魏晋风度
举觞白眼向青天
In Memoriam
by Lord Alfred Tennyson
(1809-1892)
我握住真理，随着他音调各异
对着一张清澈的竖琴吟唱，
人们可从死亡本身的垫脚石上
升腾而成更高级的东西。
然而谁将预测到这些岁月
在失却中找到相称的获益？
要么寻得援手，穿越流光过隙
去捕捉遥远的泪水之噱？
让爱情紧扣忧伤，以免双双溺毙，
让黑暗保持她乌黑的光彩；
啊，醉而有失更甜来，
与死神共舞，去击败大地，
超过胜者之际应当蔑视
爱情和吹嘘带来的久长硕果，
“快看那人，他爱过、失去过，
但他整个就是身心俱疲。”
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss:
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast,
"Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn."
II
苍老的紫杉拽紧岩石
它们命名了潜在的亡户，
你的纤维罗织无梦之颅，
你的根系包裹有骨质。
季节再次带来花朵，
驱使幼雏壮而成群，
时钟在你的黄昏
敲扁人生之脆弱。
哦，不为你这光彩，这花开，
在狂风中也不变化，
而标记夏日之阳也无法，
触摸你千年忧郁之哀。
凝望着你，沉郁之树，
患于你的顽固惊骇，
我仿佛衰自气血之外，
渐次融合于汝。
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.
III
哦，悲伤，这残酷的情谊，
哦，死亡之窖的女祭司，
哦，一呼一吸的甜苦，
是何耳语飘自你正说谎的唇际？
“星群” ，她低语，“茫然飞奔，
有一张网正越空而织；
一阵泣涕从外面荒地传来，
垂死的太阳杂音低迷”；
所有的幽灵，大自然，起立--
音乐充盈在她的调子，
一声我自己的空洞回音，--
伴随双手空空的虚空形式。”
我是否该如此盲目从事，
拥抱她如同天赋德行；
抑或粉碎她，犹如污血恶迹，
一旦触及心灵的阈值？
Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?
"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;
A web is wov'n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun;
"And all the phantom, Nature, stands --
With all the music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own, --
A hollow form with empty hands."
And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?
IV
我将自身伟力交付给睡眠；
意志遂成黑暗的奴隶；
坐在无舵之舟，
我心默想而语：
哦，心儿，而今它如此依附你，
你不应从欲望中弃离，
欲望它很少敢探究，
“是什么让我败得沉底 ？”
是一些你已丢失的东西，
一些早年岁月的欢愉。
碎了，灌满寒泪的深底花瓶，
那种忧伤颤栗成了霜气！
这样无名的困扰如流云穿越
昏黑眼睛下的长夜凄凄；
清晨唤醒了意志，于是恸哭，
“你不该象笨瓜般迷失” 。
To Sleep I give my powers away;
My will is bondsman to the dark;
I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:
O heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou should'st fail from thy desire,
Who scarcely darest to inquire,
"What is it makes me beat so low?"
Something it is which thou hast lost,
Some pleasure from thine early years.
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,
That grief hath shaken into frost!
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
All night below the darken'd eyes;
With morning wakes the will, and cries,
"Thou shalt not be the fool of loss."
我有时半感罪恶薰薰
为将悲痛付之言表；
因为言语，如同大自然，半昭
半隐内在的灵魂。
然而，对躁动的心脑，
谨慎用语意味着谎言；
悲哀的机械训练，
一如无趣的麻醉剂，痛不知晓。
在如杂草的话中，我将自己覆盖，
似用最粗鄙的衣服抵挡寒冷；
可是所拥的哀伤之盛
不过付诸个大概。
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.
VI
有人写道：‘尚有朋友们留存如始‘，
‘失却对一个种类来说司空见惯’ --
司空见惯就是老生常谈，
空虚的谷壳对谷粒仍有意义。
失却实在是种平常现象
不增不减我的苦涩；
太司空见惯了！从未携这
失意从朝到暮，但有心儿破碎遭殃。
哦，神父，无论你在哪个角落，
那人发誓做你勇武之子；
在你半枯竭之前，再试一次
仍会拥有源自你光彩的生活。
哦，圣母，祈祷上帝会拯救
你的水手，--当你躬首垂落
他弹痕累累的吊床样桅索
堕入他广阔而漫游的坟柩。
你所知不比我多多少
我在最后一小时让他安舒；
他默思我不得不告知的全部，
有笔录，也有思考。
依然期待他那将临的家园；
总想于其途中和他相遇
怀揣愿望，想着，“ 今--日” ，
或者“明--天他会出现” 。
哦，某处温顺而迷离的鸽子，
坐而梳理金色的毛发;
乐于发现你自己光鲜绝佳，
可怜的孩子，那是在祈爱于你！
此刻，她神父的烟囱光焰荟萃
正期待一个贵客到来；
于是想，“这将最让他开怀” ，
她拿起装饰缎带，或一朵玫瑰。
因为他将看见他们, 就今晚；
思绪她光华如灼，
放下玻璃杯, 她转过
去再次弄妥那个小发卷。
甚至当她传过身子时，
诅咒已降，她的未来之主
溺毙于穿越滩涂，
抑或从马上跌落而死。
One writes, that `Other friends remain,'
That `Loss is common to the race' --
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor, -- while thy head is bow'd,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
And something written, something thought;
Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, "here to-day,"
Or "here to-morrow will he come."
O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waitest for thy love!
For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking "this will please him best,"
She takes a riband or a rose;
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,
Or kill'd in falling from his horse.
O what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
And unto me no second friend.
(浮生欢娱译， 2009）
