济慈 (John Keats) 及其诗选
济慈（1795-1821），主要作品有《恩狄米安》、《海披里安》等
English Romantic poet John Keats was born on October 31, 1795, in London. The oldest of four children, he lost both his parents at a young age. His father, a livery-stable keeper, died when Keats was eight; his mother died of tuberculosis six years later. After his mother''s death, Keats''s maternal grandmother appointed two London merchants, Richard Abbey and John Rowland Sandell, as guardians. Abbey, a prosperous tea broker, assumed the bulk of this responsibility, while Sandell played only a minor role. When Keats was fifteen, Abbey withdrew him from the Clarke School, Enfield, to apprentice with an apothecary-surgeon and study medicine in a London hospital. In 1816 Keats became a licensed apothecary, but he never practiced his profession, deciding instead to write poetry.
Around this time, Keats met Leigh Hunt, an influential editor of the Examiner, who published his sonnets "On First Looking into Chapman''s Homer" and "O Solitude." Hunt also introduced Keats to a circle of literary men, including the poets Percy Bysshe Shelley and William Wordsworth. The group''s influence enabled Keats to see his first volume, Poems by John Keats, published in 1817. Shelley, who was fond of Keats, had advised him to develop a more substantial body of work before publishing it. Keats, who was not as fond of Shelley, did not follow his advice. Endymion, a four-thousand-line erotic/allegorical romance based on the Greek myth of the same name, appeared the following year. Two of the most influential critical magazines of the time, the Quarterly Review and Blackwood''s Magazine, attacked the collection. Calling the romantic verse of Hunt''s literary circle "the Cockney school of poetry," Blackwood''s declared Endymion to be nonsense and recommended that Keats give up poetry. Shelley, who privately disliked Endymion but recognized Keats''s genius, wrote a more favorable review, but it was never published. Shelley also exaggerated the effect that the criticism had on Keats, attributing his declining health over the following years to a spirit broken by the negative reviews.
Keats spent the summer of 1818 on a walking tour in Northern England and Scotland, returning home to care for his brother, Tom, who suffered from tuberculosis. While nursing his brother, Keats met and fell in love with a woman named Fanny Brawne. Writing some of his finest poetry between 1818 and 1819, Keats mainly worked on "Hyperion," a Miltonic blank-verse epic of the Greek creation myth. He stopped writing "Hyperion" upon the death of his brother, after completing only a small portion, but in late 1819 he returned to the piece and rewrote it as "The Fall of Hyperion" (unpublished until 1856). That same autumn Keats contracted tuberculosis, and by the following February he felt that death was already upon him, referring to the present as his "posthumous existence."
In July 1820, he published his third and best volume of poetry, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems. The three title poems, dealing with mythical and legendary themes of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance times, are rich in imagery and phrasing. The volume also contains the unfinished "Hyperion," and three poems considered among the finest in the English language, "Ode on a Grecian Urn," "Ode on Melancholy," and "Ode to a Nightingale." The book received enthusiastic praise from Hunt, Shelley, Charles Lamb, and others, and in August, Frances Jeffrey, influential editor of the Edinburgh Review, wrote a review praising both the new book and Endymion.
The fragment "Hyperion" was considered by Keats''s contemporaries to be his greatest achievement, but by that time he had reached an advanced stage of his disease and was too ill to be encouraged. He continued a correspondence with Fanny Brawne and—when he could no longer bear to write to her directly—her mother, but his failing health and his literary ambitions prevented their getting married. Under his doctor''s orders to seek a warm climate for the winter, Keats went to Rome with his friend, the painter Joseph Severn. He died there on February 23, 1821, at the age of twenty-five, and was buried in the Protestant cemetery.
