The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Александр Пушкин

      “Fulfilled were all my dreamings past

      That set my lone heart faster beating.

      O longed-for moment of our meeting,

      O blessed hour, you came at last!

      There, at the feet of my proud beauty

      I laid my sword and, too, the booty

      Of war: pearls, corals, gold. ’Fore her,

      By jealous womenfolk surrounded,

      Her one-time playmates, my unbounded

      Love making me her prisoner,

      Mute stood I, but Nahina coolly

      Turned from me, saying with no sign

      That she would e’er relent: ‘Nay, truly,

      I do not love thee, hero mine!’

      “I do not like to speak of things

      It is pure agony to think of.

      E’en now, my son, when at the brink of

      I am of death, remembrance brings

      Fresh sorrow to my long-numb spirit

      And gravely wounds my being whole,

      And torn by pain, seared by it, wearied,

      I feel the tears down my cheeks roll.

      “But hark! In parts I call my home,

      Amid the northern fishers lone,

      The art of magic lives. The shaded,

      Thick-growing forests wrapt in deep,

      Eternal silence lie and keep

      The secrets of the wizards aged

      Who dwell there and whose minds to quest

      For wisdom of the loftiest

      And weirdest kind are given. Awesome

      Their powers are: what was and also

      What will be they have knowledge of,

      Life can they snuff and foster love.

      “And I, love’s mad and avid seeker,

      In my despair that ne’er grew weaker,

      By means of magic thought to start

      In proud Nahina’s icy heart

      Of love for me at least a flicker.

      Toward the murk of woodland free

      My steps in hot impatience turning,

      The subtle craft of wizardry

      I spent unnumbered years in learning.

      Then were the fearsome secrets, sought

      By me with such despair, such yearning,

      Revealed to my enlightened thought;

      Of charms and spells I knew the power:

      Love’s aim achieved – О happy hour!

      ‘Nahina, thou art mine!’ I cried.

      ‘Now shall I have thee for my bride.’

      But once again by fate defeated

      Was I and of my triumph cheated.

      “Enraptured, with young dreams aglow,

      Filled with love’s fervour and elation,

      I loudly chant an incantation

      And on dark spirits call, and lo! —

      A flash of light, a crash of thunder,

      And magic whirlwinds start awake,

      I feel the earth begin to quake,

      I hear it hum and rumble under

      My feet, and there in front of me,

      The picture of senility,

      A crone stands. She is bent and shrunken,

      Her hair is white, her eye is sunken

      And glazed with age, her head is shaking…

      And yet, and yet – had I mistaken

      Her for another? – Nay, O knight;

      Nahina ’twas!… In doubt, in fright

      The horrid vision now I measured

      With unbelieving gaze, my sight

      Mistrusting… ’Thou! Art thou my treasured

      Nahina? Speak!’ from me the cry

      Burst forth. ‘Where is thy beauty? Why

      Have the gods changed thee so? Have I

      Long, then, from life and love been parted?’

      ‘For forty years!’ I heard her say.

      ‘Indeed, I’m seventy to-day!…

      But never mind! So are lives charted

      And so they pass. Thy spring has flown

      And mine has too. We are, I own,

      Old, both, but be thou not disheartened

      By fickle youth’s swift passage. True,

      I’m grey, a trifle crooked too,

      Less lively and perhaps less charming

      Than once I was…’ This in disarming

      Tones she declared, her voice a squeak.

      ‘Come, do not look, I beg, so tragic…

      I am – in confidence I speak —

      Like thee become well versed in magic.’

      “A sorceress! What had she said!…

      Struck dumb was I by the admission

      And felt a fool, a dunderhead

      For all my store of erudition.

      “But worse by far was that the spell

      That I had cast worked far too well.

      My shrivelled idol flared with passion;

      She loved me – loved me to obsession!

      Her grey lips twisted in a smile,

      In graveyard tones the old hag muttered

      The wildest of avowals, while

      I suffered silently,