Love and harmony combine, And around our souls intervine While thy branches mix with mine, And our roots together join. Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Like gentle streams beneath our feet Innocence and virtue meet. Thou golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flower fair; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air And the turtle buildeth there. There she sits feeds her young, Sweet I hear her mournful song; And thy lovely leaves among, There is love: I hear his tongue. There his charming nest doth lay, There he sleeps the night away; There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play.
My silk and fine array, My smile and languish'd air, By love are driv'n away; And mournful lean despair Brings me yew to deck my grave; Such end true lovers have. His face is fair and heav'n When springing buds unfold; O, why to was't giv'n Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love' all worship'd tomb, Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding sheet; When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!
Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year Smiles on my head and mount his flaming car; Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade And rising glories beam around my head. My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn, I meet my maiden risen like the morn: O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet; bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light! Like as an angel glitt'ring in the sky In times of innocence and holy joy, The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song To hear the music of an angel's tongue. So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; So when we walk, nothing impure comes near; Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat; Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
I love the jocund dance, The softly breathing song, Where innocent eyes do glance, And where lisps the maiden's tongue. I love the laughing vale, I love the echoing hill, Where mirth does never fail, And the jolly swain laughs his fill. I love the pleasant cot, I love the innocent bower, Where white and brown is our lot, Or fruit in the mid-day hour. I love the oaken seat, Beneath the oaken tree, Where all the old villagers meet, And laugh our sports to see. I love our neighbours all, But, Kitty, I better love thee; And love them I ever shall; But thou art all to me.
Why was Cupid a boy And why a boy was he? He should have been a Girl For ought that I can see; For he shoots with his bow, And the Girl shoots with her Eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry. And to make Cupid a Boy Was the Cupid Girl's mocking plan; For a boy can't interpret the thing Till he became a man; And then he's so pierc'd with cares And wound with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. 'Twas the Greek's lover of war Turn'd Love into a Boy, And Woman into a statue stone, And why fled every Joy.
And thou art now no longer near! From me. O fairest, thou hast flown! Nor rings in my accustomed ear A single word－a single tone. As when, at morn, the wanderer's eye Pierces the air in vain to see Where, hidden in the deep-blue sky, High up the lark goes singing free－ So wanders anxiously my gaze Piercing the field, the bush, the grove; On thee still call my frequent lays: O, come to me again, dear love.
Up yonder on the mountain A thousand times I stand, Leant on my crook, and gazing Down on the valley-land. I follow the flock to the pasture; My little dog watches them still. I have come below, but I know not How I descended the hill. The beautiful meadow is covered With blossoms of every hue; I pluck them, alas! Without knowing Whom I shall give them to. I seek, in the rain and the tempest, A refuge under the tree: Yonder the doors are fastened, And all is a dream to me. Right over the roof of the dwelling I see a rainbow stand; But she has departed for ever, And gone far out in the land. - Far out in the land, and farther, Perhaps to an alien shore: Go forward, ye sheep! Go forward, - The heart of the shepherd is sore.
The flaunting Rose is proud of port, And proud are they who seek her, But modest minds will fainer court A coyer flower and meeker The soft in soul, the pure in heart, Methinks will choose the better part, And love with stilly love the Lily.
Once a boy beheld a bright Rose in dingle growing; Far, far off it pleased his sight; Near he viewed it with delight: Soft it seemed and glowing. Lo! The rose, the rose so bright, Rose so brightly blowing! Speake the boy, "I'll pluck thee, grand Rose all wildly blowing." Spake the rose, "I'll wound thy hand, Thus the scheme thy wit hath planned Deftly overthrowing." O! The rose, the rose so grand, Rose so grandly glowing. But the stripling plucked the red Rose in glory growing. And the thorn his flesh hath bled, And the rose's pride is fled, And her beauty's going. Woe! The rose, the rose once red, Rose once redly glowing.
Song to a fair young lady, going out of the town in the spring 给一个春季离城的美妇之歌
John Dryden 约翰·德莱登
译者未知
Ask not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides. Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! How can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure? Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst plac'd such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more. When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall, I only am by Love design'd To be the victim for mankind.
No, no, poor suffering heart, no change endeavor; Choose to sustain the smart, rather than leave her. My ravished eyes behold such charms about her, I can die with her, but not live with her; One tender sigh of hers to see me languish, Will more than pay the price of my past anguish. Beware O cruel fair, how you smile on me, 'Twas a kind look of yours that has undone me. Love has in store for me one happy minute, And she will end my pain who did begin it; Then no day void of bliss or pleasure leaving, Ages shall slide away with perceiving: Cupid shall guard the door, the more to please us, And keep out Time and Death, when they would seize us; Time and Death shall depart, and say in flying, Love has found out a way to live by dying.
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye 你眼睛里有天生迷人的辞令
Shakespeare 莎士比亚
译者未知
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world would not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment, A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou bring a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me, My vow was beneath, and breath a vapour is; Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapour now; in thee it is: If broken then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To break an oath, to win a paradise?
Take up the White Man's burden-- Send forth the best ye breed-- Go, bind your sons to exile To serve your captives' need; To wait, in heavy harness, On fluttered folk and wild-- Your new-caught sullen peoples, Half devil and half child. Take up the White Man's burden-- In patience to abide, To veil the threat of terror And check the show of pride; By open speech and simple, An hundred times made plain, To seek another's profit And work another's gain.
Take up the White Man's burden-- The savage wars of peace-- Fill full the mouth of Famine, And bid the sickness cease; And when your goal is nearest (The end for others sought) Watch sloth and heathen folly Bring all your hope to nought.
Take up the White Man's burden-- No iron rule of kings, But toil of serf and sweeper-- The tale of common things. The ports ye shall not enter, The roads ye shall not tread, Go, make them with your living And mark them with your dead.
Take up the White Man's burden, And reap his old reward-- The blame of those ye better The hate of those ye guard-- The cry of hosts ye humour (Ah, slowly!) toward the light:-- "Why brought ye us from bondage, Our loved Egyptian night?"
Take up the White Man's burden-- Ye dare not stoop to less-- Nor call too loud on Freedom To cloak your weariness. By all ye will or whisper, By all ye leave or do, The silent sullen peoples Shall weigh your God and you.
Take up the White Man's burden! Have done with childish days-- The lightly-proffered laurel, The easy ungrudged praise: Comes now, to search your manhood Through all the thankless years, Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom, The judgment of your peers.
