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[专题]怀念济慈

[B]《每当我害怕》[/B]
济慈的第一首莎士比亚型十四行诗，附在1818年1月31日致雷诺兹的信中。他在世时这首诗从未发表，直到1848年才首次刊印于米尔恩写的一本济慈传记里，逐渐为人们所知晓，被认为是他以这种诗格创作的最成功的作品之一。诗中既提到了诗人在从事创作上的努力和对不朽名声的追求——在夜空搜寻传奇故事的“云雾征象”；又提到了对无忧爱情的渴慕——害怕再也看不到那“瞬息的美人”。有的书中将"瞬息的美人"误解为指济慈的情人芳妮·布劳恩，其实此时二人还未相识，显然是另有所指的。此时济慈也还未因照顾弟弟而感染肺结核，身体状况良好，所以这首诗可以理解为他对自己将要早逝的一种预感——这种预感在他的书信里也有所体现。全诗最精彩的是最后两句，慨叹了对人生短暂易逝的无奈与悲哀，却不像雪莱在《悲歌》中那样呼喊出来，而是静默——静看这一切都慢慢没入虚无之中。
[B]When I have fears that I may cease to be[/B]
When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean';d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
    Hold like rich garners the full ripen';d grain;
When I behold, upon the night';s starr';d face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

[B]每当我害怕[/B]
　　每当我害怕，生命也许等不及
　　　我的笔搜集完我蓬勃的思潮，
　　等不及高高一堆书，在文字里，
　　　象丰富的谷仓，把熟谷子收好；
　　每当我在繁星的夜幕上看见
　　　传奇故事的巨大的云雾征象，
　　而且想，我或许活不到那一天，
　　　以偶然的神笔描出它的幻相；
　　每当我感觉，呵，瞬息的美人！
　　　我也许永远都不会再看到你，
　　不会再陶醉于无忧的爱情
　　　和它的魅力！－－于是，在这广大的
　　世界的岸沿，我独自站定、沉思，
　　直到爱情、声名，都没入虚无里。

PS：在搜狐的教育频道看到这首诗被归为“最新作文-初中版”，标明作者是重庆一中学生。我无话可说。但出于原则，我当作“假新闻”投诉了——别人可以对诗歌不严肃，我不能。

[专题]怀念济慈

[B]《灿烂的星》[/B]
于1838年，即济慈逝世十七年后首次发表于一份报纸上。由于济慈在1820年9月赴意大利养病时将它抄在了同行的塞温的一本莎士比亚诗集上，被很多人（包括塞温）看作是济慈的绝笔诗作。但后来发现济慈的朋友布朗有这首诗的另一份抄搞，日期标明“1819年”，故“绝笔”之说被推翻。这是一首有自传因素的诗，表达的是济慈对芳妮·布劳恩的爱情。诗中两种境界互相对照：前八行书写理想中的爱情，高远而圣洁，超越万物；后面六行则写充满情欲的人世爱情，酥软的胸脯、细腻的呼吸、甜蜜的激荡，在死亡的阴影下，人生有限而情意无穷。
[B]Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—[/B]
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
    Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
    Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
    Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
    Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

[B]灿烂的星[/B]
　　灿烂的星！我祈求象你那样坚定－－
　　　但我不愿意高悬夜空，独自
　　辉映，并且永恒地睁着眼睛，
　　　象自然间耐心的、不眠的隐士，
　　不断望着海滔，那大地的神父，
　　　用圣水冲洗人所卜居的岸沿，
　　或者注视飘飞的白雪，象面幕，
　　　灿烂、轻盈，覆盖着洼地和高山－－
　　呵，不，－－我只愿坚定不移地
　　　以头枕在爱人酥软的胸脯上，
　　永远感到它舒缓地降落、升起；
　　　而醒来，心里充满甜蜜的激荡，
　　不断，不断听着她细腻的呼吸，
　　就这样活着，－－或昏迷地死去。

