拜伦《哀希腊》及各种译本
The Isles of Greece
THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,---
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."
The mountains look on Marathon--- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might yet be free
For, standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks on sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;---all were his! He counted them at break of day--- And when the sun set, where were they
And where are they and where art thou,
My country On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now--- The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here
For Greeks a blush---for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest
Must we but blush---Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae.
What, silent still, and silent all Ah! no; the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise,---we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain---in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup of Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call--- How answers each bold bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one You have the letters Cadmus gave--- Think ye he meant them for a slave
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine;
He served---but served Polycrates---
A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks---
They have a king who buys and sells: