Барсук,Зуша - Старый рыцарь
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Он был весной своей
В земле обетованной
И много славных дней
Провел в тревоге бранной.
Там ветку от святой
Оливы оторвал он;
На шлем железный свой
Ту ветку навязал он.
С неверным он врагом,
Нося ту ветку, бился
И с нею в отчий дом
Прославлен возвратился.
Ту ветку посадил
Сам в землю он родную
И часто приносил
Ей воду ключевую.
Он стал старик седой,
И сила мышц пропала;
Из ветки молодой
Олива древом стала.
Под нею часто он
Сидит, уединенный,
В невыразимый сон
Душою погруженный.
Над ним, как друг, стоит,
Обняв его седины,
И ветвями шумит
Олива Палестины;
И, внемля ей во сне,
Вздыхает он глубоко
О славной старине
И о земле далекой.
He was his spring
In the promised land
And many glorious days
He spent in the alarm of Brannah.
There is a branch from the saint
He tore olives;
On the helmet Iron
He imposed that branch.
With the wrong enemy, he
Carrying that branch, fought
And with her to her father
The glorified returned.
I planted that branch
He is his native in the ground
And often brought
Her water is key.
He became old gray -haired
And the strength of the muscles disappeared;
From the branch young
Oliva became a tree.
Under her often he
Sitting, secluded
In an inexpressible dream
Immersed soul.
Above him, like a friend, stands
Hugging his gray hair
And it makes noise branches
Oliva Palestine;
And, heed her in a dream,
He sighs deeply
About glorious antiquity
And about the far earth.
In the promised land
And many glorious days
He spent in the alarm of Brannah.
There is a branch from the saint
He tore olives;
On the helmet Iron
He imposed that branch.
With the wrong enemy, he
Carrying that branch, fought
And with her to her father
The glorified returned.
I planted that branch
He is his native in the ground
And often brought
Her water is key.
He became old gray -haired
And the strength of the muscles disappeared;
From the branch young
Oliva became a tree.
Under her often he
Sitting, secluded
In an inexpressible dream
Immersed soul.
Above him, like a friend, stands
Hugging his gray hair
And it makes noise branches
Oliva Palestine;
And, heed her in a dream,
He sighs deeply
About glorious antiquity
And about the far earth.