[专题]怀念济慈

[B]《静坐重读<李尔王>有感》[/B]
一首意大利型十四行，写于1818年1月，1838年首次出版。诗中既精辟地评价了《李尔王》所喻示的内涵，又高度概括了莎士比亚的功绩。“你创造了深刻而永恒的主题”一句，更是对莎士比亚作为文学巨匠的功勋的总结。最后，诗人表明了自己的个性：在他被剧情感染得“燃烧”起来时，他只祈求给他“安上凤凰的翅膀”。这实际是指想象的翅膀，灵感的翅膀。而至于如何飞翔，还要由自己来决定。“随我的心儿飞翔”一句正点明了诗人的个性特征和创作原则——在广采博拾地从历代名家的巨著中吸取营养的同时，不是盲目效仿，生搬硬套，而是消化、发挥，从而达到“青出于蓝而胜于蓝”的境地。
[B]On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again[/B]
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
    Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
    Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
    Betwixt d#amnation and impassion';d clay
    Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
    Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
    Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

[B]静坐重读《李尔王》有感[/B]
呵，金嗓子的传奇，幽静的琵琶！
美丽的鲛人！缥缈之境的仙后！
别在冬日啭啼你迷人的歌喉。
合上你古老的卷帙，安静吧：
再见了！我得再一次
在炼狱的煎熬和肉身的激情中求存；
我得再一次尝尝
莎士比亚的这颗苦涩的甘果。
呵，首席诗人！英国天空的云霄！
你始创了深刻而永恒的主题；
我就要进入你的古橡树林了，
可别让我老在梦乡中游荡，
当我被燃烧时，请给我安上
凤凰的翅膀，随我的心儿飞翔。

[专题]怀念济慈

我还有一个同学，喜欢托蒂，所以打发她做值日特别容易，后来我就想，这点值得利用，以后见到喜欢杨晨的就可以打发人家扫地，碰到喜欢谢晖的可以打发人家倒土，嘻嘻。

哈哈，太经典了!!!!!

[专题]怀念济慈

济慈的文笔很好的哦

[专题]怀念济慈

[Greek:
Pharmakon aelthe Bion poti son stoma, pharmakon eides.
Pos teu tois cheilessi potedrame kouk eglukanthae;
Tis de Brotos tossouton anameros ae kerasai toi,
Ae dounai laleonti to pharmakon; ekphugen odan.]
MOSCHUS, EPITAPH.  BION.
It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions were modelled proves at least that I am an impartial judge.  I consider the fragment of Hyperion as second to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years.
John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twenty-fourth year, on the [23rd] of [February] 1821; and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome.  The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies.  It might make one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and, where canker-worms abound, what wonder if its young flower was blighted in the bud?  The savage criticism on his Endymion which appeared in the Quarterly Review produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind.  The agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued; and the succeeding acknowledgments, from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted.
[B]稍微欣赏一下。亲爱的，庆元旦去[/B]

[专题]怀念济慈

QQ新年快乐，大家也是。联欢那天被弄得好惨，蛋糕大战，满身都是奶油，眼镜碎成四片。呼呼，但是很爽。又是新的一年，很快就是成年人了，很期待，不过又经常为自己活了这么大却几乎一无所知而感到羞愧。

[专题]怀念济慈

[这个贴子最后由Aimita在 2005/01/03 11:24pm 第 1 次编辑]

[B]《无情的妖女》[/B]
这首诗的诗名是法文的，原是法国普罗旺斯一支歌曲的名字。诗用民谣形式写成，诗段简洁，用词古朴，节奏简单而富于诱惑力，却不止是讲述民谣中常见的一类故事，而是写得更凄冷、更有魅力，弥漫着一种中世纪情调。有学者推测是受斯宾塞等前人影响；有说可能与济慈和芳妮·布劳恩之间的爱情问题以及弟弟汤姆患结核病去世的影响有关；还有的认为可以看作诗人对于诗歌本身的又热爱又戒惧的心情表现，表现浪漫主义精神的一个方面。诗歌现存两个版本，一版是原稿，附于1819年4月21日给弟弟乔治的信中，另一个是第一次刊印时的版本。普遍认为初稿好于发行版，是出于谁的意愿做出改动，我们不得而知了。
[B]Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci,1819[/B]
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel';s granary is full,
    And the harvest';s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful - a faery';s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
    A faery';s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
    ';I love thee true';.
She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
    With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
    And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
    On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - ';La Belle Dame sans Merci
    Hath thee in thrall!';
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
    On the cold hill';s side.
And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.
  
