美国第一诗人郎斐罗
纪念郎斐罗诞生二百週年
郎斐罗(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882),在1807年二月二十七日,生於缅因州波特崙(Portland, Maine),是美国第一驰名世界的诗人。
郎斐罗的胸像放置於伦敦
西大教堂的“诗人角落”
毕业於保德因学院(Bowdoin College),1825年,赴欧洲学习语言三年,通晓法文,意大利文,西班牙文,德文,和葡萄牙文。在母校教授欧洲语言五年,並写作诗和剧本,並翻译名著。1831年,於1834年,再度往欧,这次停留二年,学瑞典,丹麦,芬兰,古冰岛,及荷兰语文;至於希腊文,希伯来文,拉丁文,早就精通。从1836年,有约二十年,他在哈佛大学是最受欢迎的名教授;然后退休,在家专从事写作,他的作品,译成十种以上语文,销行世界各地。
郎斐罗在欧洲也同样享誉,获牛津大学和剑桥大学的荣誉学位。
1882年三月二十四日,郎斐罗逝世。美国各地举行纪念,他是第一位美国诗人,享有胸像放置在伦敦西大教堂(Westminster Abbey)“诗人角落”(Poets' Corner)的荣誉。
乡村铁匠
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
有个乡村的铁匠铺,
在一棵大栗子树旁;
那铁匠非常的強壮,
有双巨大有力的手掌,
满有筋肉褐色的臂膀,
像一束钢铁一样。
他的头发光亮,黑而且长,
脸面如同皮革皱纹;
眉梢流着诚实的汗珠,
尽可能的赚钱生存,
他面对全世界沒有愧怍,
因为他从不亏欠任何人。
一週复又一週,从早到晚,
他风箱的声音可以听见;
你听到他挥动沉重的大锤,
击打有节奏有时缓慢,
像管教堂的敲动那乡村的钟,
当夕阳低沉下山。
当孩子们放学回家
从那敞开的门张望;
他们爱看那炉中的火焰,
听那风箱吼叫的声响,
看到那迸起的火花
像禾场上颺起的糠。
主日他去到教堂,
坐在他儿子们的中央;
听牧师祷告和传讲,
听他女儿的歌唱,
在乡村诗班的歌声,
使他的心欢喜飞扬。
听来如同她母亲的声音,
歌唱在天上的乐园!
他不免又一次的想起她,
如何在坟墓里安眠;
淚珠流出了他的双眼,
就用粗硬的手擦干。
劳苦,—欢乐,—忧伤,
伴随着生命前进不止;
每早晨看工作开始,
每晚间看工作完毕;
有的事试去作,有的事成就,
他获得一夜的安息。
感谢,感谢你,我尊贵的朋友,
你所教导我们的课程!
在人生命的炼炉中,
我们的前途如此作成;
如此的在砧上锤炼又铸形,
每一燃烧的思想和行动。
The Village Blacksmith
朗诵:Bernie Wong
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands:
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
He earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882
American poet and educator