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Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863
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Год написания книги
2017
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THE EVERLASTING OLD JEW
'Ich bin der alte
Ahasver,
Ich wand're hin,
Ich wand're her.
Mein Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer,
Und nimmermehr.'
I am the old
Ahasuér;
I wander here,
I wander there.
My rest is gone,
My heart is sair;
I find it never,
And nevermair.
Loud roars the storm,
The milldams tear;
I cannot perish,
O malheur!
My heart is void,
My head is bare;
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Belloweth ox
And danceth bear,
I find them never,
Never mair.
I'm the old Hebrew
On a tare;
I order arms:
My heart is sair.
I'm goaded round,
I know not where:
I wander here,
I wander there.
I'd like to sleep,
But must forbear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
I meet folks alway
Unaware:
My rest is gone,
I'm in despair.
I cross all lands,
The sea I dare:
I travel here,
I wander there.
I feel each pain,
I sometimes swear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Criss-cross I wander
Anywhere;
I find it never,
Never mair.
Against the wale
I lean my spear;
I find no quiet,
I declare.
My peace is lost,
My heart is sair:
I swing like pendulum in air.
I'm hard of hearing,
You're aware?
Curaçoa is
A fine liquéur.
I 'listed once
En militaire:
I find no comfort
Anywhere.
But what's to stop it?
Pray declare!
My peace is gone.
My heart is sair:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Now I know nothing,
Nothing mair.
Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugène Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.
One fine day, some time ago, Savin and Pidgeon were walking down Fifth avenue to their offices.
A funeral was starting from No. – . On the door plate was the word Irving.
'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'
A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for genius. He adores literary talent.
'Ich bin der alte
Ahasver,
Ich wand're hin,
Ich wand're her.
Mein Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer,
Und nimmermehr.'
I am the old
Ahasuér;
I wander here,
I wander there.
My rest is gone,
My heart is sair;
I find it never,
And nevermair.
Loud roars the storm,
The milldams tear;
I cannot perish,
O malheur!
My heart is void,
My head is bare;
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Belloweth ox
And danceth bear,
I find them never,
Never mair.
I'm the old Hebrew
On a tare;
I order arms:
My heart is sair.
I'm goaded round,
I know not where:
I wander here,
I wander there.
I'd like to sleep,
But must forbear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
I meet folks alway
Unaware:
My rest is gone,
I'm in despair.
I cross all lands,
The sea I dare:
I travel here,
I wander there.
I feel each pain,
I sometimes swear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Criss-cross I wander
Anywhere;
I find it never,
Never mair.
Against the wale
I lean my spear;
I find no quiet,
I declare.
My peace is lost,
My heart is sair:
I swing like pendulum in air.
I'm hard of hearing,
You're aware?
Curaçoa is
A fine liquéur.
I 'listed once
En militaire:
I find no comfort
Anywhere.
But what's to stop it?
Pray declare!
My peace is gone.
My heart is sair:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Now I know nothing,
Nothing mair.
Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugène Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.
One fine day, some time ago, Savin and Pidgeon were walking down Fifth avenue to their offices.
A funeral was starting from No. – . On the door plate was the word Irving.
'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'
A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for genius. He adores literary talent.
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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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