感谢黎历君引荐，这首译诗发表在：

 

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丁尼生先生的杰作。以希腊神话伊阿宋攻打克洛伊的故事为背景。

相关的诗歌有《尤利西斯》、《娥娘》等。

 

食莲人

 

勇敢些吧！他大喊，指着前方的陆地，

这汹涌的激流会很快把我们送到岸边。

在下午他们抵达了一块陆地，

一片似乎永远都是下午的园田。

环绕着海岸昏睡着懒洋洋的空气，

它的呼吸像是陷入了梦的疲倦。

一轮圆月在山谷上升起，

溪水细流，似一缕下垂的轻烟，

悬挂在降落与停驻之间。

 

溪流之乡！有些如缥缈轻烟，

飘飘然下落的丝纱柔细。

有些穿过光与影的空间，

似一片昏睡的白沫在下方漂移。

从内陆向着大海河水潋滟，

远方是三座峻岭矗立，

千年积雪簇拥着沉寂的山巅，

露珠似霰，霞光旖旎，

灌木丛中幽暗的松树高大挺立。

 

魔幻般的夕阳缓慢地向下漂移，

西天红透，望过劈开群山的溪涧，

一马平川上棕榈环绕的金色大地，

一条条流淌的小河曲折蜿蜒，

绿茵茵的草坪，纤秀的莎草细密。

这片土地似乎一切都永恒不变！

围在船舷一群人面色白皙，

白皙的面容被火红的晚霞遮掩，

食莲人来了，忧郁温柔的双眼。

 

粗大的树干上果香花艳，

细小的枝茎中充满了魔力，

他们将花果向众人分散，

尝过后，浪涛声变得遥不可及，

喧嚣隐约传自异国的海岸。

同伴的交谈已不再清晰，

缥缈的声音来自于墓底深渊。

似乎清醒，但又仿佛在沉睡里，

心的跳动听起来像乐音飘逸。

金色的沙滩上他们坐在一起，

海岸在太阳与月亮之间，

故乡之梦曾是那么地甜蜜，

有儿女、妻子和仆人的从前。

但面对大海船桨已经力尽身疲，

厌倦了航行时的白浪滔天，

别再回去了吧，有人提议，

众人就齐声高唱：“浪涛啊无边，

别再漂泊了，故乡实在遥远。”

 

合唱

 

一

 

美妙的音乐轻柔地飘落，

轻过草坪上翻飞的玫瑰花瓣，

柔过花岗峭岩间的闪烁，

那是夜露凝结在平静的水面。

魂灵上音乐轻软地躺卧，

软过倦慵的眼睛上困乏的眼帘，

它将天空的快乐在甜梦里细说。

厚厚的藓苔在这儿铺满了清凉，

常春藤伸延在藓苔上，

长叶的花朵在小溪边垂泪忧伤，

危崖上悬挂着罂粟花的梦乡。

 

二

 

为什么是我们重负在肩，

在极度的烦恼中消耗，

其他生灵皆安逸悠闲？

他们得到休息，唯我们操劳，

本是万物主宰，却劳碌常年，

唱着永恒的悲叹调，

在忧伤与困苦间沉陷：

我们的翅膀收不回怀抱，

漂泊似乎就是永远，

眉头沾不上催眠的神圣灵膏。

内心的歌声双耳也听不见，

“没有安宁就没有欢笑！”

我们是万物的敬仰，却只有操劳？

 

三

 

看啊！在树林的深处，

花蕾向苞叶将爱意倾诉，

微风在枝头流连，

翠绿葱茏， 无拘无束，

午时间沐浴阳光灿烂，

皎洁月色里滋润的露珠，

直到金黄，脱落，空中飘然。

看啊！夏日阳光的甘露，

灌满了苹果的香甜，

在一个宁静的秋夜离开母树。

享受过她的生命期限，

花儿在自己的田园成熟，

花开花落，没有辛苦熬煎，

扎根在丰饶的泥土。

 

四

 

可恨的漆黑苍天，

覆盖着深暗的大海。

哦，为什么死亡是生命的终点，

生活要充满辛苦与忍耐？

让我们隐退吧，光阴似箭，

我们的双唇将很快会麻木苍白。

让我们隐退吧，何谓无限，

一切都会从我们的身边离开，

变成恐怖的往日的支离碎片。

让我们隐退吧，与邪魔的征战胜败，

能有什么快乐可言？

难道和平来自于激浪澎湃？

万物皆歇息，向墓地悄然向前，

成熟，凋落，终结。给我死亡或久安，

给我黑暗的死亡或梦幻般的舒适与自在。

 

