LESSON 100

THE CLOSING YEAR

一年即逝

George Denison Prentice, 1802-1870, widely known as a political writer, a poet, and a wit, was born in Preston, Connecticut, and graduated at Brown University in 1823. He studied law, but never practiced his profession. He edited a paper in Hartford for two years; and, in 1831, he became editor of the “Louisville Journal,” which position he held for nearly forty years. As an editor, Mr. Prentice was an able, and sometimes bitter, political partisan, abounding in wit and satire; as a poet, he not only wrote gracefully himself, but he did much by his kindness and sympathy to develop the poetical talents of others. Some who have since taken high rank, first became known to the world through the columns of the “Louisville Journal.”

’T is midnight’s holy hour, and silence now

Is brooding like a gentle spirit o’er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds,

The bell’s deep notes are swelling; ’t is the knell

Of the departed year.

No funeral train

Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,

With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest

Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred

As by a mourner’s sigh; and, on yon cloud,

That floats so still and placidly through heaven,

The spirits of the Seasons seem to stand—

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn’s solemn form,

And Winter, with his aged locks—and breathe

In mournful cadences, that come abroad

Like the far wind harp’s wild and touching wail,

A melancholy dirge o’er the dead year,

Gone from the earth forever.

’Tis a time

For memory and for tears. Within the deep,

Still chambers of the heart, a specter dim,

Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,

Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold

And solemn finger to the beautiful

And holy visions, that have passed away,

And left no shadow of their loveliness

On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts

The coffin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,

And, bending mournfully above the pale,

Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers

O’er what has passed to nothingness.

The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng

Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,

Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course

It waved its scepter o’er the beautiful,

And they are not. It laid its pallid hand

Upon the strong man; and the haughty form

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged

The bright and joyous; and the tearful wail

Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song

And reckless shout resounded. It passed o’er

The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield

Flashed in the light of midday; and the strength

Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above

The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came,

And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!—

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power

Can stay him in his silent course, or melt

His iron heart to pity! On, still on

He presses, and forever. The proud bird,

The condor of the Andes, that can soar

Through heaven’s unfathomable depths, or brave

The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder’s home,

Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down

To rest upon his mountain crag; but Time

Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness;

And Night’s deep darkness has no chain to bind

His rushing pinion.

Revolutions sweep

O’er earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast

Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink

Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles

Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back

To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear

To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow

Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,

Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,

And rush down, like the Alpine avalanche,

Startling the nations; and the very stars,

Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,

Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,

And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,

Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away,

To darkle in the trackless void; yet Time,

Time the tomb builder, holds his fierce career,

Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not

Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,

To sit and muse, like other conquerors,

Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

【中文阅读】

午夜神圣时刻，此时这一窝鸟儿

沉静似温柔的心

飞过寂静和了无生气的世界上空。听啊！在风中

低鸣的钟声渐渐高亢；

这是既往岁月的丧钟。

没有送葬的队伍

呜咽着经过；小溪和林间，

笼罩着悲哀，月光倾洒

仿佛苍白和一尘不染的裹尸布；空气流动

似哀悼者一声叹息；那边的云彩

如此平静而徐缓地飘过天空，

四季的精灵似乎偏爱

年轻的春天，明媚的夏日，秋天的肃穆，

而冬季，还有他岁月沧桑的发髻，

在悲伤的调子中低语，从远处飘来

像风中竖琴一般苍凉和哀婉的悲泣，

哀怨的挽歌漫过死神走过的路，

抛离尘世不复回头。

这是

怀念和泪流的时刻。在心房

静谧的深处，晦暗的幽灵，

他的调门宛若男巫的声音，

从那年久的墓冢里传出，且将

冰冷和庄重的手指指向那

美丽和神圣的幻觉，已然逝去，

没有在虚度的生命上

留下他们可爱的影子。那幽灵掀起

盛着希望、欢乐和爱这三位女神的棺材盖子，

冲在那里安眠的苍白温柔的女神

悲伤地弯腰致敬，冲那虚无

撒上枯萎的花朵。

这年

飞逝，有几多瑰丽的快乐之梦。

它的标记在每人的额头，

它的阴影在每人心里。在飞逝的过程中

它冲美丽的影子挥舞那权杖，

他们已不再美丽。它将那苍白的手

按在这健壮的人身上；于是结实的身躯

倒下了，原本烁烁放光的眼睛黯淡下来。

它踏进宴会大厅，那里灯火通明

欢笑一片；传来不堪痛苦的人涕泣，

在那里，回荡着往昔的歌声和轻率的狂呼。

它对战场置之不理，那里，刀剑、枪矛和盾牌

在正午阳光照耀下寒气袭人；密集的士兵没了胆气，

发生大屠杀的土地上长出的绿草，上面附着

被压碎和腐朽的枯骨。它就像

创世之初大雾中的花环，出现又隐去；

在它融进无风景的空中之前，

召唤千百万人回到

梦中模糊之地的家园。

无情的时间老人！

玻璃和大镰刀那凶猛的幽灵！——什么力量

能默默待在他身边，抑或将他

那颗坚强冷酷的心融化！上面，还在上面

他按着，永不松开。骄傲的鸟儿，

安第斯山脉的神鹰，能穿透

无际的天空，抑或像狂怒的北方飓风

那样勇敢无畏，

在雷神的家晒他的羽毛，

在夜幕下收起翅膀，坠入他高山的峭壁

权作休息；但是时间老人

不晓得睡觉或者疲惫的影响；

夜晚的漆黑没有锁链来绑缚

他那急速飞转的小齿轮。

革命

在世间笼罩，就像焦虑的幻想

袭上梦中悲伤的胸膛；似水中气泡那样

城市拔地而起而又陷落；燃烧的岛屿

那火焰来自海上，又回到

它们神秘的洞穴；群山拱卫

它们光秃秃黑魆魆的悬崖，向平地低下

它们高昂的头颅；新帝国诞生了，

凭借的是几个世纪积聚的力量，

就像阿尔卑斯山的大雪崩，

夷平了那些还在惊骇中的国家；每个星星，

在那边闪亮和燃烧，炫示上帝的光芒，

在它们永恒的深渊闪烁星光，

像七星那样，承着最爱，

从它们光芒的宇宙射出，一闪而过，

在无迹的太空变暗；然而时光，

坟墓营造者这位时间老人，他的凶猛依旧，

黑暗，严厉，无情决绝，不会在

洒在他道路上的巨大灾难间驻足的，

他不会像其他征服者那样，坐下来

面对他一手造成的可怕废墟陷入沉思。