Джон Сноу Песня римского центуриона (ст. Киплинга, перевод А. Глебовской, исп. Арсений Ястребов)

Оригинальный текст Киплинга: 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 laidmy wifemy 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 surffice. What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies, Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze The clanging arch of steelgrey March, or June s longlighted days You l