Having no country

Heimatlos

Max Herrmann-Neiße (1886-1941)

Heimatlos
Wir ohne Heimat irren so verloren und sinnlos durch der Fremde Labyrinth. Die Eingebornen plaudern vor den Toren vertraut im abendlichen Sommerwind. Er macht den Fenstervorhang flüchtig wehen und läßt uns in die lang entbehrte Ruh des sichren Friedens einer Stube sehen und schließt sie vor uns grausam wieder zu. Die herrenlosen Katzen in den Gassen, die Bettler, nächtigend im nassen Gras, sind nicht so ausgestoßen und verlassen wie jeder, der ein Heimatglück besaß und hat es ohne seine Schuld verloren und irrt jetzt durch der Fremde Labyrinth. Die Eingebornen träumen vor den Toren und wissen nicht, daß wir ihr Schatten sind.
Having no country
We with no country, this is how we wander among the foreigners, lost in their maze. The 'born-heres' at their gates or in their doorways chat and relax in summer’s evening breeze: it stirs the curtains, shows us the contentment that's ours no more: a parlour lapped in peace, secure and safe; then suddenly it closes, cruelly hides the scenery of bliss. Stray cats about the lanes, and luckless beggars who sleep on sodden grass or naked earth, are less cast out, are less ignored, abandoned than all these who once had a happy hearth and lost it through no fault, and lost their country and wander now around this foreign maze. The 'born-heres' at their gates or in their doorways dream on, not knowing us, their ghosts, their shades.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Skye Boat Song

Sir Harold Boulton, Bt. (1859-1935)

Translated into Latin by Timothy Adès
Skye Boat Song
Speed bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,     Onward! the sailors cry: Carry the lad that’s born to be king     Over the sea to Skye. Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,     Thunderclaps rend the air, Baffled our foes stand on the shore,     Follow they will not dare. Many’s the lad fought on that day     Well the claymore could wield, When the night came, silently lay     Dead on Culloden’s field. Though the waves leap, soft shall you sleep,     Ocean’s a royal bed: Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep     Watch by your weary head. Burned are their homes, exile and death     Scatter the loyal men: Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath,     Charlie will come again!
i, ratis, i, velut ales avis,     porro cient nautae: per mare fer, qui rex iuvenis     spes Caledoniae. saevit hiems, unda stridet,     fulmine flent caeli: hostis haerens litus habet,     pavidus insequi. plurimus vir, Marte sollers,     nisus erat ferro: venerat nox, iacet iners     mortuus in solo. spuma salit, lassus dormit,     cubat in gurgite: una sedet, fida manet     vigil pro capite. igni suos, exilio,     morte sparsos queror: ense tamen non tepido     reveniet victor!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Sir Harold Boulton, Bt....

St Helena

Ste-Hélène

Victor Hugo (1802-85)

