朗费罗诗7首
But the faces of the children,
The large Newfoundland house-dog
He looked for his little playmates,
They walked not under the lindens,
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
The birds sang in the branches,
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!
That lift aloft their massive wall
A tide-like darkness overwhelms
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight
As from the land of snow and sleet
Falling dreamily through the sky,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
His audacious foot he planted,
Myths are told and songs are chanted,
Full of promptings and suggestions.
Of that flight through heavenly portals,
Of the theft and the transmission
First the deed of noble daring,
Born of heavenward aspiration,
Then the fire with mortals sharing,
Then the vulture,—the despairing
Cry of pain on crags Caucasian.
Only those are crowned and sainted
Who with grief have been acquainted,
In their feverish exultations,
In their triumph and their yearning,
In their passionate pulsations,
In their words among the nations,
The Promethean fire is burning.
Shall it, then, be unavailing,
All this toil for human culture?
Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing,
Must they see above them sailing
O'er life's barren crags the vulture?
Such a fate as this was Dante's,
Thus were Milton and Cervantes,
Nature's priests and Corybantes,
By affliction touched and saddened.
But the glories so transcendent
That around their memories cluster,
And, on all their steps attendant,
Make their darkened lives resplendent
With such gleams of inward lustre!
Through the dreary darkness chanted;
Thoughts in attitudes imperious,
Voices soft, and deep, and serious,
Words that whispered, songs that haunted!
All the soul in rapt suspension,
All the quivering, palpitating
Chords of life in utmost tension,
Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling!
Even the faintest heart, unquailing,
Might behold the vulture sailing
Round the cloudy crags Caucasian!
Though to all there is not given
Strength for such sublime endeavor,
Thus to scale the walls of heaven,
And to leaven with fiery leaven
All the hearts of men forever;
Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted
Honor and believe the presage,
Hold aloft their torches lighted,
Gleaming through the realms benighted,
As they onward bear the message!
普罗米修斯,果敢刚强,
傲然举足,牢牢地踏在
奥林波斯山辉煌城堡上。
美丽动人的是那传说——
说他从天廷向人间飞落;
是那古老的神话故事——
说他大胆盗取和传播
神祇享用的光明之火。
起初是一桩崇高壮举,
出自一种庄严的信念;
然后是天火送到了人间;
然后是兀鹰,高加索巉岩,
他痛楚而又绝望的呼喊。
这一切无非是一种象征,
描绘先知、预言者、歌手;
只有这种人不愧为圣哲:
他们自己把苦难尝够,
使各族人民更高尚、自由。
他们的成就,他们的求索,
他们激昂炽烈的欢乐,
他们对民众说出的话语,
他们亢奋急切的脉搏,
都燃着普罗米修斯之火。
为人类开化付出的劳苦,
难道全都没什么用处?
透过弥天的阴云暗雾,
他们难道必得要目睹
兀鹰在人生荒山上飞翥?
但丁的身世如此凄凉,
挫败和放逐逼得他发狂;
还有造化的教士、祭司——
弥尔顿、塞万提斯也同样,
一生饱尝困苦与忧伤。
却有卓越出众的荣名
在他们身后流传万古;
凭借内心煌煌的灯烛,
照亮生平历历的脚步,
暗淡生涯便光华夺目!
在那阴沉昏昧的深宵,
神秘的乐曲悠扬缭绕;
气势凌人的汹涌思潮,
柔婉、深沉、肃穆的音调,
细语喃喃,清歌袅袅!
一个个凝神屏息的灵魂,
一根根绷紧的生命之弦,
不停地悸动,不停地震颤,
充满了激情,充满了狂欢,
要去创造,要去兴建!
普罗米修斯!你举步登天!
在这欢腾昂奋的时间,
最软弱的心灵也振作起来,
望见那兀鹰往复盘旋
在阴云惨淡的高加索山巅!
尽管并非人人都具有
干这种超凡事业的力量:
去攀登天国的万仞高墙,
以火为酵素,去长久酵动
普天下芸芸众生的心房;
然而,心志不衰的诗人
尊崇和笃信神圣的预言;
把手中光明火炬高擎,
把脚下黑暗国土照遍,
他们肩负着使命向前!
Daylight and Moonlight
In broad daylight, and at noon,
Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white,
As a school-boy's paper kite.
In broad daylight, yesterday,
I read a Poet's mystic lay;
And it seemed to me at most
As a phantom, or a ghost.
But at length the feverish day
Like a passion died away,
And the night, serene and still,
Fell on village, vale, and hill.
Then the moon, in all her pride,
Like a spirit glorified,
Filled and overflowed the night
With revelations of her light.
And the Poet's song again
Passed like music through my brain;
Night interpreted to me
All its grace and mystery.
亮堂堂,昨天白天,
我吟诵诗人的歌篇,
它那样神奇幽晦,
像幻影,又像鬼魅。
终于,炎炎的白昼
像激情一样溜走,
安详沉静的夜幕
笼罩了村庄山谷。
月亮,皎洁而丰盈,
像容光焕发的仙灵,
把清辉畅然远送,
盈溢于寥廓夜空。
诗人的歌儿又响起,
像乐曲萦回脑际;
夜向我细细阐释
歌声的魅力和奥旨。
My Lost Youth
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hersperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
俨然又回到年少的时光。
一首拉普兰民歌的诗句
一直在我记忆里回荡:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
我望见葱茏的树木成行,
从忽隐忽现的闪闪波光
瞥见了远处环抱的海洋;
那些岛,就像是极西仙境,
小时候惹动我多少梦想!