In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy, Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead, The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by incapacity. He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence. The cut worm forgives the plow. Dip him in the river who loves water. A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star. Eternity is in love with the productions of time. The busy bee has no time for sorrow. The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure. All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap. Bring out number, weight & measure in a year of dearth. No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings. A dead body revenges not injuries. The most sublime act is to set another before you. If the fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise. Folly is the cloke of knavery. Shame is pride's cloke. Prisons are built with stones of law, brothers with bricks of religion. The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God. Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps. The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man. The fox condemns the trap, not himself. Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth. Let man wear the feel of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep. The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship. The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen, frowning fool shall be thought wise, that they may be a rod. What is now proved was only once imagin'd. The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbet watch the roots; the lion the tyger, the horse, the elephant, watch the fruits. The cistern contains: the fountain overflows. One thought fills immensity, Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you. Every thing possible to be beliv'd is an image of truth. The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow. The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion. Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night. He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you. As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers. The tygers of wrath are the wiser than the horses of instruction. Expect poison from the standing water. You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough. Listen to the fool's reproach! It is a kingly title! The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth. The weak in courage is strong in cunning. The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow; nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his pray. The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest. If others had not been foolish, we should be so. The soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd. When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head! As the caterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on. So the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys. To create a little flower is the labour of ages. Damn braces: bless relaxes. The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest. Prayers plow not! Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not! The head sublime, the heart pathos, the genitals beauty, the hands & feet proportion. As the air to bird or the sea to fish, so is contempt to the contemptible. The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl that every thing was white. Exuberance is beauty. If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning. Improve(me)nt makes strait road; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius. Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires. Where man is not, nature is barren. Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be beliv'd. Enough! Or too much.
For Bryan Priestman (drowned while attempting to save a child) 给布赖恩·普里斯特曼（救童遇溺）
Frank R. Scott 佛兰克·斯科特
陶永强 译
The child fell, turning slowly with arms outstretched like a doll, One shrill cry dying under the arches, And floated away, her time briefer than foam.
Nothing was changed on the summer’s day. The birds sang, The busy insects followed their fixed affairs. Only a Professor of Chemistry, alone on the bridge, Suddenly awoke from his reverie, into the intense moment, Saw all the elements of his life compounded for testing, And plunged with searching hands into his last experiment.
This was a formula he had carried from childhood, That can work but once in the life of a man. His were the labels of an old laboratory, And the long glass tubes of the river.
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight– The thought of thee
–and in the blue heaven’s height, And in the sweetest passage of a song. Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright; But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away, -- With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
I Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained In the hollow round of my skull. And God said Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping: Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd. It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown. Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness. There is no life in them. As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other, Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand, Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below; There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.
At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute. Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair; Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair, Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV Who walked between the violet and the violet Whe walked between The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour, Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour Who moved among the others as they walked, Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded. The new years walk, restoring Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem The time. Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god, Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her And are terrified and cannot surrender And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks In the last desert before the last blue rocks The desert in the garden the garden in the desert Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still Even among these rocks, Our peace in His will And even among these rocks Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated
他的个人生活美满幸福，一直在乡间过着田园生活。隐退后的Alfred, Lord Tennyson不修边幅，穿着土气，声如洪钟，喜欢当众大声朗读自己的诗歌，有时候自己也会情不自禁的落泪，巨大的感染听众。1884年，Alfred, Lord Tennyson接受封爵，1892年去世，葬于威斯敏斯大教堂。其主要作品有：长诗In Memoriam和Idylls of the King，短诗Break, Break, Break和Crossing the Bar，独幕剧Maud等。《悼念》（1850年）和《轻骑兵的责任》（1854年），反映了维多利亚时期的情感和美学思想。
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), English poet, one of the great representative figures of the Victorian Age. His writing encompasses many poetic styles and includes some of the finest idyllic poetry in the language.
Alfred Tennyson was born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, on August 6, 1809. His initial education was conducted largely by his clergyman father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson. The boy showed an early interest and talent in poetic composition, working original poems in a variety of meters and also successfully imitating the style of such famous poets as Lord Byron, whom he greatly admired. By the time he was 15, Tennyson had produced several blank-verse plays and an epic. Some of his boyhood poetry was published in collaboration with his brother Charles in Poems by Two Brothers (1827).
In 1827 Tennyson entered Trinity College, University of Cambridge. While there he wrote a spirited blank-verse poem, Timbuctoo (1829), for which he received a prize, and published his first book on his own, Poems, Chiefly Lyrical (1830), which includes “Mariana”. In the summer of 1830, with his close friend Arthur Hallam, he joined a Spanish revolutionary army, but participated in no military engagements.
In 1831, following the death of his father, Tennyson left Cambridge without taking a degree. His second volume, Poems (1832), contains such familiar lyrics as “The Lady of Shalott,” “Oenone,” “The Palace of Art,” “The Lotos-Eaters,” and “A Dream of Fair Women,” but was severely criticized by the reviewers. The sudden death of his friend Hallam in 1833 produced in Tennyson a profound spiritual depression, and he vowed to refrain from issuing any more of his verse for a period of ten years. During this time he devoted himself to reading and meditation. While refusing to publish, he did continue to write, producing, for example, The Two Voices (1834), a philosophical poem on death and immortality.
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Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), English poet often regarded as the chief representative of the Victorian age in poetry. Tennyson succeeded Wordsworth as Poet Laureate in 1850.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson was born on August 5, 1809 in Somersby, Lincolnshire. His father, George Clayton Tennyson, a clergyman and rector, suffered from depression and was notoriously absentminded. Alfred began to write poetry at an early age in the style of Lord Byron. After spending four unhappy years in school he was tutored at home. Tennyson then studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he joined the literary club 'The Apostles' and met Arthur Hallam, who became his closest friend. Tennyson published Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, in 1830, which included the popular "Mariana".
His next book, Poems (1833), received unfavorable reviews, and Tennyson ceased to publish for nearly ten years. Hallam died suddenly on the same year in Vienna. It was a heavy blow to Tennyson. He began to write "In Memoriam", an elegy for his lost friend - the work took seventeen years. "The Lady of Shalott", "The Lotus-eaters" "Morte d'Arthur" and "Ulysses" appeared in 1842 in the two-volume Poems and established his reputation as a writer.
After marrying Emily Sellwood, whom he had already met in 1836, the couple settled in Farringford, a house in Freshwater on the Isle of Wight in 1853. From there the family moved in 1869 to Aldworth, Surrey. During these later years he produced some of his best poems.
Among Tennyson's major poetic achievements is the elegy mourning the death of his friend Arthur Hallam, "In Memoriam" (1850). The patriotic poem "Charge of the Light Brigade", published in Maud (1855), is one of Tennyson's best known works, although at first "Maud" was found obscure or morbid by critics ranging from George Eliot to Gladstone. Enoch Arden (1864) was based on a true story of a sailor thought drowned at sea who returned home after several years to find that his wife had remarried. Idylls Of The King (1859-1885) dealt with the Arthurian theme.
In the 1870s Tennyson wrote several plays, among them the poetic dramas Queen Mary (1875) and Harold (1876). In 1884 he was created a baron.
Tennyson died at Aldwort on October 6, 1892 and was buried in the Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey.
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 5 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, 10 For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 25 And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
AS virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ; Men reckon what it did, and meant ; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit Of absence, 'cause it doth remove The thing which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assurèd of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to aery thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two ; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
When I am dead, my dearest Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet: And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise or set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.
