12 apr.
„The Devil’s Drive: An Unfinished Rhapsody” de George Gordon Byron
| 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, Înfulecă, Satan, 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 Şi-nsângeratul râu, 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 Pieriseră-n măcel. |
| 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 |