Автор: | Киплинг Д. Р. |
Категория: | Стихотворение |
THE ROMAN CENTURION’S SONG
Roman Occupation of Britain, A. D. 300
Legate, I had the news last night - my cohort ordered home |
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome. |
I’ve marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below: |
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go! |
I’ve served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall. |
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all. |
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near |
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here. |
Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done; |
Here where my dearest dead are laid - my wife - my wife and son; |
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love, |
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove? |
For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice. |
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies, |
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze - |
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June’s long-lighted days? |
You’ll follow widening Rhodanus till vine and olive lean |
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean |
To Arelate’s triple gate; but let me linger on, |
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon! |
You’ll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines |
Where, blue as any peacock’s neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines. |
You’ll go where laurel crowns are won, but - will you e’er forget |
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet? |
Let me work here for Britain’s sake - at any task you will - |
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill. |
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep, |
I’ve served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome? |
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind - the only life I know. |
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go! |