英诗汉译(之《墓畔哀歌(二)》)
(2008-08-20 20:05:17)
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英诗汉译教育 |
分类: 翻译 |
(续前)
Can storied urn or animated
bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting
breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent
dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of
Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is
laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial
fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living
lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er
unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble
rage,
And froze the genial current of the
soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert
air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless
breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to
hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble
strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul
relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale
relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy
fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may
say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of
dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews
away,
To meet the sun upon the upland
lawn;
'There at the foot of yonder nodding
beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so
high.
His listless length at noontide would he
stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles
by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one
forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless
love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd
hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite
tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the
rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was
he;
Slow through the church-way path we saw him
borne,
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the
lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged
thorn.'
The
Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of
Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble
birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her
own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul
sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely
send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a
tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a
friend.
No farther seek his merits to
disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread
abode
(There they alike in trembling hope
repose),
The bosom of his Father and his
God.