那首古老民歌的叠句
依旧在耳边喃喃低唱:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
我记得污黑的码头和船台,
海上恣意奔腾的潮汐;
满嘴胡须的西班牙水手,
一艘艘船舶的壮丽神奇,
茫茫大海诱人的魔力。
那萦回不去的执拗歌声
仍然在那里又唱又讲:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
我记得岸上的防御工事,
记得山头耸立的碉楼;
日出时,大炮隆隆怒吼,
鼙鼓一阵阵擂响不休,
号角激昂锐厉地吹奏。
那首民歌的悠扬曲调
依然波动在我的心头:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
我记得那次远处的海战,
炮声在滚滚浪潮上震荡;
两位船长,在墓中安躺,
俯临着寂寥宁静的海湾——
那就是他们战死的沙场。
那哀怨的歌声往复回翔,
颤栗的音波流过我心房:
孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
我看见微风里林木亭亭,
荻岭森林洒布着阴影;
旧日的友谊,早年的恋情,
以安恬音调回到我心里,
宛如幽静邻里的鸽鸣。
那古老民歌的甜美诗句
依稀在低语,在飘荡不停:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
我记得喜与忧,亮光和暗影,
不时掠过我童稚的心灵;
心底蕴藏的歌声和静默
有几分是预言,也还有几分
是狂热而又虚幻的憧憬。
听呵,那起伏不定的歌声
还在唱着,总也不平静:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
有一些梦境永不会泯灭;
有一些情景我不能倾诉;
有一些愁思,使心弱神枯,
使双颊失色,苍白凄楚,
使两眼模糊,蒙上潮雾。
那句不祥的歌词好像
一个寒战落到我身上:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
当我重临这亲爱的古城,
眼中的景象已这般陌生;
但故乡的空气甘美而纯净,
熟识的街衢洒满了树影,
树枝上下摆动个不停,
都在唱着那动人的歌声,
在低声细诉,在曼声吟咏:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
怀着近似痛苦的欢欣,
我的心魂向故国飞奔;
荻岭森林秀丽而鲜润;
从一一重温的缤纷旧梦里,
我又觅回了逝去的青春。
树丛还在反复地吟唱
那奇异而又美妙的诗行:
“孩子的愿望是风的愿望,
青春的遐想是悠长的遐想。”
Children
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,—
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
你们把东边窗户打开,
初升的太阳正在窗外,
那儿,思绪像呢喃的燕子,
像清晨的溪水,流得欢快。
你们心里有鸟儿和阳光,
你们思想里有小溪流过;
我这儿却只有秋天的凄风
和冬天第一次雪花飘落。
啊!若是没有了孩子,
那还算得个什么世界?
我们会惧怕身后的荒凉
甚于惧怕眼前的黑夜。
好比嫩绿的树叶在林间,
把阳光空气当作主食,
叶片中甜美清新的汁液
还不曾化为坚硬的木质,——
孩子在世间也是这般,
凭着他们,世人才感到
天气比树干所接触的更好,
阳光也更明亮地照耀。
来吧,上这儿来吧,孩子们!
在我耳边悄悄告诉我:
你们晴朗温和的天气里,
鸟儿和风儿在唱些什么。
算得了什么,书上的学问?
算得了什么,我们的事业?
哪里比得上你们的爱抚
和你们脸上甜蜜的笑靥?
历来说说唱唱的歌谣
没有哪一首比得上你们;
只有你们是活的诗篇,
别的诗都是死气沉沉。
Charles Sumner
Garlands upon his grave
And flowers upon his hearse,
And to the tender heart and brave
The tribute of this verse.
His was the troubled life,
The conflict and the pain,
The grief, the bitterness of strife,
The honor without stain.
Like Winkelried, he took
Into his manly breast
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke
A path for the oppressed.
Then from the fatal field
Upon a nation's heart
Borne like a warrior on his shield!—
So should the brave depart.
Death takes us by surprise,
And stays our hurrying feet;
The great design unfinished lies,
Our lives are incomplete.
But in the dark unknown
Perfect their circles seem,
Even as a bridge's arch of stone
Is rounded in the stream.
Alike are life and death,
When life in death survives,
And the uninterrupted breath
Inspires a thousand lives.
Were a star quenched on high,
For ages would its light,
Still travelling downward from the sky,
Shine on our mortal sight.
So when a great man dies,
For years beyond our ken,
The light he leaves behind him lies
Upon the paths of men.
他的生活里充满
磨折,冲突和伤痛,
悲苦,战斗的艰辛,
洁白无瑕的光荣。
像温刻瑞德一样,
他挺起豪侠的胸脯
迎接了敌人的枪矛,
为受压迫者开路。
英勇的国士之死,
应该像武士一般:
在祖国心脏的决战中,
用盾牌抬下火线!
死神冷不防来临,
逼我们停下脚步;
宏伟计划夭折了,
人生又何尝满足!
而在茫昧的幽冥,
人生却趋于完满,
恰似桥梁的石拱
与倒影合成了圆环。
当“生”在“死”中永生,
那不曾中断的呼吸
激励着千万生灵,
死与生又有何异!
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