LESSON 115

THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM

赫库兰尼姆的最后日子

Edwin Atherstone, 1788-1872, was born at Nottingham, England, and became known to the literary world chiefly through two poems, “The Last Days of Herculaneum” and “The Fall of Nineveh.” Both poems are written in blank verse, and are remarkable for their splendor of diction and their great descriptive power. Atherstone is compared to Thomson, whom he resembles somewhat in style.

There was a man,
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son; it was a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire,
In face and gesture. From infancy, the child
Had been his father’s solace and his care.
Every sport
The father shared and heightened. But at length,
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.
The captive’s lot,
He felt in all its bitterness: the walls
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched
His jailer with compassion; and the boy,
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled
His father’s lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence, that in every wound
Dropped healing. But, in this terrific hour,
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast
Where he had been a cure.
With earliest morn
Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came. The iron door was closed—for them
Never to open more! The day, the night
Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate
Impending o’er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by: nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state.
On his low couch
The fettered soldier sank, and, with deep awe,
Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye,
To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then, strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:
His body burned with feverish heat; his chains
Clanked loud, although he moved not; deep in earth
Groaned unimaginable thunders; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died,
Like the sad mornings of November’s wind,
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold, clammy sweats
Came o’er him; then anon, a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now, on his couch he shrunk
And shivered as in fear; now, upright leaped,
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,
And longed to cope with death.
He slept, at last,
A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept
Never to waken more! His hours are few,
But terrible his agony.
Soon the storm
Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air
Shook with the thunders. They awoke; they sprung
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed
A moment as in sunshine—and was dark:
Again, a flood of white flame fills the cell,
Dying away upon the dazzled eye
In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.
With intensest awe,
The soldier’s frame was filled; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth
Jarring and lifting; and the massive walls,
Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not,
While evils undefined and yet to come
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given.—Where, man of woe!
Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call’st
His name in vain:—he can not answer thee.
Loudly the father called upon his child:
No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously
He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth:—no child was there.
Again he called: again, at farthest stretch
Of his accursed fetters, till the blood
Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch
Though but his idol’s garment. Useless toil!
Yet still renewed: still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches, and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy.
Mad frenzy fires him now.
He plants against the wall his feet; his chain
Grasps; tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple; yells and shrieks with rage:
And, like a desert lion in the snare,
Raging to break his toils,—to and fro bounds.
But see! the ground is opening;—a blue light
Mounts, gently waving,—noiseless;—thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its luster, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed,
And, o’er his face serene, a darkened line
Points out the lightning’s track.
The father saw,
And all his fury fled:—a dead calm fell
That instant on him:—speechless—fixed—he stood,
And with a look that never wandered, gazed
Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes
Were not yet closed,—and round those ruby lips
The wonted smile returned.
Silent and pale
The father stands:—no tear is in his eye:—
The thunders bellow;—but he hears them not:—
The ground lifts like a sea;—he knows it not:—
The strong walls grind and gape:—the vaulted roof
Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind;
See! he looks up and smiles; for death to him
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace
Be given, ’t were still a sweeter thing to die.
It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground,
At every swell, nearer and still more near
Moves toward the father’s outstretched arm his boy.
Once he has touched his garment:—how his eye
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears!
Ha, see! he has him now!—he clasps him round;
Kisses his face; puts back the curling locks,
That shaded his fine brow; looks in his eyes;
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands;
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping; and resigned, awaits
Undreaded death.
And death came soon and swift
And pangless. The huge pile sank down at once
Into the opening earth. Walls—arches—roof—
And deep foundation stones—all—mingling—fell!