“COURAGE!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 5 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, 10 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops, 15 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush’d; and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger’d low adown In the red West; thro’ mountain clefts the dale 20 Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, 25 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them 30 And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, 35 And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 40 Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, “We will return no more;” And all at once they sang, “Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.” 45
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 50 Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 55 And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
II
Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, 60 We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown; Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, 65 Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, “There is no joy but calm!”— Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
III
Lo! in the middle of the wood, 70 The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 75 Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days 80 The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. 85 Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? 90 All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 95 All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence—ripen, fall, and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
V
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem 100 Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other’s whisper’d speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, 105 To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, 110 With those old faces of our infancy Heap’d over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives 115 And their warm tears; but all hath suffer’d change; For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange, And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold 120 Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. 125 The Gods are hard to reconcile; ’Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labor unto aged breath, 130 Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII
But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet—while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly— With half-dropped eyelids still, 135 Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine— 140 To watch the emerald-color’d water falling Thro’ many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.
VIII
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak, 145 The Lotos blows by every winding creek; All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 150 Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 155 For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, 160 Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 165 Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 170 Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
seclusive
2008-03-30 16:12
Ulysses 尤利西斯
Alfred Tennyson 艾尔弗雷德·丁尼生
飞白 译
It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known---cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honored of them all--- And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end. To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains; but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, my own Telemachus, To whom I leave the scepter and the isle--- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and through soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me--- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads---you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are--- One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man - So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a God! I asked thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch -if I be he that watched - The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave: Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
II Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men.
O, not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom:
And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee.
2
苍老紫杉树，你笼住的碑 把下面死者的姓名道出， 你细枝网住无梦的头颅， 你根儿裹在遗骨的周围。
花开时节又带来了花朵， 带来了初生的幼畜雏禽； 你荫影里的一下下钟声 把短短的人生逐点敲走。
你呀，任何风改变不了你， 阳光和花朵都同你无关， 连烙铁一般的夏日也难 触动你悠悠千年的阴郁。
看着你这棵阴沉沉的树， 愿像你一样地坚忍顽强， 我仿佛血气消尽人变僵， 渐渐地与你融合在一处。
V I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.
5
把心中哀伤用文字表出—— 我有时认为这近乎罪愆； 因为文字也宛若大自然， 对内里的灵魂半遮半露。
但对不平静的心灵和脑， 有节律的诗句有个用途， 这哀哀劳作使痛苦麻木—— 虽然机械却可充麻醉药。
我要把文字当丧服裹上， 一如以粗布的衣裳御寒； 但巨大的悲痛也在里面， 便仅仅显出个依稀模样。
VII Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp'd no more— Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.
IX Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro' early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.
XI Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro' the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high world, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
XXII The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow:
And we with singing cheer'd the way, And, crown'd with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May:
But where the path we walk'd began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;
Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,
And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste The Shadow sits and waits for me.
22
广袤的土地令我们惬意， 我们俩走着那里的小路， 美妙的四年里起起伏伏， 历经了多少回花时雪季；
一路上我们喜洋洋唱歌， 享受着时令提供的一切， 经过了一个又一个四月， 从五月到五月满心欢乐。
但在第五个秋日坡道上， 我们走的路已开始偏斜， 当我们随希望之神走下 可怕的死神却坐在前方；
他拆散我们美好的友情， 把他冰冷的黑大髦一摊， 让你在其中被裹成一团， 闷得你咕吭声模糊不清。
他带着你去了，去的地方 我看不见也没法去，虽说 我急急地走，心里在想着； 他也等我在某处荒原上。
XXVII I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
XXVIII The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.
Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound:
Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.
This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish'd no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again:
But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll'd me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule.
28
时间已接近基督的诞辰。 月亮隐没了，夜色静悄悄； 圣诞之钟此起彼伏地敲， 相应在山山之间的雾中。
附近四处村落的四套钟 响在远近的草场、荒原上。 响了又归于沉寂，就好像 我和钟声间关了一道门。
回响的钟声在风里变奏， 一会儿昂扬，一会儿低沉， 是安宁友善，是友善安宁， 是这些送到一切人心头。
今年我是睡是醒都是苦， 差点儿只求永远别再醒， 只求没听到下一次钟声， 我苟延的生命就已结束。
但这管住我不宁的心情， 因为这支配过年幼的我， 这带给我含喜悦的悲苦—— 这欢欢喜喜的圣诞钟声。
XXX With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Chrismas hearth; A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol'd, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho' every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang:br>
We ceased:a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet: `They rest,' we said, `their sleep is sweet,' And silence follow'd, and we wept.
Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: `They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change;
'Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather'd power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'
Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born.
LV The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
55
我们总希望有生之物 在死后生命也不止熄， 这莫非是来自我们心底—— 灵魂中最像上帝之处？
上帝和自然是否有冲突？ 因为自然给予的全是恶梦， 她似乎仅仅关心物种， 而对个体的生命毫不在乎，
于是找到处探索、琢磨 她行为中的隐秘含义， 我发现在五十颗种子里 她通常仅仅养成一颗，
我的稳步已变成了蹒跚， 忧虑的重压使我倾跌， 登不上大世界祭坛之阶， 无力在昏暗中向上帝登攀，
我弱小伤残的信仰之掌， 摸索着搜集灰尘和糠秕， 呼唤那我感觉是上帝的东西 而模糊地相信更大的希望。
LVI 'So careful of the type?' but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, `A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go.
'Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.' And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law— Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed—
Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal'd within the iron hills?
No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match'd with him.
O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil.
LXIV Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green;
Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star;
Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne;
And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope The pillar of a people's hope, The centre of a world's desire;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play'd at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, Or in the furrow musing stands; 'Does my old friend remember me?'
64
你是不是回顾前尘往事？—— 像一位特别有天赋的人， 他生于简朴的绿色农村， 他的生活在低微中开始。
他冲破出身的不利障碍， 抓住了幸运女神的长裙。 同他的灾星搏斗个不停， 对抗着逆境的跌打滚摔；
他硬使其优点为人所知， 终于把金钥匙捏在手中， 为一个强国拟订出法令。 左右着来自宝座的低语，
他在幸运的坡道上晋升， 升到登峰造极的位置上， 成了百姓期望中的栋梁， 也成了世人仰慕的中心；
但像在多思的梦中一般， 当他处于身心休憩之际， 仍感到遥远山丘的亲密， 感到对溪流的无名依恋——
那是他住时的狭窄天地， 在那水声淙淙的小河边， 他曾同他最早的小伙伴 就过大臣和国王的游戏；
这伙伴在故乡辛勤耕作， 收获他亲手劳动的果实， 会不会站在犁沟边沉思： “我那老朋友可还记得我？”
seclusive
2008-03-30 16:56
In Memoriam A.H.H. 悼念集
Alfred Tennyson 艾尔弗雷德•丁尼生
飞白 译
LXVII When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls;
Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o'er the number of thy years.
The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray;
And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.
