Ode on Melancholy 忧郁颂

今天我的济慈诗选到了，其实买它有一部分原因就是因为在Sweet Bitter中看到了*《忧郁颂》中的一句隐藏的“忧郁”有她至尊的神龛。另外一部分原因是因为未竟的长诗Hyperion以及济慈本人贯穿了整个《海伯利安》四部曲中。神往已久，于是今天就抄下这首《忧郁颂》*。中文采用屠岸译版。

Ode on Melancholy

I

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

  Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
     
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed

  By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

  Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

    Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

  For shade to shade will come to drowsily,

    And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

II

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

  Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

  And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

  Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

    Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

  Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

    And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

III

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

  And joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

  Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Aye, in the very temple of Delight

  Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

    Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

  Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

  And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

忧郁颂

I

不呵！不要到忘川去，也不要拧绞

  根深的乌头，把它的毒汁当美酒；

别让你苍白的额头把龙葵野草——

  普罗赛嫔红葡萄的亲吻承受；

别用紫杉的坚果做你的念珠，

  别让甲虫和墓畔的飞蛾变为

    你忧伤的塞吉，别让批羽的鸱鸮

分享你心底隐秘的悲哀愁苦；

  阴影来亲近阴影会困倦嗜睡，

    会把灵魂中清醒的创痛淹没掉。

II

但一旦忧郁的意绪突然来到，

  有如阴云洒着泪自天而降，

云雨滋润着垂头的花花草草，

  四月的雾衣把一脉青山隐藏；

你就该让哀愁痛饮早晨的玫瑰，

  或者饱餐海浪上空的虹彩，

    或者享足姹紫嫣红的牡丹；

若是你钟情的女郎娇嗔颦眉，

  就抓住她的酥手，让她说痛快，

    并深深品尝她举世无双的慧眼。

III

她与“美”共处——那必将消亡的“美”；

  还有“喜悦”，他的手总是贴着嘴唇

说再见；令人痛苦的近邻“欣慰”，

  只要蜂蜜啜一口，就变成毒鸠：

啊，就在“快乐”的庙堂之上，

  隐藏的“忧郁”有她至尊的神龛，

    虽然，只有舌头灵、味觉良好、

  能咬破“快乐”果的人才能够瞧见：

他灵魂一旦把“忧郁”的威力品尝，

  便成为她的战利品，悬挂在云霄。

/John Keats/