夜莺颂

我的心在痛，困顿和麻木

刺进了感官，有如饮过毒鸠，

又象是刚刚把鸦片吞服，

于是向着列斯忘川下沉：

并不是我嫉妒你的好运，

而是你的快乐使我太欢欣－－

因为在林间嘹亮的天地里，

你呵，轻翅的仙灵，

你躲进山毛榉的葱绿和荫影，

放开歌喉，歌唱着夏季。

哎，要是有一口酒！那冷藏

在地下多年的清醇饮料，

一尝就令人想起绿色之邦，

想起花神，恋歌，阳光和舞蹈！

要是有一杯南国的温暖

充满了鲜红的灵感之泉，

杯沿明灭着珍珠的泡沫，

给嘴唇染上紫斑；

哦，我要一饮而离开尘寰，

和你同去幽暗的林中隐没：

远远地、远远隐没，让我忘掉

你在树叶间从不知道的一切，

忘记这疲劳、热病、和焦躁，

这使人对坐而悲叹的世界；

在这里，青春苍白、消瘦、死亡，

而“瘫痪”有几根白发在摇摆；

在这里，稍一思索就充满了

忧伤和灰色的绝望，

而“美”保持不住明眸的光彩，

新生的爱情活不到明天就枯凋。

去吧！去吧！我要朝你飞去，

不用和酒神坐文豹的车驾，

我要展开诗歌底无形羽翼，

尽管这头脑已经困顿、疲乏；

去了！呵，我已经和你同往！

夜这般温柔，月后正登上宝座，

周围是侍卫她的一群星星；

但这儿却不甚明亮，

除了有一线天光，被微风带过，

葱绿的幽暗，和苔藓的曲径。

我看不出是哪种花草在脚旁，

什么清香的花挂在树枝上；

在温馨的幽暗里，我只能猜想

这个时令该把哪种芬芳

赋予这果树，林莽，和草丛，

这白枳花，和田野的玫瑰，

这绿叶堆中易谢的紫罗兰，

还有五月中旬的娇宠，

这缀满了露酒的麝香蔷薇，

它成了夏夜蚊蚋的嗡萦的港湾。

我在黑暗里倾听：呵，多少次

我几乎爱上了静谧的死亡，

我在诗思里用尽了好的言辞，

求他把我的一息散入空茫；

而现在，哦，死更是多么富丽：

在午夜里溘然魂离人间，

当你正倾泻着你的心怀

发出这般的狂喜！

你仍将歌唱，但我却不再听见－－

你的葬歌只能唱给泥草一块。

永生的鸟呵，你不会死去！

饥饿的世代无法将你蹂躏；

今夜，我偶然听到的歌曲

曾使古代的帝王和村夫喜悦；

或许这同样的歌也曾激荡

露丝忧郁的心，使她不禁落泪，

站在异邦的谷田里想着家；

就是这声音常常

在失掉了的仙域里引动窗扉：

一个美女望着大海险恶的浪花。

呵，失掉了！这句话好比一声钟

使我猛醒到我站脚的地方！

别了！幻想，这骗人的妖童，

不能老耍弄它盛传的伎俩。

别了！别了！你怨诉的歌声

流过草坪，越过幽静的溪水，

溜上山坡；而此时，它正深深

埋在附近的溪谷中：

噫，这是个幻觉，还是梦寐？

那歌声去了：－－我是睡？是醒？

查良铮译

Ode To A Nightingale

John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk

Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,--

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Coold a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Clusterd around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets coverd up in leaves;

And mid-Mays eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Calld him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charmd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?