Bright Star
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
“灿烂的星”
灿烂的星！我祈求象你那样坚定——
但我不愿意高悬夜空，独自
辉映，并且永恒地睁着眼睛，
象自然间耐心的、不眠的隐士，
不断望着海滔，那大地的神父，
用圣水冲洗人所卜居的岸沿，
或者注视飘飞的白雪，象面幕，
灿烂、轻盈，覆盖着洼地和高山——
呵，不，——我只愿坚定不移地
以头枕在爱人酥软的胸脯上，
永远感到它舒缓地降落、升起；
而醒来，心里充满甜蜜的激荡，
不断，不断听着她细腻的呼吸，
就这样活着，——或昏迷地死去。
查良铮 译
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then I felt like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
初读贾浦曼译荷马有感
我游历了很多金色的国度，
看过不少好的城邦和王国，
还有多少西方的海岛，歌者
都已使它们向阿波罗臣服。
我常听到有一境域，广阔无垠，
智慧的荷马在那里称王，
我从未领略的纯净、安详，
直到我听见贾浦曼的声音
无畏而高昂。于是，我的情感
有如观象家发现了新的星座，
或者像科尔特斯，以鹰隼的眼
凝视着大平洋，而他的同伙
在惊讶的揣测中彼此观看，
尽站在达利安高峰上沉默。
(查良铮译)
To Autumn
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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,
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,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
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;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed 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;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
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,
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;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
秋颂
1
雾气洋溢、果实圆熟的秋，
你和成熟的太阳成为友伴；
你们密谋用累累的珠球，
缀满茅屋檐下的葡萄藤蔓；
使屋前的老树背负着苹果，
让熟味透进果实的心中，
使葫芦胀大，鼓起了榛子壳，
好塞进甜核；又为了蜜蜂
一次一次开放过迟的花朵，
使它们以为日子将永远暖和，
因为夏季早填满它们的粘巢。
2
谁不经常看见你伴着谷仓？
在田野里也可以把你找到，
弥有时随意坐在打麦场上，
让发丝随着簸谷的风轻飘；
有时候，为罂粟花香所沉迷，
你倒卧在收割一半的田垄，
让镰刀歇在下一畦的花旁；
或者．像拾穗人越过小溪，
你昂首背着谷袋，投下倒影，
或者就在榨果架下坐几点钟，
你耐心地瞧着徐徐滴下的酒浆。
3
啊．春日的歌哪里去了？但不要
想这些吧，你也有你的音乐——
当波状的云把将逝的一天映照，
以胭红抹上残梗散碎的田野，
这时啊，河柳下的一群小飞虫
就同奏哀音，它们忽而飞高，
忽而下落，随着微风的起灭；
篱下的蟋蟀在歌唱，在园中
红胸的知更鸟就群起呼哨；
而群羊在山圈里高声默默咩叫；
丛飞的燕子在天空呢喃不歇。
（查良铮译）
Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? what maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
希腊古瓮颂
你委身“寂静”的、完美的处子，
受过了“沉默”和“悠久”的抚育，
呵，田园的史家，你竟能铺叙
一个如花的故事，比诗还瑰丽：
在你的形体上，岂非缭绕着
古老的传说，以绿叶为其边缘；
讲着人，或神，敦陂或阿卡狄？
呵，是怎样的人，或神！在舞乐前
多热烈的追求！少女怎样地逃躲！
怎样的风笛和鼓谣！怎样的狂喜！
听见的乐声虽好，但若听不见
却更美；所以，吹吧，柔情的风笛；
不是奏给耳朵听，而是更甜，
它给灵魂奏出无声的乐曲；
树下的美少年呵，你无法中断
你的歌，那树木也落不了叶子；
卤莽的恋人，你永远、永远吻不上，
虽然够接近了——但不必心酸；
她不会老，虽然你不能如愿以偿，
你将永远爱下去，她也永远秀丽！
呵，幸福的树木！你的枝叶
不会剥落，从不曾离开春天；
幸福的吹笛人也不会停歇，
他的歌曲永远是那么新鲜；
呵，更为幸福的、幸福的爱！
永远热烈，正等待情人宴飨，
永远热情地心跳，永远年轻；
幸福的是这一切超凡的情态：
它不会使心灵餍足和悲伤，
没有炽热的头脑，焦渴的嘴唇。
这些人是谁呵，都去赶祭祀？
这作牺牲的小牛，对天鸣叫，
你要牵它到哪儿，神秘的祭司？
花环缀满着它光滑的身腰。
是从哪个傍河傍海的小镇，
或哪个静静的堡寨山村，
来了这些人，在这敬神的清早？
呵，小镇，你的街道永远恬静；
再也不可能回来一个灵魂
告诉人你何以是这么寂寥。
哦，希腊的形状！唯美的观照！
上面缀有石雕的男人和女人，
还有林木，和践踏过的青草；
沉默的形体呵，你象是“永恒”
使人超越思想：呵，冰冷的牧歌！
等暮年使这一世代都凋落，
只有你如旧；在另外的一些
忧伤中，你会抚慰后人说：
“美即是真，真即是美，”这就包括
你们所知道、和该知道的一切。
查良铮 译
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lilly on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kissed to sleep.
