LESSON 50

MARCO BOZZARIS

马尔科·博萨里斯

Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1790—1867, was born in Guilford, Connecticut. At the age of eighteen he entered a banking house in New York, where he remained a long time. For many years he was bookkeeper and assistant in business for John Jacob Astor. Nearly all his poems were written before he was forty years old, several of them in connection with his friend Joseph Rodman Drake. His “Young America,” however, was written but a few years before his death. Mr. Halleck’s poetry is carefully finished and musical; much of it is sportive, and some satirical. No one of his poems is better known than “Marco Bozzaris.”

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power.

In dreams, through camp and court he bore

The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch’s signet ring:

Then pressed that monarch’s throne—a king:

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden’s garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian’s thousands stood,

There had the glad earth drunk their blood,

On old Plataea’s day:

And now there breathed that haunted air,

The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arms to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last:

He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,

“To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!”

He woke—to die mid flame and smoke,

And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,

And death shots falling thick and fast

As lightnings from the mountain cloud;

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:

“Strike—till the last armed foe expires;

Strike—for your altars and your fires;

Strike—for the green graves of your sires;

God—and your native land!”

They fought—like brave men, long and well;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain;

They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won:

Then saw in death his eyelids close

Calmly, as to a night’s repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother, when she feels

For the first time her firstborn’s breath;

Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,

And crowded cities wail its stroke;

Come in consumption’s ghastly form,

The earthquake’s shock, the ocean storm;

Come when the heart beats high and warm

With banquet song, and dance, and wine:

And thou art terrible—the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,

And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word;

And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory’s time,

Rest thee—there is no prouder grave

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh,

For thou art Freedom’s, now, and Fame’s.

One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

【中文阅读】

午夜，在他有人守卫的帐篷里，

土耳其人正在梦乡徜徉

当希腊人的膝盖哀求地曲着，

被他的势力吓得发抖。

他在梦里穿过厌烦的营地和庭院

堆满征服者的战利品；

在梦里，他的胜利之歌有人听见；

然后戴上上面有君主封印的指环；

按着那位君主的宝座——一位国王：

他的思绪纷乱，就像伊甸园里的鸟儿，

快乐地抖着翅膀。

午夜，在丛林的庇荫处，

博萨里斯排列他的苏里奥特乐队，

他们经过考验的刀刃像钢一样坚硬，

英雄在心里和手上。

成千上万波斯人站在那里，

他们的鲜血就洒在欢乐的大地上，

就在老普拉泰亚即位那天：

现在，那里弥漫着不安的气息，

曾征服那里的陛下的儿子们，

拿着武器准备战斗，誓死搏杀，

他们尽快投入战斗。

一匹灰白色马儿跑过，土耳其人醒来；

他的美梦到头了：

他醒了——听到哨兵在喊叫，

“拿起武器！他们来了！希腊人！希腊人！”

他醒了——在火光和烟雾中死去，

喊叫，呻吟，马刀击来，

死亡的枪炮声此起彼伏

从高山云颠传来火光；

听到像鼓鸣一般的响声，

博萨里斯鼓励他的手下：

“进攻——直到最后一个全副武装的敌人咽气；

进攻——为了你们的祭坛和你们的炮火，

进攻——为了你们的陛下那绿草茸茸的墓地；

上帝——与你们的故土同在！”

他们战斗——像勇敢的人一样，持久而勇敢

他们用穆斯林的尸体铺地；

他们胜利了，可是博萨里斯倒下了，

每个血管都滴血。

幸存的几个伙伴看到

当他们撬起骄傲的屁股时，他微笑颔首，

放眼是殷红的战场：

然后他的眼睑渐渐合上，

恰似夜晚安眠那样

仿佛斜阳西下的花朵。

死神！快去婚房，

快去看看那位母亲，

她第一次觉察出第一个孩子的呼吸；

当祝福的封印到来时

瘟疫也爆发了，

摩肩接踵的城市等着死神来抚摸；

肺结核这个可怕的恶魔也来光顾，

还有地震和海啸。

当心绪飞扬，为盛宴上的歌声、欢舞和美酒所打动时，

你是那样可怖——泪水滂沱，

呜咽、丧钟，柩衣和棺材，

我们所知道的一切，噩梦，恐惧，

极度痛苦，都属于你。

但是对英雄而言，当他的剑

赢得了自由之战后，

他们的声音就像先知的咒语；

听到虚伪空洞的语调

甚至还有千万人的感谢。

博萨里斯！用加倍的勇敢

希腊哺育了她的荣耀时代，

你安息吧——甚至在令她骄傲的地方

也没有更值得自豪的坟墓。

我们诉说你的劫数，没有叹息，

因为你是为自由，现在还有荣誉而死，

不朽的名字中有你一个。