LESSON 51

SONG OF THE GREEK BARD

希腊游吟诗人之歌

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron, 1788-1824. This gifted poet was the son of a profligate father and of a fickle and passionate mother. He was afflicted with lameness from his birth; and, although he succeeded to his great-uncle’s title at ten years of age, he inherited financial embarrassment with it. These may be some of the reasons for the morbid and wayward character of the youthful genius. It is certain that he was not lacking in affection, nor in generosity. In his college days, at Cambridge, he was willful and careless of his studies. “Hours of Idleness,” his first book, appeared in 1807. It was severely treated by the “Edinburgh Review,” which called forth his “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” in 1809. Soon after, he went abroad for two years; and, on his return, published the first two cantos of “Childe Harold’s Pligrimage,” a work that made him suddenly famous. He married in 1815, but separated from his wife after one year. Soured and bitter, he now left England, purposing never to return. He spent most of the next seven years in Italy, where most of his poems were written. The last year of his life was spent in Greece, aiding in her struggle for liberty against the Turks. He died at Missolonghi. As a man, Byron was impetuous, morbid and passionate. He was undoubtedly dissipated and immoral, but perhaps to a less degree than has sometimes been asserted. As a poet, he possessed noble powers, and he has written much that will last; in general, however, his poetry is not wholesome, and his fame is less than it once was.

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,—
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”
The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian’s grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations,—all were his!
He counted them at break of day,—
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? And where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now,—
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred, grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What! silent still and silent all?
Ah! no;—the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent’s fall,
And answer, “Let one living head,
But one, arise,—we come, we come!”
’T is but the living who are dumb!
In vain—in vain!—strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call,
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave;
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the howl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon’s song divine:
He served, but served Polycrates,
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, Our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom’s best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
Oh that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade;
I see their glorious, black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,
Where nothing save the waves and I
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swanlike, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine,—
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

【中文阅读】

希腊群岛啊，希腊群岛！
燃烧着热情的萨福挚爱你，并为你歌唱，
在这里，战争与和平的艺术同样兴盛，
得洛斯岛耸于海上，太阳神阿波罗从这儿跃入海洋！
海岛在永恒的夏天沐浴着金色，
可是除了太阳，一切都已沉下。
塞奥和特奥的缪斯，
英雄的竖琴，恋人的鲁特琴，
曾经在你拒绝登的岸上赢得了声誉；
唯独在故乡喑哑无声，
那歌声一直在西方回荡，
越过了你祖先的“极乐海岛”。
群山远眺马拉松，
马拉松凝望着大海的波涛，
我暗自在那里冥想一个时辰，
依稀梦回依旧自由的希腊，
因为我伫立在波斯人的坟墓上，
不相信自己还是个奴隶。
一个国王坐在怪石嶙峋的山坡上，
凝望着悬于海外的萨拉米岛，
千万只战船在山下泊靠，
各个国家的军队都是他的人马！
他在破晓时分点数，
可是斜阳西下时，他们却在何处？
他们身在何方？你在哪里，
我的祖国？在无声无息的岸边
英雄的短歌不再悦耳，
英雄的胸怀也不再怦跳
你那长久以来一直奏出神圣乐音的竖琴
竟落到我的手上？
我们要为幸福的日子哭泣？
难道我们只有惭愧？我们的先辈已经流血。
大地啊！把斯巴达人的遗骨
从你的怀抱里送还！
哪怕只有三百壮士中的三个，
也会让温泉关大捷再现！
什么？还是悄无声息，一切都归于静寂？
啊，不！先烈的喊杀声听上去
就像远方的汹涌的瀑布，
那声音在说，“只要有一个人活着
站在高处号令——我们就响应，就响应！”
咦，只有活着的人才默不作声！
枉然，皆是枉然！弹别的曲调吧，
且将杯子斟满萨摩斯的美酒！
把战场留给土耳其人去厮杀吧，
任塞奥那鲜红的葡萄酒流淌！
听！每个冒失的酒鬼多么欢呼跃起
响应这个可耻的号召！
你们跳着出征舞，
可比鲁斯王的方阵朝哪里进发？
这是两个榜样，为什么竟忘了
那更高尚和刚强的一个？
卡德穆斯为你们造字，
想想看难道是为了奴隶？
且将杯子斟满萨摩斯的美酒！
我们不再去想这样的话题，
美酒令阿那克里翁的歌声更神圣：
他却为暴君波利克拉底卖命，
但我们的主人，
至少是我们的同胞。
半岛的那个暴君
是自由最好和最勇敢的朋友，
那暴君是米尔蒂阿德斯
啊，所幸我们有另一个
和他一样的暴君
由他结成的纽带一定会成为一体。
且将杯斟满萨摩斯美酒!
我们的姑娘在树荫下轻歌曼舞，
我看见她们快乐的黑眼睛里光彩流转，
可是，望着每个热情洋溢的姑娘，
我泪眼蒙眬的眼睛燃烧着渴望：
心想这乳房必定要哺育奴隶了。
我登上苏尼乌姆的石坡，
只有海浪与我
可以听见彼此的低语呜咽，
在那里，让我像天鹅那样歌尽而亡，
奴隶的国度绝不属于我——
干脆掷下萨摩斯酒杯共存亡！