And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
无情的妖女
骑士啊，是什么苦恼你
独自沮丧地游荡？
湖中的芦苇已经枯了，
也没有鸟儿歌唱！
骑士啊，是什么苦恼你，
这般憔悴和悲伤？
松鼠的小巢贮满食物，
庄稼也都进了谷仓。
你的额角白似百合
垂挂着热病的露珠，
你的面颊像是玫瑰，
正在很快地凋枯。——
我在草坪上遇见了
一个妖女，美似天仙
她轻捷、长发，而眼里
野性的光芒闪闪。
我给她编织过花冠、
芬芳的腰带和手镯，
她柔声地轻轻太息，
仿佛是真心爱我。
我带她骑在骏马上．
她把脸儿侧对着我．
我整日什么都不顾，
只听她的妖女之歌。
她给采来美味的草根、
野蜜、甘露和仙果，
她用了一篇奇异的话，
说她是真心爱我。
她带我到了她的山洞，
又是落泪．又是悲叹，
我在那儿四次吻着
她野性的、野性的眼。
我被她迷得睡着了，
啊，做了个惊心的噩梦
我看见国王和王子
也在那妖女的洞中。
还有无数的骑士，
都苍白得像是骷髅；
他们叫道：无情的妖女
已把你作了俘囚！
在幽暗里，他们的瘪嘴
大张着，预告着灾祸；
我一觉醒来，看见自己
躺在这冰冷的山坡。
因此，我就留在这儿，
独自沮丧地游荡；
虽然湖中的芦苇已枯
也没有鸟儿歌唱。
English Romantic poet John Keats was born on October 31, 1795, in London. The oldest of four children, he lost both his parents at a young age. His father, a livery-stable keeper, died when Keats was eight; his mother died of tuberculosis six years later. After his mother''s death, Keats''s maternal grandmother appointed two London merchants, Richard Abbey and John Rowland Sandell, as guardians. Abbey, a prosperous tea broker, assumed the bulk of this responsibility, while Sandell played only a minor role. When Keats was fifteen, Abbey withdrew him from the Clarke School, Enfield, to apprentice with an apothecary-surgeon and study medicine in a London hospital. In 1816 Keats became a licensed apothecary, but he never practiced his profession, deciding instead to write poetry.
Around this time, Keats met Leigh Hunt, an influential editor of the Examiner, who published his sonnets "On First Looking into Chapman''s Homer" and "O Solitude." Hunt also introduced Keats to a circle of literary men, including the poets Percy Bysshe Shelley and William Wordsworth. The group''s influence enabled Keats to see his first volume, Poems by John Keats, published in 1817. Shelley, who was fond of Keats, had advised him to develop a more substantial body of work before publishing it. Keats, who was not as fond of Shelley, did not follow his advice. Endymion, a four-thousand-line erotic/allegorical romance based on the Greek myth of the same name, appeared the following year. Two of the most influential critical magazines of the time, the Quarterly Review and Blackwood''s Magazine, attacked the collection. Calling the romantic verse of Hunt''s literary circle "the Cockney school of poetry," Blackwood''s declared Endymion to be nonsense and recommended that Keats give up poetry. Shelley, who privately disliked Endymion but recognized Keats''s genius, wrote a more favorable review, but it was never published. Shelley also exaggerated the effect that the criticism had on Keats, attributing his declining health over the following years to a spirit broken by the negative reviews.