67
每当月光洒到了我床上， 我知道在你的安息之地， 映着西部那大片的涟漪， 有一道光辉正照上了墙：
你那块云石亮在黑暗里， 这时银泽慢慢地挪啊挪， 挪过你姓名的每个字母， 挪过你生卒的年份、日期。
这玄妙的光辉飘忽而逝， 月光也渐渐离开我的床； 于是我把疲倦的眼合上， 直睡到夜色里浸透晨曦。
这时我知道，透明的薄雾 像面纱蒙上了我国大地， 你的铭牌在漆黑教堂里 正在曙色中幽幽地显露。
LXIX I dream'd there would be Spring no more, That Nature's ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter'd trifles at the door:
I wander'd from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown:
I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: They call'd me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns:
They call'd me fool, they call'd me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look'd upon my crown and smiled:
He reach'd the glory of a hand, That seem'd to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand.
69
我梦见春天已不再降临—— 大自然丧失这固有能力； 浓烟和冰使街上黑漆漆， 人们在门边谈琐碎事情。
我信步走离喧闹的城厢， 来到了满是荆条的林边； 我用荆条在额头围一圈—一 像个普通花冠戴在头上。
我遇见幼儿、老人和青年， 他们只对我轻蔑和耻笑， 在大庭广众里把我呼叫， 骂我是戴着荆冠的笨蛋。
他们骂我没出息、是笨蛋， 我却遇到了夜间的天使； 他神情开朗，说话声很低， 他微笑着看看我的荆冠。
他伸出了光芒四射的手， 像要在冠上点化出绿叶； 他的说话声虽然不悲切， 但话中的意思却难领悟。
LXXIV As sometimes in a dead man's face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out—to some one of his race:
So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old.
But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee.
I leave thy praises unexpress'd In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess'd;
What practice howsoe'er expert In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert?
I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise.
Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been.
So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate'er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim.
74
在越看越仔细的人眼里， 有时在一位死者的脸上 会发现前所未见的相像—一 同他家族里的某人相似。
同样，你亲爱的脸虽已冷， 我却看明白了你，看清了 你像已埋在地下的死者， 并是古代伟人们的至亲。
但我并没有全部看清楚， 而看清之处我没有全说， 也不想谈论，因为我懂得： 死神用你美化他那黑处。
LXXVIII Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess'd the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve:
The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost.
As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind.
Who show'd a token of distress? No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less?
O last regret, regret can die! No—mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry.
LXXIII Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong; Delaying long, delay no more.
What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons?
Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell's darling blue, Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song.
83
迟迟不来的煦和新春哪， 违拂了万物盼你的心意； 请降临我们这北国之地； 你耽搁已久，别再耽搁吧！
是什么留住你那种温馨， 留住你云翳遮掩的中午？ 忧烦怎能同四月天相处？ 悲愁怎能和夏时月并存？
请带来幽兰、细嫩毛地黄、 蓝得可爱的小小婆婆纳、 串串火球一般的金链花、 露珠闪熠的浓彩郁金香．
啊，你这迟迟不来的新春， 抑住我深入血脉的哀思； 这哀思只求吐冻芽一支， 让温润的咽喉涌出歌声。
LXXXIV When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown;
I see thee sitting crown'd with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood;
Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should'st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine
Had babbled `Uncle' on my knee; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.
I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire.
I see myself an honor'd guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest;
While now thy prosperous labor fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills
With promise of a morn as fair; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair;
Till slowly worn her earthly robe, Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe;
What time mine own might also flee, As link'd with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee,
Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul.
What reed was that on which I leant? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content.
84
每当我独自凝神地思量； 你本在下界度过的人生， 思量你那新月本会变盈—— 那时将发出怎样的辉光——
就见你满心是善地坐着， 像散发福祉的温暖中心—— 凭眼光和微笑、握手和吻 向你家族的所有人发射；
朋友，你的亲属是我亲戚； 因为那时候佳期已临近， 你的生活将同我家的人 联结在一起，而你的子女
爬上我膝头牙牙叫“舅父”， 但那个铁一般无情时刻 使她的香橙花变为柏枝， 使希望变泡影、你变尘土。
我仿佛满足他们小愿望。 拍他们脸颊，叫他们宝宝。 他们未出世的面庞闪耀 在你从未点起的炉火旁。
我看到自己还成了贵宾， 同你在一起作亲切探讨、 深入论争，开优雅的玩笑， 肩并肩走着文学的花径，
看到如今你宏富的创作。 博得了衷心的交口称赞， 日复一日让欢愉的白天 在晚霞金彩的山后沉落——
许下个同样晴朗的次晨， 而一系列岁月十分丰饶， 沿增人能力的条条小道 通向那威望和皓首银鬓：
直到你灵魂的人间外衣 渐渐被穿旧，宏伟的使命 出色地完成，留下了大宗 精神遗产，才离世而逝去；
而那时我灵魂也可乔迁， 同你的既共命运及共爱， 超越这痛苦的狭隘地带， 融合在一起后飞向彼岸；
最后到达那终点的洞天—— 在那里，死于圣地的耶稣 会把他亮光光的手伸出， 把我们当一人接进里面。
我倚靠的是怎样的芦苇？ 啊，对往事的幻想，为什么 又弄醒我这旧日的凄恻， 砸碎刚开始的一点宽慰？
LXXXVII I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random thro' the town, And saw the tumult of the halls;
And heard once more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon'd on the panes;
And caught once more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about
The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt.
Another name was on the door: I linger'd; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;
Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land;
When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there;
And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free
From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face,
And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly-wise; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo?
XCI When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;
Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish'd years Be large and lucid round thy brow.
When summer's hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange;
Come: not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light.
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趁落叶松长出红红针叶， 高飞的画眉啼啭得美妙； 趁三月里，当海蓝色的鸟 在光秃的灌木丛间飞掠；
来吧，让你的外貌能使我 从你同类中认出你灵魂； 让你对未竟之年的憧憬 在你头的四周又亮又阔。
当夏日时刻正变得丰美， 把多少玫瑰的郁郁馨香 送往微风中的千重麦浪—一 起伏在平凡田庄的周围；
来吧，别在上更的夜同来， 挑日光暖洋洋普照之时 来吧，就凭你身后的英姿， 在光明之中更显出光彩。
XCV By night we linger'd on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o'er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn;
And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd: The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn:
And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes;
While now we sang old songs that peal'd From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease, The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field.
But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone,
A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall'n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead:
And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love's dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke
The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro' wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell.
So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch'd me from the past, And all at once it seem'd at last The living soul was flash'd on mine,
And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world,
Æonian music measuring out The steps of Time—the shocks of Chance-- The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt.
Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev'n for intellect to reach Thro' memory that which I became:
Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd The knolls once more where, couch'd at ease, The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field;
And suck'd from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o'er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume,
And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said,
'The dawn, the dawn,' and died away; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day.
