Roy Campbell (Рой Кэмпбелл)

To the Survivors

The rust that paints their cities red
And makes their cast-iron idols reel:
The russet locust-swarm that’s spread
Upon their wilting crops of steel:—
​
This gift of our protecting Sire,
The Solar Christ, to purge the lands—
Is like the good Promethean fire
At which to warm our scatheless hands.
​
By it the human heart relumed,
Shall blaze once more with ruby light—
The strong shall seize it unconsumed,
The rest will crumble at its sight.
​
The brave from out its grudging crust
Will pull the treasure that it keeps—
Within the red sheath of the rust,
The white Excalibur that sleeps:—
​
One from its ash breathe new desire;
One from its embers snatch the Star
That glances with a triple fire
And tips the Trident of Cailar:—
​
One will blow flames, when nations drowse,
With which to burn prophetic lips:
And some find shares, with cruiser-prows
To heave the curling turf like ships.
​
Then, like Niagara set free,
Ride on, you fine Commando: vain
Were looking back, for all you’d see
Were ‘Charlies’ running for their train!
​
For none save those are worthy birth
Who neither life nor death will shun:
And we plough deepest in the Earth
Who ride the nearest to the Sun.

1. Hialmar
2. The Crystal
3. Autumn
4. Creeping Jesus
5. Vespers on the Nile

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1729

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