Third poem in L'Expiation, following Moscow and Waterloo. All published by The Napoleonic Society of America, and in Translation and Literature (Edinburgh U.P.)
Ste-Hélène
Il croula. Dieu changea la chaîne de l’Europe. Il est, au fond des mers que la brume enveloppe, Un roc hideux, débris des antiques volcans. Le Destin prit des clous, un marteau, des carcans, Saisit, pâle et vivant, ce voleur du tonnerre, Et, joyeux, s’en alla sur le pic centenaire Le clouer, excitant par son rire moqueur Le vautour Angleterre à lui ronger le cœur. Évanouissement d’une splendeur immense ! Du soleil qui se lève à la nuit qui commence, Toujours l’isolement, l’abandon, la prison, Un soldat rouge au seuil, la mer à l’horizon, Des rochers nus, des bois affreux, l’ennui, l’espace, Des voiles s’enfuyant comme l’espoir qui passe, Toujours le bruit des flots, toujours le bruit des vents ! Adieu, tente de pourpre aux panaches mouvants, Adieu, le cheval blanc que César éperonne ! Plus de tambours battant aux champs, plus de couronne, Plus de rois prosternés dans l’ombre avec terreur, Plus de manteau traînant sur eux, plus d’empereur ! Napoléon était retombé Bonaparte. Comme un romain blessé par la flèche du Parthe, Saignant, morne, il songeait à Moscou qui brûla. Un caporal anglais lui disait : halte-là ! Son fils aux mains des rois ! sa femme aux bras d’un autre ! Plus vil que le pourceau qui dans l’égout se vautre, Son sénat qui l’avait adoré l’insultait. Au bord des mers, à l’heure où la bise se tait, Sur les escarpements croulant en noirs décombres, Il marchait, seul, rêveur, captif des vagues sombres. Sur les monts, sur les flots, sur les cieux, triste et fier, L’œil encore ébloui des batailles d’hier, Il laissait sa pensée errer à l’aventure. Grandeur, gloire, ô néant ! calme de la nature ! Les aigles qui passaient ne le connaissaient pas. Les rois, ses guichetiers, avaient pris un compas Et l’avaient enfermé dans un cercle inflexible. Il expirait. La mort de plus en plus visible Se levait dans sa nuit et croissait à ses yeux Comme le froid matin d’un jour mystérieux. Son âme palpitait, déjà presque échappée. Un jour enfin il mit sur son lit son épée, Et se coucha près d’elle, et dit : « C’est aujourd’hui » On jeta le manteau de Marengo sur lui. Ses batailles du Nil, du Danube, du Tibre, Se penchaient sur son front, il dit : « Me voici libre ! Je suis vainqueur ! je vois mes aigles accourir ! » Et, comme il retournait sa tête pour mourir, Il aperçut, un pied dans la maison déserte, Hudson Lowe guettant par la porte entrouverte. Alors, géant broyé sous le talon des rois, Il cria : « La mesure est comble cette fois ! Seigneur ! c’est maintenant fini ! Dieu que j’implore, Vous m’avez châtié ! » La voix dit : Pas encore !
St Helena
He fell; and God changed Europe's iron bands. Far in the fog-bound seas a vile rock stands, Belched up by old volcanoes. Destiny Took nails and clamps and neck-irons, gleefully, Seized him who stole the thunder, living, pale, And dragged him to the grizzled peak, to nail Him down, and with a mocking laugh to start The vulture England gnawing at his heart. * Immeasurable splendour, passed away! From earliest sunrise till the end of day Ever alone, abandoned, caged in prison; A redcoat near; beyond, the sea's horizon. Bare rocks, grim woods, depression, emptiness: Sails passing, fleeing into hopelessness. The sound of winds and waves for evermore! Farewell, white horse that Caesar spurs to war, Farewell the pounding drums, the stratagem, The purple tent, the plumes, the diadem! No quaking prostrate kings inferior; No robe trailed over them; no emperor. Napoleon was reduced to Bonaparte. He thought of Moscow burning, sick at heart As Roman bleeding from the Parthian bolt: An English corporal, to bid him Halt! Kings held his son; his wife was spoken for; Worse than a pig that wallows in a sewer, His senate cursed him, worshipping no more. When ocean winds fall still, he walked the shore On cliffs that crumbled in black heaps of stone, The dark waves' captive, dreaming and alone. As bygone battles still amazed his eye, With rueful pride on hill and sea and sky He cast his thoughts, to stray on high adventure. Grandeur and glory, void! the calm of nature! Eagles pass by, not knowing who he is. The kings, his jailers, took their compasses And closed him in a ring inflexible. He sickened. Death more and more visible Rose in the night and grew before his eyes, Like the cold breaking of a strange sunrise. His soul, that fluttered still, was almost fled. At last he laid his sword upon his bed, And took his place, and said `This is the day'. The greatcoat of Marengo on him lay. Nile, Danube, Tiber: battles on his brow Gathered. Said he: `I am unfettered now! I am victorious! Come, my eagles, fly!' And as he turned his head aside to die, Intruding in the empty house he saw Hudson Lowe watching through the half-closed door. The kings beneath their heel had trampled him! `Full measure!' cried the giant; `to the brim! Now it is finished! God whom I implore, Thy chastening's done!' The voice said, `There is More!'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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