CXV Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives
From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.
115
如今最后的积雪巳融化， 一道道山植树篱像幽径 傍着田野爆嫩芽，紫香堇 在榇树的根边密密开花。
如今树林的喧声响又长， 远景添上了秀美的色泽， 云雀在盈盈的蓝天隐没， 变成视界外的一曲歌唱。
如今阳光欢舞在牧草上， 山谷里羊群更显得洁白， 每张帆更白得像是牛奶—— 扬在蜿蜒的江河、远海上；
如今那里的海鸥在尖叫， 在绿闪闪的波光中扎下， 还有鸟幸福地四处为家， 正飞往另一方天下筑巢
和繁衍；于是我的心坎上 春天也苏醒，而我的抱恨 就变成一株四月紫香堇， 同万物一样在爆芽、开放。
CXVIII Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature's earth and lime;
But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread
In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man;
Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time
Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore,
But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom
To shape and use. Arise and fly The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die.
CXIX Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street;
I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee,
And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand.
CXXIII There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea.
The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell.
Sweet and low , sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and bolw, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying noon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main: No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.
Move Eastward, Happy Earth, And Leave... 欢乐的地球，快朝东旋转
Alfred Tennyson 艾尔弗雷德•丁尼生
飞白 译
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Your orange sunset waning slow; From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go; Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below.
Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly born, Dip forward under starry light, And move me to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night.
"NAM Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipseoculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cumilli pueri dicerunt:Sebulla pe theleis;respondebat illa:apothanein thelo." (For Ezra Poundil miglior fabbro)
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock, And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; "They called me the hyacinth girl." -- Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: "Stetson! "You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! "That corpse you planted last year in your garden, "Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? "Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? "Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, "Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! "You! hypocrite lecteur!-- mon semblable, -- mon frère!"
II. A GAME OF CHESS
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid -- troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, "Jug Jug" to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. "Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. "What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? "I never know what you are thinking. Think."
I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones. "What is that noise?" The wind under the door. "What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?" Nothing again nothing. "Do "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember "Nothing?" I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag-- It's so elegant So intelligent "What shall I do now? What shall I do?" "I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street "With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? "What shall we ever do?" The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -- I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you. And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you dont give it him, there's others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said. Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you dont like it you can get on with it, I said, Others can pick and choose if you can't. But if Albert makes off, it wont be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face, It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert wont leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you dont want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -- HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
III. THE FIRE SERMON
The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept ... Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc'd. Tereu
Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest-- I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit ...
She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: "Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over." When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.
"This music crept by me upon the waters" And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala
"Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe."
"My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised `a new start.' I made no comment. What should I resent?"
"On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing."
la la
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest
burning
IV. DEATH BY WATER
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience
Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman -- But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal
A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon -- O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
在慈善的蜘蛛覆盖下的记忆里 或者在我们那些由精瘦的律师 启封的空门阒的房间里也不会被人发现 da dayadhvam：我听到钥匙 在门上转动了一次，只转动一次 我们想起了钥匙，每个在监狱里的人 都想起钥匙，只是到夜晚时分每个人 才证实一座监狱，虚无缥缈的传说 才把疲惫不堪的科利奥兰纳斯复活片刻 da damyata：船儿欢快地 与张帆划桨的熟练的手相应和 大海平静无波，你的心如为之怡悦 会欢快地应和，顺从那双克制的手迎风前进
我坐在岸边 垂钓，背后是干旱荒芜的平原 我是否至少该把我的国家整顿好？ 伦敦桥倒坍了 倒坍了 倒坍了 poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina quando fiam uti chelidon——啊 燕子 燕子 le prince d'aquitaine á la tour abolie 这些就是我用来支撑自己以免毁灭的零星断片 嗨 我会使你中意的。希罗尼摩又发疯了。 dattà. dayadhvam. damyata. shantih shantih shantih
Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, In windless cold that is the heart's heat, Reflecting in a watery mirror A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon. And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom Of snow, a bloom more sudden Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading, Not in the scheme of generation. Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?
If you came this way, Taking the route you would be likely to take From the place you would be likely to come from, If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. It would be the same at the end of the journey, If you came at night like a broken king, If you came by day not knowing what you came for, It would be the same, when you leave the rough road And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for Is only a shell, a husk of meaning From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled If at all. Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city— But this is the nearest, in place and time, Now and in England.
If you came this way, Taking any route, starting from anywhere, At any time or at any season, It would always be the same: you would have to put off Sense and notion. You are not here to verify, Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity Or carry report. You are here to kneel Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more Than an order of words, the conscious occupation Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. Here, the intersection of the timeless moment Is England and nowhere. Never and always.
II
Ash on and old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house— The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.
There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.
Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.
In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable. So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?' Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other— And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember.' And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold friction of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and soul begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of motives late revealed, and the awareness Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.
III
There are three conditions which often look alike Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow: Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference Which resembles the others as death resembles life, Being between two lives—unflowering, between The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory: For liberation—not less of love but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country Begins as attachment to our own field of action And comes to find that action of little importance Though never indifferent. History may be servitude, History may be freedom. See, now they vanish, The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
Sin is Behovely, but All shall be well, and All manner of thing shall be well. If I think, again, of this place, And of people, not wholly commendable, Of no immediate kin or kindness, But of some peculiar genius, All touched by a common genius, United in the strife which divided them; If I think of a king at nightfall, Of three men, and more, on the scaffold And a few who died forgotten In other places, here and abroad, And of one who died blind and quiet Why should we celebrate These dead men more than the dying? It is not to ring the bell backward Nor is it an incantation To summon the spectre of a Rose. We cannot revive old factions We cannot restore old policies Or follow an antique drum. These men, and those who opposed them And those whom they opposed Accept the constitution of silence And are folded in a single party. Whatever we inherit from the fortunate We have taken from the defeated What they had to leave us—a symbol: A symbol perfected in death. And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well By the purification of the motive In the ground of our beseeching.
IV
The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre— To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Little Gidding is a village in Cambridgeshire visited by Eliot in 1936. It was the home of a religious community established in 1626. In 1633 Charles I visited the community; in 1646 he returned, fleeing Parliamentary troops who broke up the community.
Part III "Sin is Behovely, but All shall be well, and All manner of thing shall be well." Dame Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, the 13th revelation; a modern translation of which might read "Sin was necessary, but it is going to be well, everything is going to be well".
"By the purification of the motive In the ground of our beseeching." Dame Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, the 14th revelation.
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2008-03-30 18:29
Buirnt Norton 烧毁的诺顿
(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')
Thomas Stearns Eliot 艾略特
汤永宽 译
"Although logos is common to all, most people live as if they had a wisdom of their own." 1. p.77. Fr.2 "The way upward and the way downward are the same." * 1. p.89. Fr.60
纵然语言为人所共有，但多数人立身处世仿佛各有其到。 向上的路和向下的路是完全一样的。
Diels: Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (Herakleitos)
I
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.
