Кошмар По-эта

 Мешать нам вдруг что будет,

1. Иль сдержит наш подъем,

1. Презрим мы то, грозит нам что,

1. И снова в бой пойдем.

5. Когда ж придет победа,

1. И сгинет виски вон,

1. Пропойца-раб не будет слаб,

1. В наш вступит легион!

The Poe-et’s Nightmare

A Fable

Luxus tumultus semper causa est.

Lucullus Languish, student of the skies,

And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies,

A bard by choice, a grocer’s clerk by trade,

(Grown pessimist through honours long delay’d)

A secret yearning bore, that he might shine

In breathing numbers, and in song divine.

Each day his fountain pen was wont to drop

An ode or dirge or two about the shop,

Yet naught could strike the chord within his heart

That throbb’d for poesy, and cry’d for art.

Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wake

With overdoses of ice cream and cake,

But though th’ ambitious youth a dreamer grew,

Th’ Aonian Nymph delcin’d to come to view.

Sometimes at dusk he scour’d the heav’ns afar

Searching for raptures in the evening star;

One night he strove to catch a tale untold

In crystal deeps – but only caught a cold.

So pin’d Lucullus with his lofty woe,

Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe:

Charm’d with the cheerful horrors there display’d,

He vow’d with gloom to woo the Heav’nly Maid.

Of Auber’s Tarn and Yaanek’s slope he dreams,

And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes.

Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home,

Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.

Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,

He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;

When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,

And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,

He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools,

(Depending on which bard his fancy rules).

‘Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire

On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;

And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,

Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.

Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,

Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:

With this grave retinue he trod the grove

And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.

But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,

The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;

Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,

And soon above the groaning table bends.