[B]Published version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1820[/B]
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither';d from the lake,
    And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel';s granary is full,
    And the harvest';s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
    Full beautiful, a faery';s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
    A faery';s song.
I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look';d at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
    I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she gaz';d and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
    So kiss';d to sleep.
And there we slumber';d on the moss,
    And there I dream';d, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream';d
    On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry';d--"La belle Dame sans merci
    Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starv';d lips in the gloam
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
    On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither';d from the lake,
    And no birds sing.
  

[B]无情的妖女[/B]
　　骑士啊，是什么苦恼你
　　独自沮丧地游荡？
　　湖中的芦苇已经枯了，
　　也没有鸟儿歌唱！
　　骑士啊，是什么苦恼你，
　　这般憔悴和悲伤?
　　松鼠的小巢贮满食物，
　　庄稼也都进了谷仓。
　　你的额角白似百合
　　垂挂着热病的露珠，
　　你的面颊像是玫瑰，
　　正在很快地凋枯。——
　　我在草坪上遇见了
　　一个妖女，美似天仙
　　她轻捷、长发，而眼里
　　野性的光芒闪闪。
　　我给她编织过花冠、
　　芬芳的腰带和手镯，
　　她柔声地轻轻太息，
　　仿佛是真心爱我。
　　我带她骑在骏马上．
　　她把脸儿侧对着我．
　　我整日什么都不顾，
　　只听她的妖女之歌。
　　她给采来美味的草根、
　　野蜜、甘露和仙果，
　　她用了一篇奇异的话，
　　说她是真心爱我。
　　她带我到了她的山洞，
　　又是落泪．又是悲叹，
　　我在那儿四次吻着
　　她野性的、野性的眼。
　　我被她迷得睡着了，
　　啊，做了个惊心的噩梦
　　我看见国王和王子
　　也在那妖女的洞中。
　　还有无数的骑士，
　　都苍白得像是骷髅；
　　他们叫道：无情的妖女
　　已把你作了俘囚！
　　在幽暗里，他们的瘪嘴
　　大张着，预告着灾祸；
　　我一觉醒来，看见自己
　　躺在这冰冷的山坡。
　　因此，我就留在这儿，
　　独自沮丧地游荡；
　　虽然湖中的芦苇已枯
　　也没有鸟儿歌唱。

[B]小补充[/B]：1893年，前拉斐尔派画家渥特豪斯受到这首诗的启发，画下他最著名的同名画作。
[img]http://img.valen.sohu.com/photos/67/489367.jpg[/img]

[专题]怀念济慈

刚才在旅游帖里胡侃，忽然有了点奇妙的想法。发现浪漫主义诗人真是很有可比拟性。记得前面贴Adonais的时候说，Byron像Apollo,Shelley像Prometheus,Keats像Adonis;我想如果拿鸟来做比，Byron像雄鹰，Shelley像云雀，Keats像夜莺。感觉比较形象。呵呵，一点随意联想。
进度又慢下来了，下决心，明天把《圣亚尼节前夕》弄出来。