II
Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, Erhebung without motion, concentration Without elimination, both a new world And the old made explicit, understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy, The resolution of its partial horror. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body, Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure. Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered.
III
Here is a place of disaffection Time before and time after In a dim light: neither daylight Investing form with lucid stillness Turning shadow into transient beauty With slow rotation suggesting permanence Nor darkness to purify the soul Emptying the sensual with deprivation Cleansing affection from the temporal. Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker Over the strained time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after time, Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs Time before and time after. Eructation of unhealthy souls Into the faded air, the torpid Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London, Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney, Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only Into the world of perpetual solitude, World not world, but that which is not world, Internal darkness, deprivation And destitution of all property, Desiccation of the world of sense, Evacuation of the world of fancy, Inoperancy of the world of spirit; This is the one way, and the other Is the same, not in movement But abstention from movement; while the world moves In appetency, on its metalled ways Of time past and time future.
IV
Time and the bell have buried the day, The black cloud carries the sun away. Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray Clutch and cling?
Chill Fingers of yew be curled Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still At the still point of the turning world.
V
Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts, Not that only, but the co-existence, Or say that the end precedes the beginning, And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end. And all is always now. Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still. Shrieking voices Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering, Always assail them. The Word in the desert Is most attacked by voices of temptation, The crying shadow in the funeral dance, The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
The detail of the pattern is movement, As in the figure of the ten stairs. Desire itself is movement Not in itself desirable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of children in the foliage Quick now, here, now, always— Ridiculous the waste sad time Stretching before and after.
Burnt Norton is a manor in Gloucestershire visited by Eliot in 1934. Its rose garden suggested the imagery of the opening section.
Part II "Erhebung" Elevation/exaltation (German).
Part V "As in the figure of the ten stairs" The Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross states that "there are ten steps on the mystical ladder of divine love." Other references to St. John of the Cross are scattered throughout the poem.
***
Notes:
* The two extracts from the fragments of Herakleitos (Heraclitus) are presented here in English translation, owing to the difficulty of reproducing the Greek in current html code.
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2008-03-30 18:32
East Coker 东科克
(No. 2 of 'Four Quartets')
Thomas Stearns Eliot 艾略特
汤永宽 译
I
In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh, fur and faeces, Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf. Houses live and die: there is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls Across the open field, leaving the deep lane Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon, Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, And the deep lane insists on the direction Into the village, in the electric heat Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone. The dahlias sleep in the empty silence. Wait for the early owl.
In that open field If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close, On a summer midnight, you can hear the music Of the weak pipe and the little drum And see them dancing around the bonfire The association of man and woman In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie— A dignified and commodiois sacrament. Two and two, necessarye coniunction, Holding eche other by the hand or the arm Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles, Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes, Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth Mirth of those long since under earth Nourishing the corn. Keeping time, Keeping the rhythm in their dancing As in their living in the living seasons The time of the seasons and the constellations The time of milking and the time of harvest The time of the coupling of man and woman And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling. Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind Wrinkles and slides. I am here Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
II
What is the late November doing With the disturbance of the spring And creatures of the summer heat, And snowdrops writhing under feet And hollyhocks that aim too high Red into grey and tumble down Late roses filled with early snow? Thunder rolled by the rolling stars Simulates triumphal cars Deployed in constellated wars Scorpion fights against the Sun Until the Sun and Moon go down Comets weep and Leonids fly Hunt the heavens and the plains Whirled in a vortex that shall bring The world to that destructive fire Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter. It was not (to start again) what one had expected. What was to be the value of the long looked forward to, Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders, Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit? The serenity only a deliberate hebetude, The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets Useless in the darkness into which they peered Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience. The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies, For the pattern is new in every moment And every moment is a new and shocking Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm. In the middle, not only in the middle of the way But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble, On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold, And menaced by monsters, fancy lights, Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly, Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession, Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God. The only wisdom we can hope to acquire Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
The houses are all gone under the sea.
The dancers are all gone under the hill.
III
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant, The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters, The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers, Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees, Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark, And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors, And cold the sense and lost the motive of action. And we all go with them, into the silent funeral, Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury. I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre, The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness, And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away— Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about; Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing— I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning. The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry, The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony Of death and birth.
You say I am repeating Something I have said before. I shall say it again. Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there, To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. In order to arrive at what you do not know You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance. In order to possess what you do not possess You must go by the way of dispossession. In order to arrive at what you are not You must go through the way in which you are not. And what you do not know is the only thing you know And what you own is what you do not own And where you are is where you are not.
IV
The wounded surgeon plies the steel That questions the distempered part; Beneath the bleeding hands we feel The sharp compassion of the healer's art Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only health is the disease If we obey the dying nurse Whose constant care is not to please But to remind of our, and Adam's curse, And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital Endowed by the ruined millionaire, Wherein, if we do well, we shall Die of the absolute paternal care That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees, The fever sings in mental wires. If to be warmed, then I must freeze And quake in frigid purgatorial fires Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood— Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
V
So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years— Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer By strength and submission, has already been discovered Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope To emulate—but there is no competition— There is only the fight to recover what has been lost And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss. For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment And not the lifetime of one man only But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. There is a time for the evening under starlight, A time for the evening under lamplight (The evening with the photograph album). Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
East Coker is a village near Yeovil, Somerset, Eliot's ancestral home. Andrew Eliot left East Coker for the New World in about 1669.
Part I "In my beginning is my end" Cf: "In my end is my beginning" in Part V. The latter is the motto of Mary Queen of Scots ("En ma fin est mon commencement").
"The association of man and woman In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie..." This passage is taken from The Boke Named the Governour (1530) by Sir Thomas Elyot, an ancestor of T.S. Eliot.
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2008-03-30 18:36
The Dry Salvages 干燥的萨尔维吉斯
(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
Thomas Stearns Eliot 艾略特
汤永宽 译
(The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages—is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)
I
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable, Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier; Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce; Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable. Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting. His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom, In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard, In the smell of grapes on the autumn table, And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.
The river is within us, the sea is all about us; The sea is the land's edge also, the granite Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses Its hints of earlier and other creation: The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone; The pools where it offers to our curiosity The more delicate algae and the sea anemone. It tosses up our losses, the torn seine, The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices, Many gods and many voices. The salt is on the briar rose, The fog is in the fir trees. The sea howl And the sea yelp, are different voices Often together heard: the whine in the rigging, The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water, The distant rote in the granite teeth, And the wailing warning from the approaching headland Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner Rounded homewards, and the seagull: And under the oppression of the silent fog The tolling bell Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried Ground swell, a time Older than the time of chronometers, older Than time counted by anxious worried women Lying awake, calculating the future, Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel And piece together the past and the future, Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception, The future futureless, before the morning watch When time stops and time is never ending; And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning, Clangs The bell.
II
Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing, The silent withering of autumn flowers Dropping their petals and remaining motionless; Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage, The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?
