S*********e
发帖数: 3006 | 1 <题外话>
1) 约翰*济慈生于1795年。幼丧父母，由祖母抚养长大。他的弟弟汤姆1818年死于肺结核。济慈在照顾汤姆的过程中不幸被感染，两年后去世。死时年仅25岁。
2) 我第一次知道济慈是在进大学不久的一次诗歌社团活动。主持活动的师兄刚介绍完济慈的生平，下面立刻响起一个女生的轻呼：(这么年轻就死去)太可惜了。而我的第一反应是：济慈的祖母会非常、非常伤心吧。。。不知为什么，这个镜头一直在我的记忆里清晰地存在，而大学时代其他很多更重要的事情却慢慢淡去。
3) 济慈最著名的作品当然是<<夜莺颂>>。他本人学医。所有诗作几乎都是在去世前两年创作。下面翻译的<<希腊古瓶>>，直译的话是<<对一个希腊瓶子的颂歌>>，是济慈数首颂歌之一。我本人也是不久前才偶尔读到、认真欣赏。这是对一个希腊古瓶的怀古之作。古瓶上应该画着树叶、人物、村庄等等。
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[希腊古瓶]
原作：约翰*济慈
你这安静的、未被玷污的新娘！
你没有亲生父母 --
养父是永恒之沉默，而养母
是缓慢而坚定流逝的时光。
于是你脸上画的树木，
真实地低声地
把甜蜜委婉充满鲜花的往事讲述：
如叶的花边将神灵或凡人
的秘密隐约透露，
不断提醒我们，在奥林匹克山边
或伯罗奔尼撒山谷
那些消散在历史中的传奇典故。
他们是什么样的人或神仙？
那年轻姑娘为何似乎不情不愿？
什么东西让人们惊慌恐惧？
他们为什么挣扎着逃离？
他们击鼓鸣笛奏起什么歌曲？
他们心中充满何种狂野之欲？
入耳的旋律多么甜蜜，
而更加甜美的，是那些听不见的歌曲。
所以轻柔的笛声，请继续 --
不是为我们多情的耳朵，
而是吹响那些无声的
在我们灵魂深处回响的轻歌：
可爱的年轻人，你们在树底
凝固在时光之河里，
永远不停地吹笛 --
因为那些绿树不可以
在无歌的风中飘迤。
健美的男孩，你永远、永远不再能亲吻她，
就这样和她咫尺天涯。
但不要伤怀感叹 --
虽然你们不再能一起青春狂欢
但她将长有美丽容颜。
而你将爱她，直到永远，
而她也将永远平和、简单。
(以后再续)
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附原诗
[Ode on a Grecian Urn]
By 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, unwearièd,
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 its 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.' |
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