[专题]怀念济慈

[B]《圣亚尼节前夕》[/B]
本诗写于1819年1月下旬。济慈很可能是看日历得来的灵感，因为当时正是圣亚尼节前后。全诗共分42节，378行，用斯宾塞九行体写成。诗人借着圣亚尼节的传说，写了一则类似《罗密欧与朱丽叶》，结局却完全不同的爱情故事——他认为死不是逃避社会逼迫的唯一的出路，人也许无力改变可憎的现实社会，却可以远离这个世道去寻找理想的天地。诗中，济慈揭露了理想的美与残酷现实之间的矛盾，通过场面的对比让人们看到，美好与丑恶是如此接近，甚至美是那样地脆弱，然而这样的对比也更明显地突出了美。诗的结尾，梅德琳和波菲罗奔跑着冲进迷茫的风雪中，正是代表一种对美、对理想坚持不懈的追求。他们以后的命运，诗人却没有交代——准确地说，以他的经历也无法交代。于是这首爱和美的赞歌悬在了半空，给人无限的想象余地，诗人也似乎是要告诉我们，无论结局如何，要去追求——对美好事物的执着追求本身就是一种美。而诗中那个静坐诵经的祈祷者，虽有追求，却是一种虚无的追求，这追求是没有出路的，最终他冻死在圣母像前。
  [B]The Eve of St Agnes[/B]
    St Agnes'; Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
    The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
    The hare limp';d trembling through the frozen grass,
    And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
    Numb were the Beadsman';s fingers, while he told
    His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
    Like pious incense from a censer old,
    Seem';d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin';s picture, while his prayer he saith.
    His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
    Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
    And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
    Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
    The sculptur';d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
    Emprison';d in black, purgatorial rails:
    Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat';ries,
    He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
    Northward he turneth through a little door,
    And scarce three steps, ere Music';s golden tongue
    Flatter';d to tears this aged man and poor;
    But no---already had his deathbell rung
    The joys of all his life were said and sung:
    His was harsh penance on St. Agnes'; Eve:
    Another way he went, and soon among
    Rough ashes sat he for his soul';s reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners'; sake to grieve.
    That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
    And so it chanc';d, for many a door was wide,
    From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
    The silver, snarling trumpets ';gan to chide:
    The level chambers, ready with their pride,
    Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
    The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
    Star';d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
    At length burst in the argent revelry,
    With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
    Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
    The brain, new-stuff';d, in youth, with triumphs gay
    Of old romance. These let us wish away,
    And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
    Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
    On love, and wing';d St Agnes'; saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.
    They told her how, upon St Agnes'; Eve,
    Young virgins might have visions of delight,
    And soft adorings from their loves receive
    Upon the honey';d middle of the night,
    If ceremonies due they did aright;
    As, supperless to bed they must retire,
    And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
    Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
    Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
    The music, yearning like a God in pain,
    She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
    Fix';d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
    Pass by---she heeded not at all: in vain
    Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
    And back retir';d; not cool';d by high disdain,
    But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
She sigh';d for Agnes'; dreams, the sweetest of the year.
    She danc';d along with vague, regardless eyes,
    Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
    The hallow';d hour was near at hand: she sighs
    Amid the timbrels, and the throng';d resort
    Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
    ';Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
    Hoodwink';d with faery fancy; all amort,
    Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
    So, purposing each moment to retire,
    She linger';d still. Meantime, across the moors,
    Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
    For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
    Buttress';d from moonlight, stands he, and implores
    All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
    But for one moment in the tedious hours,
    That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss---in sooth such things have been.
    He ventures in: let no buzz';d whisper tell:
    All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
    Will storm his heart, Love';s fev';rous citadel:
    For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
    Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
    Whose very dogs would execrations howl
    Against his lineage: not one breast affords
    Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
    Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
    Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
    To where he stood, hid from the torch';s flame,
    Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
    The sound of merriment and chorus bland.
    He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
    And grasp';d his fingers in her palsied hand,
    Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
"They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
    "Get hence! get hence! there';s dwarfish Hildebrand;
    He had a fever late, and in the fit
    He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
    Then there';s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
    More tame for his gray hairs---Alas me! flit!
    Flit like a ghost away."---"Ah, gossip dear,
    We';re safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
    And tell me how"---"Good saints! not here, not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."
    He follow';d through a lowly arched way,
    Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
    And as she mutter';d "Well-a---well-a-day!"
    He found him in a little moonlight room,
    Pale, lattic';d, chill, and silent as a tomb.
    "Now tell me where is Madeline", said he,
    "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
    Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
"When they St Agnes'; wool are weaving piously."
    "St Agnes! Ah! it is St Agnes'; Eve---
    Yet men will murder upon holy days:
    Thou must hold water in a witch';s sieve,
    And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays
    To venture so: it fills me with amaze
    To see thee, Porphyro!---St Agnes'; Eve!
    God';s help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
    This very night: good angels her deceive!
But let me laugh awhile, I';ve mickle time to grieve."
    Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
    While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
    Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
    Who keepeth clos';d a wondrous riddle-book,
    As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
    But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
    His lady';s purpose; and he scarce could brook
    Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
    Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
    Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
    Made purple riot: then doth he propose
    A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
    "A cruel man and impious thou art:
    Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
    Alone with her good angels, far apart
    From wicked men like thee. Go, go!---I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."
    "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
    Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne';er find grace
    When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
    If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
    Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
    Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
    Or I will, even in a moment';s space,
    Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen';s ears,
And beard them, though they be more fang';d than wolves and bears."
    "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
    A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
    Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
    Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
    Were never miss';d." Thus plaining, doth she bring
    A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
    So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,
    That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
    Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
    Even to Madeline';s chamber, and there hide
    Him in a closet, of such privacy
    That he might see her beauty unespied,
    And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
    While legion';d fairies pac';d the coverlet,
    And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
    Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
    "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
    "All cates and dainties shall be stored there
    Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
    Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
    For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
    On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
    Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