【中文阅读】

从前有个人，
一位罗马士兵，敢作敢为
冒犯法律，被关进地牢
带上脚镣。他是个高尚的人，尽管粗鲁，
但慷慨，勇敢又善良。
他有个儿子；一个可爱的孩子，
简直就是他的翻版
从脸型到体态。从孩提开始，这个孩子
就是他父亲的慰藉，惹他怜爱。
每一次游戏
这位父亲都参与，孩子长得很高。但最后
他还是没有逃过严格的法律，罚他戴上镣铐在黑暗中度日。
俘虏的命运
他感到悲哀袭遍全身：
深深的地牢墙听到他无数次叹息
还有从心底发出的呻吟。他的故事传了开来，闻之唏嘘
看守也深为同情；那个孩子
此后经常来探望父亲，
陪他父亲打发光阴，带来
饱含浓浓爱意的香膏，每当有伤就用来涂身。
但这是一个的时刻，
他的胸膛曾中过一支毒箭
复旧如初。
在黑暗和令人吃惊的一天最早时光，他来了
铁门关上了
永远不再打开！白天，晚上，
那么漫长，他们不知道命运
逼近这座城市。他们听到
地下被压抑的雷声，
感到大地在令人晕眩地摇动；空气
愈发燥热，浓烈；那个男孩戴着草帽睡着了
而他的父亲盼望地震快点过去，不要吵醒无所畏惧的孩子，
不要泄漏他们国家面临的危险。
在他低矮的长榻上
这位戴着镣铐的士兵躺着，心里惊惧不安，
谛听可怕的声音：眼睛朝上
祈祷万能的神，极力
让自己平静下来，在毫无意义的恐惧中
他紧张了好一会。他无法入睡：
他的身体滚烫；他的锁链
发出很大的响声，尽管他并没有动弹；
地下发出难以想象的雷声；
令人恐惧和不祥的声音，忽起又淡去，
就像寒冬清晨风之悲鸣，
空寂的午夜。极度恐惧冷却了
先前喷张的热血；冰冷，湿黏的汗
流了一身；不久，一阵凶猛的战栗
传遍周身。现在，飞身上纵，
仿佛听到了战场上传来的喇叭声，
盼望对付死亡。
最后他在，
惶惑的梦中睡去。他要是安眠
就绝不会再醒！他的时间所剩不多，
可是在极大痛苦中陷入恐惧。
暴风雨很快
骤降；闪电也在窥伺；天空
电闪雷鸣。他们苏醒，一跃而起。
地牢闪进一丝阳光——又复黑沉。
又一次，白色火焰汇成的洪流填满了囚室，
漆黑中，迷离的目光光芒渐逝，
影影绰绰，令人惊奇的声音
颤动着隐去，耳畔绕余音。
那最强烈的敬畏
盈满士兵的内心；万千思绪化为那种奇怪的不祥
倏然划过他心头，
他感到身下发热的土
震动和上拱；巨大的墙
传来粗粝的摩擦和紧绷的声音：可是他不知，
在魔鬼在下面逡巡，想刺探
他的内心之时，命运已经给他留下
深深而无法愈合的伤口——那里，敌人！
那里，沮丧的父亲！是你的孩子吗？
你这么徒劳呼唤他的名字，
他却没有回答你。
父亲大声喊着他的孩子：
没有回答的声响。在战栗和焦急中，
他寻到他们的草席；他不顾一切
踏在吝惜的界限上，弯着腰，
在黑魆魆的地上摸索：没有孩子。
他复又呼唤：这次，在被他诅咒的脚镣远端
鲜血似乎从他耳朵喷出，他的双眸
冒着火，他向远端展开双臂，
手指也展得很宽，渴望够到
爱子的衣裳。徒劳的苦工！
然而还在重新尝试：他徘徊许久，
拉紧，伸手攫住，伴着声嘶力竭的
呼唤儿子的声音。
现在狂乱已经把他点燃。
他飞脚踹墙；他的锁链
愈发扣紧；用尽气力猛拉
那嵌得很深的钉子；狂怒的咆哮和尖叫声响起：
就像一头困在陷阱里的沙漠雄狮，
愤怒地中断他的劳苦——来回踱步。
可是看啊！地下开了个口——一束蓝光
向上升，轻轻摆动——寂静无声——细弱而冷冰
就像彩虹的淡色，似乎没有火舌吐出；
在延展开的地上，借着余光，
看到的是没了呼吸的孩子！他的衣衫咝咝作响
掠过他安详的面庞，一个暗淡的轮廓
把注意力引向发光的痕迹。
父亲看到，
他的所有愤怒没了踪影，尸体静静倒在那里
一瞬间——无言以对——凝神观望——脚步停住
神情专注，紧紧
盯着那死尸。那双带着笑意的眸子
还没有合上——在深红的嘴唇周围
先前的微笑又回来了。
静寂和苍白
父亲愣在那里——眼里没有泪珠——
雷声咆哮——可是他未听到——
地面像海面一样升起——他也不知道——
结实的墙互相挤压，裂开大口——屋顶
像气泡一样迎风颠簸；
看啊！他举目仰望，面带浅笑；对他而言
死是幸福。然而，最后的拥抱总要给予，
之于死犹是一件快事。
看啊！地面滚滚而起，近了又近了
父亲的双臂伸向他的孩子。
他一碰到孩子的衣衫——他的目光
被爱和希望点燃，急切的忧虑！
哈，看啊！他抓住他了！他把孩子抱在怀里；
亲吻他的脸，把脸上搭着的头发捋到脑后，
露出那俊朗的额头，端详他的眼睛；
抓住那微凹的手指；
然后将他手放到他胸口，在睡着时
他总是这个样子躺在那里；松开手，等待
不被畏惧的死亡。
死神很快来了
没有一丝痛苦地旋即而逝。一大堆土马上填进
地上的开口。墙壁——拱门——穹顶
还有深深的石头地基——全都轰然倒下！