五

 

多么的美妙，聆听这小溪潺潺，

仿佛是半闭着双眼，

在似梦非梦中沉沉睡觉！

梦中梦幻，远处的琥珀光焰，

似乎永远斜挂在没树林稍，

听者彼此的耳语轻言，`

吃着白莲暮暮朝朝，

沙滩上静看浪花翻卷，

乳白色泡沫勾画出的娇娆。

我们全部的心魂都已沉陷，

一丝挥不去的淡淡烦恼，

沉思默想回忆着从前，

少儿时代那些音容旧貌，

在杂草丛生的土堆下边，

两捧白灰关在了铜瓮里面。

 

六

 

亲切是回忆里家庭生活的甘甜，

是我们妻子们最后的拥抱与热泪，

但这一切都已痛苦地改变：

家中的壁炉定是冰凉的炭灰，

儿子继承了我们，我们的容貌已变，

归乡会打搅欢乐，犹如鬼魅。

要不就是小岛王子们霸道贪婪，

侵吞我们的财产，流浪艺人在赞美，

说唱那十年特洛伊战争的烽烟，

和人们多半忘却的我们的伟业丰碑。

小岛上现在是否一片混乱？

就任其零乱破碎，

连上帝也是无力回天，

让往日的秩序再度回到正轨。

有一些比死亡还糟糕的混乱，

折磨接踵苦难，痛苦复加伤悲，

常年劳顿令人衰老气喘，

百战重任已是身乏心累，

盯视导航星的双眼已然一片昏暗。

 

七

 

但此时暖风轻拂为我们催眠，

躺卧在奇花异草铺成的床，

多么惬意， 半合上安静的眼帘，

沉浸于神圣幽静的天堂，

观看着紫色山岭的流水潋滟，

缓缓地汇入了长河的明亮，

聆听着露水打湿的回音呼唤，

穿过茂密的缠藤，在山涧回荡。

再遥看一挂祖母绿的水帘，

串着一簇簇精美花环的圣光，

听听看看远方大海的波澜，

动听悦耳，松树下来仰卧平躺。

 

八

 

峭岩下盛开着白莲，

莲花随流水摇晃悠闲，

白日里是熙风优美的歌唱，

吹奏着空灵的洞穴山涧，

扬起芳香飞絮，伴黄色花粉飘荡。

我们做得太多了，做够了贡献，

摇向右舷，摆向左舷，随着翻腾的波浪，

好像是巨怪在海上狂吐着白沫喷泉。

让我们起誓，成全我们共同的愿望，

安心定居在这空旷的莲花田园，

不管人间凡事，欢聚在山岭如神仙一样。

他们静卧在琼台瑶池边，

任脚下惊雷在群山间轰响，

安歇在彩云缭绕星光金色宫殿。

带着神秘的微笑，他们俯视这荒原，

虫害、饥荒、瘟疫、地震，灸热的沙漠和震耳的海浪，

征战的嘶喊、燃烧的城镇、沉没的船只，双手乞怜。

但他们微笑，在悲歌中找到了奏鸣与交响，

乐音升腾，诉说着古老的荒谬与凄惨，

似乎是毫无意义，尽管是慷慨激昂。

歌声来自受苦受难的人类，他们耕种农田，

播下种籽、挥镰收割，饱经了风霜，

终年存一点麦子，葡萄酒，食油，少得可怜。

他们苦熬直到死亡，有些下到地狱见阎王，

忍受无止的劫难，有人能登上极乐之山，

终于将疲惫的四肢歇在了花床。

当然，当然，睡眠比操劳更甜香，

在岸上要好过在大海迎风搏浪，挥动船桨，

哦，歇息吧，水手兄弟们，让我们别再流浪。

 

The Lotos-eaters

 

"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,
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,
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,
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
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,
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,
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,
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
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.

 

Choric Song

 

I

 

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,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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
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
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.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour 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?
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?
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
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,
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,
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
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
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.
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 labour unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

VII

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With half-dropt eyelid still,
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--
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n 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:
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,
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.
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,
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,
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.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.