Keats spent the summer of 1818 on a walking tour in Northern England and Scotland, returning home to care for his brother, Tom, who suffered from tuberculosis. While nursing his brother, Keats met and fell in love with a woman named Fanny Brawne. Writing some of his finest poetry between 1818 and 1819, Keats mainly worked on "Hyperion," a Miltonic blank-verse epic of the Greek creation myth. He stopped writing "Hyperion" upon the death of his brother, after completing only a small portion, but in late 1819 he returned to the piece and rewrote it as "The Fall of Hyperion" (unpublished until 1856). That same autumn Keats contracted tuberculosis, and by the following February he felt that death was already upon him, referring to the present as his "posthumous existence."
In July 1820, he published his third and best volume of poetry, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems. The three title poems, dealing with mythical and legendary themes of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance times, are rich in imagery and phrasing. The volume also contains the unfinished "Hyperion," and three poems considered among the finest in the English language, "Ode on a Grecian Urn," "Ode on Melancholy," and "Ode to a Nightingale." The book received enthusiastic praise from Hunt, Shelley, Charles Lamb, and others, and in August, Frances Jeffrey, influential editor of the Edinburgh Review, wrote a review praising both the new book and Endymion.
The fragment "Hyperion" was considered by Keats''s contemporaries to be his greatest achievement, but by that time he had reached an advanced stage of his disease and was too ill to be encouraged. He continued a correspondence with Fanny Brawne and—when he could no longer bear to write to her directly—her mother, but his failing health and his literary ambitions prevented their getting married. Under his doctor''s orders to seek a warm climate for the winter, Keats went to Rome with his friend, the painter Joseph Severn. He died there on February 23, 1821, at the age of twenty-five, and was buried in the Protestant cemetery.
Bright Star
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
“灿烂的星”
灿烂的星！我祈求象你那样坚定——
但我不愿意高悬夜空，独自
辉映，并且永恒地睁着眼睛，
象自然间耐心的、不眠的隐士，
不断望着海滔，那大地的神父，
用圣水冲洗人所卜居的岸沿，
或者注视飘飞的白雪，象面幕，
灿烂、轻盈，覆盖着洼地和高山——
呵，不，——我只愿坚定不移地
以头枕在爱人酥软的胸脯上，
永远感到它舒缓地降落、升起；
而醒来，心里充满甜蜜的激荡，
不断，不断听着她细腻的呼吸，
就这样活着，——或昏迷地死去。
查良铮 译
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then I felt like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
初读贾浦曼译荷马有感
我游历了很多金色的国度，
看过不少好的城邦和王国，
还有多少西方的海岛，歌者
都已使它们向阿波罗臣服。
我常听到有一境域，广阔无垠，
智慧的荷马在那里称王，
我从未领略的纯净、安详，
直到我听见贾浦曼的声音
无畏而高昂。于是，我的情感
有如观象家发现了新的星座，
或者像科尔特斯，以鹰隼的眼
凝视着大平洋，而他的同伙