There is no end, but addition: the trailing Consequence of further days and hours, While emotion takes to itself the emotionless Years of living among the breakage Of what was believed in as the most reliable— And therefore the fittest for renunciation.
There is the final addition, the failing Pride or resentment at failing powers, The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless, In a drifting boat with a slow leakage, The silent listening to the undeniable Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.
Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing Into the wind's tail, where the fog cowers? We cannot think of a time that is oceanless Or of an ocean not littered with wastage Or of a future that is not liable Like the past, to have no destination.
We have to think of them as forever bailing, Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage; Not as making a trip that will be unpayable For a haul that will not bear examination.
There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing, No end to the withering of withered flowers, To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless, To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage, The bone's prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable Prayer of the one Annunciation.
It seems, as one becomes older, That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence— Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution, Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past. The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being, Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection, Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination— We had the experience but missed the meaning, And approach to the meaning restores the experience In a different form, beyond any meaning We can assign to happiness. I have said before That the past experience revived in the meaning Is not the experience of one life only But of many generations—not forgetting Something that is probably quite ineffable: The backward look behind the assurance Of recorded history, the backward half-look Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror. Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony (Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding, Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things, Is not in question) are likewise permanent With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better In the agony of others, nearly experienced, Involving ourselves, than in our own. For our own past is covered by the currents of action, But the torment of others remains an experience Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition. People change, and smile: but the agony abides. Time the destroyer is time the preserver, Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops, The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple. And the ragged rock in the restless waters, Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it; On a halcyon day it is merely a monument, In navigable weather it is always a seamark To lay a course by: but in the sombre season Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.
III
I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant— Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing: That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret, Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened. And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back. You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure, That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here. When the train starts, and the passengers are settled To fruit, periodicals and business letters (And those who saw them off have left the platform) Their faces relax from grief into relief, To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours. Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past Into different lives, or into any future; You are not the same people who left that station Or who will arrive at any terminus, While the narrowing rails slide together behind you; And on the deck of the drumming liner Watching the furrow that widens behind you, You shall not think 'the past is finished' Or 'the future is before us'. At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial, Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear, The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language) 'Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging; You are not those who saw the harbour Receding, or those who will disembark. Here between the hither and the farther shore While time is withdrawn, consider the future And the past with an equal mind. At the moment which is not of action or inaction You can receive this: "on whatever sphere of being The mind of a man may be intent At the time of death"—that is the one action (And the time of death is every moment) Which shall fructify in the lives of others: And do not think of the fruit of action. Fare forward. O voyagers, O seamen, You who came to port, and you whose bodies Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea, Or whatever event, this is your real destination.' So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna On the field of battle. Not fare well, But fare forward, voyagers.
IV
Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory, Pray for all those who are in ships, those Whose business has to do with fish, and Those concerned with every lawful traffic And those who conduct them.
Repeat a prayer also on behalf of Women who have seen their sons or husbands Setting forth, and not returning: Figlia del tuo figlio, Queen of Heaven.
Also pray for those who were in ships, and Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lips Or in the dark throat which will not reject them Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's Perpetual angelus.
V
To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits, To report the behaviour of the sea monster, Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry, Observe disease in signatures, evoke Biography from the wrinkles of the palm And tragedy from fingers; release omens By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams Or barbituric acids, or dissect The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors— To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press: And always will be, some of them especially When there is distress of nations and perplexity Whether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road. Men's curiosity searches past and future And clings to that dimension. But to apprehend The point of intersection of the timeless With time, is an occupation for the saint— No occupation either, but something given And taken, in a lifetime's death in love, Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender. For most of us, there is only the unattended Moment, the moment in and out of time, The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight, The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses, Hints followed by guesses; and the rest Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action. The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation. Here the impossible union Of spheres of existence is actual, Here the past and future Are conquered, and reconciled, Where action were otherwise movement Of that which is only moved And has in it no source of movement— Driven by daemonic, chthonic Powers. And right action is freedom From past and future also. For most of us, this is the aim Never here to be realised; Who are only undefeated Because we have gone on trying; We, content at the last If our temporal reversion nourish (Not too far from the yew-tree) The life of significant soil.
"The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages—is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts." Eliot's family spent time in this area during his childhood.
By his own reckoning (in a speech given upon receiving the Emerson-Thoreau Medal from the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 1959, at which he read this poem), the poem begins where Eliot began (St. Louis, the Mississippi River) and ends where he expected to end (a parish church of a village in Somerset).
(from a WWW page of notes to the Quartets) Part III Krishna and Arjuna on the battlefield: in the Mahabharata, the discourse known as the Bhagavad Gita.
Part IV "Figlia del tuo figlio" "Daughter of your son" (i.e. Mary and Jesus); from Dante's Paradisio.
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2008-04-08 21:14
Elergy Written in a Country Churchyard 墓园挽歌
Thomas Gray 托马斯·格雷
王佐良 译
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
格雷一生作诗不多，仅十余首传世，其中以《墓园挽歌》Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard （1750）最为著名。此诗创作长达8年之久，最初是为了哀悼他在伊顿公学读书时的好友里查德•韦斯特，至少诗末所附的“墓志铭”是为他而作。但纵观全诗，其内容已经明显超越了对某个具体人物的哀思，而是通过对乡村一处墓地的描写，表达对下层默默无闻的人民的深切同情。对他们纯朴善良品质的赞扬，为他们没有机会施展天赋和才华而惋惜，同时也表现了对权贵、人间虚荣的蔑视和嘲讽，对大人物傲慢奢侈生活的谴责。这首诗充分体现了格雷的民主思想。由于贫困，农民不能发挥自己的才能，不能成为像弥尔顿John Milton 那样的文学家，像克伦威尔Oliver Cromwell那样的政治家。但是从另一方面说，在他们身上没有“野心”，“傲慢”，“骄”“奢”和“谄媚”。他们虽然“贫瘠”，没有知识，但却有“德性”和“天良”，他们是自然本身。这样的思想和弥漫于全诗的感伤情调，使《墓园挽歌》Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard（1750）成为18 世纪后期感伤主义诗歌的典范之作。
“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”（1750）《写于一个乡村墓园的挽歌》。这是一首有关人生短暂的沉思，他的名声也就建立在这首诗上。他和一圈朋友以此类主题写了许多诗篇，故而被后人称为The Graveyard School“墓园派”。
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2008-04-09 15:02
Love's Omnipresence 无远弗届的爱情
Joshua Sylvester 西尔维斯特
黄杲炘 译
Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you. Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
Farewell, Sweet groves to you; You hills, that highest dwell, And all you humble vales, adieu. You wanton brooks and solitary rocks, My dear companions all, and you, my tender flocks! Farewell, my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains; You discontents, whose deep and over- deadly smart, Have, without pity, broke the truest heart; Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy, That erst did with me dwell, And all other's joy Farewell! Adieu,
Fair shepherdesses: Let garlands of sad yew Adorn your dainty golden tresses. I, that loved you, and often with my quill Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill: I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace. (Yea, with a thousand rarer favours) would vouchsafe to grace, I, now must leave you all alone, of love to pain: And never pipe, nor never sing again. I must, for evermore, be gone. And therefore bid I you And every one, Adieu.
