艺文走廊 ✐2011-11-01

颂诗译选

必死之人何必高傲？

凌风译

噢，必死之人何必心高气傲？
像一个飞驰的流星，一片快过的云雾，
一闪的电，一个碎浪的沫泡，
人从生命进入他安息的坟墓。
橡树和杨柳的叶子必要凋敝，
四散飘落又堆积在一起；
年轻的和年老的，卑贱和高贵，
都必腐朽化为尘土一坯。
母亲对她的婴孩爱护关怀，
婴孩向母亲报以情爱；
丈夫有母子是他的恩赐，
一个一个，全都要归宿安息。
那少女的面颊，眉梢，和眼睛，
闪耀着美貌和快乐—借以得胜；
那些对她爱慕和称讚的记忆，
俱都从活着的心头抹除消逝。
君王那曾握过权杖的手；
祭司那戴过圣冠的眉头；
智者的眼睛和勇者的心，
都沉埋在墓中无处可寻。
农夫的分是撒种和收割；
牧人领他的羊爬上陡坡；
乞丐为了讨饭到处流浪，
凋落像被践踏的草一样。
那曾享受与天堂团契的圣徒；
或顽強的罪人执迷不肯悔悟；
义人和罪咎者，智慧和劣愚，
都默然的埋骨混杂着尘土。
这样，群众都像花或杂草消失
凋谢枯干让另一代继起代替；
这样，群众来过，当我们注视，
重复再絮说那些已常听的故事。
我们仍然像先人的故我旧样；
我们看的是先人看过的景象，—
我们饮於同一泉源看同一太阳，
也同先人跑在那同一路径上。
我们的心意想先人同样的思想；
我们逃避死亡像先人逃避死亡，
我们想延长生命先人也想延长，
但生命如飞而去像鸟展开翅膀。
他们爱过，那些艳事已难以再讲；
他们轻蔑，那骄傲的心已经冰涼；
他们悲伤，长眠者沒有哀哭声响；
他们欢乐，舌头无声喜信难传扬。
他们死去，唉！死了：我们现在存留，
我们走在他们躺臥的墓地上头，
这里只是他们暂时的寄身之处，
要遇到那些在朝圣旅途所曾相遇。
是啊！希望和失望，痛苦和喜乐，
在晴天和阴雨中我们交互会合；
有欢笑和眼淚，有哀曲和乐歌，
仍然要互相伴随，一波又一波。
只是转瞬之间，只是呼吸的一息，
从盛壮的健康就到苍白的死，
从镀金的厅堂到棺架和屍衣，
噢，必死的人何必心高气傲？

这是林肯总统（Abraham Lincoln, 1809-1865）
从早年就特別喜爱的一首诗。

Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,- her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen,-
We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, ay! they died: and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'T is the wink of an eye,'t is the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-
O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?