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

      But now, with rack and ruin sated

      And weary of her insolence

      And uproar, Neva, still elated

      With her rebellious turbulence,

      Stole back, and left her booty stranded

      And unregarded. So a bandit

      Bursts with his horde upon a village

      To smash an slay, destroy and pillage;

      Whence yells, and violence, and alarms,

      Gritting of teeth, and grievous harms

      And wailing’s; then the evildoers

      Rush home; but dreading the pursuers

      And sagging with the stolen load

      They drop their plunder on the road.

      Meanwhile the water had abated

      And pavements now uncovered lay;

      And our Evgeny, by dismay

      And hope and longing agitated,

      Sore-hearted to the river sped.

      But still it lay disquieted

      And still the wicked waves were seething

      In pride of victory, as though

      A flame was smoldering below;

      And heavily was Neva breathing

      Like to a horse besprent with foam

      Who gallops from the battle home.

      Evgeny watches, and descrying

      By happy chance a boat, goes bluing

      To hail the ferryman; and he,

      Unhired and idle, willingly

      Convoys him for a threepence, plying

      Through that intimidating sea.

      The old tried oarsman long contended

      With the wild waters, hour by hour,

      Sunk in the trough, the skiff descended

      Mid rollers, ready to devour

      Rash crew and all – at last contriving

      To make the farther shore.

                                                      Arriving,

      Evgeny – evil is his lot! —

      Runs to the old street, – and knows it not.

      All, to his horror, is demolished,

      Leveled or ruined or abolished.

      Houses are twisted all awry,

      And some are altogether shattered,

      Some shifted by the seas; and scattered

      Are bodies, flung as bodies lie

      On battlefields. Unthinkingly,

      Half-fainting, and excruciated,

      Evgeny rushes on, awaited

      By destiny with unrevealed

      Tidings, as in a letter sealed.

      He scours the suburb; and discerning

      The bay, he knows the house is near;

      And then stops short, ah, what is here?

      Retreating, and again returning,

      He looks – advances – look again.

      ‘Tis there they dwelt, the marks are plain;

      There is the willow. Surely yonder

      The gate was standing, in the past;

      Now, washt away! No house! – O’ercast

      With care, behold Evgeny wander

      Forever rounds and rounds the place,

      And talk aloud, and strike his face

      With his bare hand. A moment after,

      He breaks into a roar of laughter.

      The vapors of the night came down

      Upon the terror-stricken town,

      But all the people long debated

      The doings of the day, and waited

      And could not sleep. The morning light

      From pale and weary clouds gleamed bright

      On the still capital; no traces

      Now of the woes of yesternight!

      With royal purple it effaces

      The mischief; all things are proceeding

      In form and order as of old;

      The people are already treading,

      Impassive, in their fashion, cold,

      Through the cleared thoroughfares, inheeding;

      And now official folk forsake

      Their last night’s refuge, as they make

      Their way to duty. Greatly daring,

      The huckster now takes heart, unbarring

      His cellar, late the prey and sack

      Of Neva, – hoping to get back

      His heavy loss and wasted labor

      Out of the pockets of his neighbor.

      The drifted boats from each courtyard

      Are carried.

                              To a certain bard,

      A count, a favorite of heaven

      To one Khvostov, the theme was given

      To chant in his immortal song

      How Neva’s shores had suffered wrong.

      But my Evgeny, poor, sick fellow! —

      Alas, the tumult in his brain

      Had left him powerless to sustain

      Those shocks of terror. For the bellow

      Of riotous winds and Neva near

      Resounded always in his ear;

      A host of hideous thoughts attacked him,

      A kind of nightmare rent and racked him,

      And on he wandered silently;

      And as the week, the month, went by,

      Never came home. His habitation,

      As time ran out, the landlord took,

      And leased the now deserted nook

      For a poor poet’s occupation.

      Nor ever came Evgeny home

      For his belongings; he would roam,

      A stranger to the world; his ration

      A morsel tendered in compassion

      Out of a window; he would tramp

      All day, and on the quay would camp

      To sleep; his garments, old and fraying,

      Were all in tatters and decaying.

      And the malicious boys would pelt

      The man with stones; and of the felt

      The cabman’s whiplash on him flicking;

      For he had lost the skill of picking

      His footsteps, – deafened, it may be,

      By fears that clamored inwardly.

      So, dragging out his days, ill-fated,

      He seemed like something mistreated,

      No beast, nor yet of human birth,

      Neither