Translation of Poem by FYODOR TYUTCHEV, "Done the Feast, The Songs Are Sung," "Кончен пир, умолкли хоры"

 

Федор Тютчев

(1803-1873)

 

Кончен пир, умолкли хоры,
Опорожнены амфоры,
Опрокинуты корзины,
Не допиты в кубках вины,
На главах венки измяты, —
Лишь курятся ароматы
В опустевшей светлой зале…
Кончив пир, мы поздно встали —
Звезды на небе сияли,
Ночь достигла половины…

 

Как над беспокойным градом,
Над дворцами, над домами,
Шумным уличным движеньем
С тускло-рдяным освещеньем
И бессонными толпами, —
Как над этим дольным чадом,
В горнем выспреннем пределе
Звезды чистые горели,
Отвечая смертным взглядам
Непорочными лучами…

 

Late 1849 or early 1850

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

The feast is done, the choirs have gone silent,

Empty are the amphoras,

Overturned the baskets,

Wine left undrunk in goblets,

On brows the garlands are crumpled.

Only aromas are smoking

In the bright deserted hall . . .

Our feast done, we arose late;

Stars had been shining in the sky,

Half the night had passed . . .

 

How above the restless city,

Over the palaces, over houses,

[Over] the noisy bustle on the streets

With its dimly ordered illumination

And its crowds of insomniacs,

How above these children of the valley,

In mountainous limits of the lofty

Pure stars were gleaming,

Responding to mortals’ gazes

With their chaste rays . . .

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Done the feast, the songs are sung,

Empty amphoras recline,

Baskets scattered lie among

Tumblers, goblets, stains of wine.

On brows the garlands sit askew,

And in the bright deserted room

Hazy fragrances blow through . . .

Half the night we’ve sniffed joy’s spume,

Now, feasting under starlight done,

Late we rise, to greet the sun . . .

 

High above the restless streets,

How they gleamed, the purest stars,

On the mansions of elites,

On the buzz of packed bazaars,

Squalid, dirty, dim their glow,

Massed with people craving sleep.

How they gleamed both high and low,

On earthly souls, on mountains steep;

In answer to the mortal gaze,

The stars responded with chaste rays . . .

 

â

 

Translation by Frank Jude

Feasting finished, choirs quiet,

wine-jugs drained,

fruit-baskets scattered,

glasses left with wine unfinished,

crumpled party crowns on heads,

only incense sticks still smoking,

in the bright deserted chamber,

having feasted, late in rising,

stars were shining in the sky,

night had reached its midway point.

 

Above the restless city,

over courts and houses,

thoroughfares and noisy clatter

and the dull, red lighting,

over sleepless crowds of people,

over all this earthly tumult,

in the high, too distant heavens

pure stars were burning,

answering the gaze of mortals

with their uncorrupted shining.