在惊讶的揣测中彼此观看，
尽站在达利安高峰上沉默。
(查良铮译)
To Autumn
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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,
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,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
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;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed 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;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
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,
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;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
秋颂
1
雾气洋溢、果实圆熟的秋，
你和成熟的太阳成为友伴；
你们密谋用累累的珠球，
缀满茅屋檐下的葡萄藤蔓；
使屋前的老树背负着苹果，
让熟味透进果实的心中，
使葫芦胀大，鼓起了榛子壳，
好塞进甜核；又为了蜜蜂
一次一次开放过迟的花朵，
使它们以为日子将永远暖和，
因为夏季早填满它们的粘巢。
2
谁不经常看见你伴着谷仓？
在田野里也可以把你找到，
弥有时随意坐在打麦场上，
让发丝随着簸谷的风轻飘；
有时候，为罂粟花香所沉迷，
你倒卧在收割一半的田垄，
让镰刀歇在下一畦的花旁；
或者．像拾穗人越过小溪，
你昂首背着谷袋，投下倒影，
或者就在榨果架下坐几点钟，
你耐心地瞧着徐徐滴下的酒浆。
3
啊．春日的歌哪里去了？但不要
想这些吧，你也有你的音乐——
当波状的云把将逝的一天映照，
以胭红抹上残梗散碎的田野，
这时啊，河柳下的一群小飞虫
就同奏哀音，它们忽而飞高，
忽而下落，随着微风的起灭；
篱下的蟋蟀在歌唱，在园中
红胸的知更鸟就群起呼哨；
而群羊在山圈里高声默默咩叫；
丛飞的燕子在天空呢喃不歇。
（查良铮译）
Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? what maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
希腊古瓮颂
你委身“寂静”的、完美的处子，
受过了“沉默”和“悠久”的抚育，
呵，田园的史家，你竟能铺叙
一个如花的故事，比诗还瑰丽：
在你的形体上，岂非缭绕着
古老的传说，以绿叶为其边缘；
讲着人，或神，敦陂或阿卡狄？
呵，是怎样的人，或神！在舞乐前
多热烈的追求！少女怎样地逃躲！
怎样的风笛和鼓谣！怎样的狂喜！
听见的乐声虽好，但若听不见
却更美；所以，吹吧，柔情的风笛；
不是奏给耳朵听，而是更甜，
它给灵魂奏出无声的乐曲；
树下的美少年呵，你无法中断
你的歌，那树木也落不了叶子；
卤莽的恋人，你永远、永远吻不上，
虽然够接近了——但不必心酸；
她不会老，虽然你不能如愿以偿，
你将永远爱下去，她也永远秀丽！
呵，幸福的树木！你的枝叶
不会剥落，从不曾离开春天；
幸福的吹笛人也不会停歇，
他的歌曲永远是那么新鲜；
呵，更为幸福的、幸福的爱！
永远热烈，正等待情人宴飨，
永远热情地心跳，永远年轻；
幸福的是这一切超凡的情态：
它不会使心灵餍足和悲伤，
没有炽热的头脑，焦渴的嘴唇。
这些人是谁呵，都去赶祭祀？
这作牺牲的小牛，对天鸣叫，
你要牵它到哪儿，神秘的祭司？
花环缀满着它光滑的身腰。
是从哪个傍河傍海的小镇，
或哪个静静的堡寨山村，
来了这些人，在这敬神的清早？
呵，小镇，你的街道永远恬静；
再也不可能回来一个灵魂
告诉人你何以是这么寂寥。
哦，希腊的形状！唯美的观照！
上面缀有石雕的男人和女人，
还有林木，和践踏过的青草；
沉默的形体呵，你象是“永恒”
使人超越思想：呵，冰冷的牧歌！
等暮年使这一世代都凋落，
只有你如旧；在另外的一些
忧伤中，你会抚慰后人说：
“美即是真，真即是美，”这就包括
你们所知道、和该知道的一切。
查良铮 译
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lilly on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kissed to sleep.
And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
无情的妖女
骑士啊，是什么苦恼你
独自沮丧地游荡？
湖中的芦苇已经枯了，
也没有鸟儿歌唱！
骑士啊，是什么苦恼你，
这般憔悴和悲伤？
松鼠的小巢贮满食物，
庄稼也都进了谷仓。
你的额角白似百合
垂挂着热病的露珠，
你的面颊像是玫瑰，
正在很快地凋枯。——
我在草坪上遇见了
一个妖女，美似天仙
她轻捷、长发，而眼里
野性的光芒闪闪。
我给她编织过花冠、
芬芳的腰带和手镯，
她柔声地轻轻太息，
仿佛是真心爱我。
我带她骑在骏马上．
她把脸儿侧对着我．
我整日什么都不顾，
只听她的妖女之歌。
她给采来美味的草根、
野蜜、甘露和仙果，
她用了一篇奇异的话，
说她是真心爱我。
她带我到了她的山洞，
又是落泪．又是悲叹，
我在那儿四次吻着
她野性的、野性的眼。
我被她迷得睡着了，
啊，做了个惊心的噩梦
我看见国王和王子
也在那妖女的洞中。
还有无数的骑士，
都苍白得像是骷髅；
他们叫道：无情的妖女
已把你作了俘囚！
在幽暗里，他们的瘪嘴
大张着，预告着灾祸；
我一觉醒来，看见自己
躺在这冰冷的山坡。
因此，我就留在这儿，
独自沮丧地游荡；
虽然湖中的芦苇已枯
也没有鸟儿歌唱。
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