Lord! When those Glorious Lights I see--Hymn and prayer for the use of believers 当我见那荣耀的光——信徒的颂歌和祷告
George Wither 威瑟
于中旻 译
Lord! when those glorious lights I see With which thou hast adorned the skies, Observing how they moved be, And how their splendor fills mine eyes,
Methinks it is too large a grace, But that thy love ordained it so,— That creatures in so high a place Should servants be to man below.
The meanest lamp now shining there In size and lustre doth exceed The noblest of thy creatures here, And of our friendship hath no need. Yet these upon mankind attend For secret aid or public light; And from the world's extremest end Repair unto us every night.
O, had that stamp been undefaced Which first on us thy hand had set, How highly should we have been graced, Since we are so much honoured yet! Good God, for what but for the sake Of thy beloved and only Son, Who did on him our nature take, Were these exceeding favours done!
As we by him have honoured been, Let us to him due honours give; Let his uprightness hide our sin, And let us worth from him receive. Yea, so let us by grace improve What thou by nature doth bestow, That to thy dwelling-place above We may be raised from below.
The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.
One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas-time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play; Good-night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!
Good-night!— I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain than those of men; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say, we suffer and we strive, No less or more as men than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, That darkly rules the fate of all. That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give, or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit: Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen!— whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the awful will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize, — Go, loss or conquer as you can; But, if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead, — The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men!
My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health and love and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still, — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.
约翰•达秘 （John Nelson Darby, 1800-1882）英国神学作家，近代弟兄会重要创始人之一。父为海军将领。早年至爱尔兰，初习法律，转为圣公会教牧；约于1830年，倡“时代主义”之说，以为圣品阶级不合于圣经，而信者皆为弟兄，故称“弟兄会”。
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2008-04-09 15:56
The Road 道路
John Nelson Darby 约翰•达秘
于中旻 译
It is not with uncertain step That we tread our homeless way; A well-known Voice has called us up To everlasting day.
The voice of Him who, whilom, trod Alone the trackless way, (And marked the road that leads to God), Where we once, as lost, did stray;
Nor leaves us now alone to trace Our path across the waste, But leads us still with living grace To the home to which we haste.
May abide His will, for the longer road Where patience and faith are tried, And count on a love which bears each load, And our hearts from trial may hide.
He will still be there, be it long or brief, Our strength in every need; Himself our joy, our sure relief, Till from care in His presence we're freed.
不是用无定的脚步 在我们无家的道路奔走； 一个熟知的声音 召我们走向永远的白昼。
呼召我们的那一位 孤单走过那前无人经的路上， 在引向神的道路留下印记 免得我们再流离失丧；
现在也不撇下我们 独自经过那荒野迷茫， 却仍然以日用的恩典指引 急速的走向那家乡。
住在祂的旨意中前途仍遥 考验我们的信心和忍耐， 背负每一重担祂慈爱可靠 我们的心灵不被侵害。
祂永远同在不论路短或长， 主是我们随时的力量； 祂是我的喜乐确定的安息， 与主面对面再无忧惶。
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2008-04-09 15:58
God In The Wilderness 神在旷野
John Nelson Darby 约翰•达秘
于中旻 译
Rise, my soul, thy God directs thee; Stranger hands no more impede; Pass thou on, His hand protects thee— Strength that has the captive freed.
Is the wilderness before thee— Desert lands where drought abides? Heavenly springs shall there restore thee, Fresh from God's exhaustless tides.
Light divine surrounds thy going, God Himself shall mark thy way, Secret blessings, richly flowing, Lead to everlasting day.
God, thine everlasting portion, Feeds thee with the mighty's meat; Price of Egypt's hard extortion, Egypt's food no more to eat.
醒起，我的灵，你的神指引你； 陌生的手再不能阻止； 前往吧，祂的手保护你— 那释放被掳者的能力。
是否那在你面前的旷野— 荒凉的土地遍是干旱？ 属天的泉源会滋润你， 从神清新无穷的丰满。
你所经过处有圣光环绕， 神亲自标识你的路程； 隐藏的福分，丰足满盈， 引向无尽白昼的永恒。
神，是你永远的分， 以强者的肉为你的食物； 再不用作埃及的苦役， 换取饮食来填满肚腹。
（1837）
seclusive
2008-04-09 16:00
The Hope of Day 盼望天亮
John Nelson Darby 约翰•达秘
于中旻 译
And is it so, I shall be like Thy Son, Is this the grace which He for me has won? Father of glory! Thought beyond all thought, In glory to His own blest likeness brought!
O Jesus, Lord, who loved me like to Thee? Fruit of Thy work! With Thee, too, there to see Thy glory, Lord, while endless ages roll, Myself the prize and travail of Thy soul.
Yet it must be! Thy love had not its rest Were Thy redeemed not with Thee fully blest — That love that gives not as the world, but shares All it possesses with its loved co-heirs!
Nor I alone; Thy loved ones all, complete, In glory around Thee with joy shall meet; All like Thee, for Thy glory like Thee, Lord! Object supreme of all, by all adored.
I'm waiting for Thee, Lord, Thyself then to see, Lord; I'm waiting for Thee, At Thy coming again. Thy glory'll be great, Lord, In heavenly state, Lord; Thy glory'll be great At Thy coming again.
Caught up in the air, Lord, That glory we'll share, Lord; Each saint will be there, At Thy coming again. How glorious the grace, Lord, That gave such a place, Lord; It's nearing apace, At Thy coming again.
Lord Jesus, source of every grace, Glorious in light divine, Soon shall we see Thee face to face, And in that glory shine;
Be ever with Thee, hear Thy voice, Unhindered then shall taste The love which doth our hearts rejoice, Though absent in this waste.
In peaceful wonder we adore The thoughts of Love divine, Which in that world for evermore Our lot with Thine entwine!
主耶稣，诸般恩典的本源， 在荣美的神圣光间， 我们就要与你面对面， 在那荣耀普照无限；
永远与你同在，听你声音， 全然没有隔阻， 尽尝你的爱喜乐满足， 虽然仍在这荒凉废墟。
在平安惊奇中我们敬拜 想念你神圣的爱， 永远在那境界 我们与你交织不分开。
seclusive
2008-04-09 16:05
Wait 等候
Oswald Chambers 澄波
于中旻 译
Cease from disquietude, Fret not, this is unto thee a preparation time; Thou must be made in likeness unto Him thou wouldest serve. Wait, the diamond must be cut ere from its tiny facets Flash the glory of the sun's pure ray. Rain must descend, Else from yon dull grey bulb springeth no sweet perfumed flower. Be silent upon God, thy time for service has not come; Patient, this waiting trial is by Him who loves thee sent; Be still—He knoweth all, thou knowest His will is best.
