低眉 含羞 浅望
|Maud Muller on a summer's day
Racked the meadow sweet with hay
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But when she glanced to the far-off town
White from its hill-slope looking down
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known
The judge rode slowely down the lane
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane:
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-tree, to greet the maid,
And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown
"Thanks!" said the Judge, a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather,
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown,
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashes hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed:" Ah, me!"
That I the Judge's bride might be!
He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat;
I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day;
And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climed the hill.
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er has it been my lot to meet;
And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay;
No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues;
But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold;
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the yound girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power;
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;
And sweet Maud's hazel eyes,
looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!
Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door;
But care and sorrow and wasting pain
Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the appe-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinet turned;
The tallow candle and astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty, and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only." It might have been!"
Alas for a maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
For of all sad words of tongues or pen
The saddest are these:"It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And in the hereafter angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
小记：自从去年译过John Whittier（1807-1892） 的《赤足小子》，就一直很喜欢他诗的田园风格，行文俏皮，流畅，情景交融。最近美语坛在办活动，过春节搭擂台，凑个热闹。就找来这首《茂迪牧乐》试着翻译一下，淡淡的愁，柔柔的情，也许正是因为她的凄美，才百年传世，令人唏嘘，念念不忘。诗人说不必仔细分析诗意。是呀，一切都会过去，乡村，城市，或简朴或繁华。。。道不尽人间情愁，唯存永远的盼望。