Spre Westminster o luă, cu gând
Să intre la Divan.
Pe drum află că lorzii sunt
Chemaţi printr-un firman
Şi-atunci, „vechi om de lume” el,
Dorind să afle cam ce fel
De vorbe-şi spun, s-a furişat
În sală, lângă împărat.
|He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk – a man of some size–
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon’s eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard – which set Satan himself a staring–
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing.
And the Devil was shock’d – and quoth he, ‘I must go,
For I find we have much better manners below:
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.’
|Pe Liverpool, fals înţelept,
Pe Norfolk, nu prea nalt,
Lord Westmoreland, un alt deştept,
Chatham, leit c-un alt
Amic: lord Billy, Eldon lord,
Cu un jalnic cap de mort,
C-ai lui amici catolici sunt
Netrebnici, el pe rând
I-a cercetat, şi-a auzit, –
Şi a rămas trăsnit –
Pe-un jude înjurând avan.
Cică-ar fi spus Satan:
„În iad n-avem apucături
De astea. Tii! Spurcate guri!
Mă duc. Dar de-o vorbi murdar
Şi într-al meu hotar,
O să-l înveţe Moloch, jos,
Să fie mai cuviincios!”
|George Gordon Byron||traducere de Virgil Teodorescu|