    The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."
    So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
    The lover';s endless minutes slowly pass';d;
    The Dame return';d, and whisper';d in his ear
    To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
    From fright of dim espial. Safe at last
    Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
    The maiden';s chamber, silken, hush';d and chaste;
    Where Porphyro took covert, pleas';d amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
    Her falt';ring hand upon the balustrade,
    Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
    When Madeline, St Agnes'; charmed maid,
    Rose, like a mission';d spirit, unaware:
    With silver taper';s light, and pious care,
    She turn';d, and down the aged gossip led
    To a safe level matting.  Now prepare,
    Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
She comes, she comes again, like dove fray';d and fled.
    Out went the taper as she hurried in;
    Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
    She closed the door, she panted, all akin
    To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
    No utter';d syllable, or, woe betide!
    But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
    Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
    As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
    A casement high and triple-arch';d there was,
    All garlanded with carven imag';ries
    Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
    And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
    Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
    As are the tiger-moth';s deep-damask';d wings;
    And in the midst, ';mong thousand heraldries,
    And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush';d with blood of queens and kings.
    Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
    And threw warm gules on Madeline';s fair breast,
    As down she knelt for heaven';s grace and boon;
    Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
    And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
    And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
    She seem';d a splendid angel, newly drest,
    Save wings, for heaven:---Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
    Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
    Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
    Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
    Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
    Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
    Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
    Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
    In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
    Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
    In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex';d she lay,
    Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress';d
    Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
    Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
     Blissfully haven';d both from joy and pain;
    Clasp';d like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
    Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
    Stol';n to this paradise, and so entranced,
    Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
    And listen';d to her breathing, if it chanced
    To wake into a slumbrous tenderness;
    Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
    And breath';d himself: then from the closet crept,
    Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
    And over the hush';d carpet, silent, stept,
And ';tween the curtains peep';d, where, lo!---how fast she slept!
    Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
    Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
    A table, and, half anguish';d, threw thereon
    A doth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:---
    O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
    The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
    The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
    Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:---
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
    And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
    In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender';d,
    While he from forth the closet brought a heap
    Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
    With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
    And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
    Manna and dates, in argosy transferr';d
    From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar';d Lebanon.
    These delicates he heap';d with glowing hand
    On golden dishes and in baskets bright
    Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
    In the retired quiet of the night,
    Filling the chilly room with perfume light.---
    "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
    Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
    Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes'; sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."
    Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
    Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
    By the dusk curtains:---';twas a midnight charm
    Impossible to melt as iced stream:
    The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
    Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
    It seem';d he never, never could redeem
    From such a stedfast spell his lady';s eyes;
So mus';d awhile, entoil';d in woofed phantasies.
    Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,---
    Tumultuous,---and, in chords that tenderest be,
    He play';d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
    In Provence call';d, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
    Close to her ear touching the melody:---
    Wherewith disturb';d, she utter';d a soft moan:
    He ceased---she panted quick---and suddenly
    Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
    Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
    Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
    There was a painful change, that nigh expell';d
    The blisses of her dream so pure and deep,
    At which fair Madeline began to weep,
    And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
    While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
    Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look';d so dreamingly.
    "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
    Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
    Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
    And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
    How chang';d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
    Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
    Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
    Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."
    Beyond a mortal man impassion';d far
    At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
    Ethereal, flush';d, and like a throbbing star
    Seen mid the sapphire heaven';s deep repose
    Into her dream he melted, as the rose
    Blendeth its odour with the violet,---
    Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
    Like Love';s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St Agnes'; moon hath set.
    Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
    "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
    ';Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
    "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
    Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.---
    Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
    I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
    Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;---
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."
    "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
    Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
    Thy beauty';s shield, heart-shap';d and vermeil dyed?
    Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
    After so many hours of toil and quest,
    A famish';d pilgrim,---saved by miracle.
    Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
    Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think';st well
    To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
    "Hark! ';tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
    Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
    Arise---arise! the morning is at hand;---
    The bloated wassailers will never heed:---
    Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
    There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,---
    Drown';d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
    Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o';er the southern moors I have a home for thee."
    She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
    For there were sleeping dragons all around,
    At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears---
    Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.---
    In all the house was heard no human sound.
    A chain-droop';d lamp was flickering by each door;
    The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
    Flutter';d in the besieging wind';s uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
    They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
    Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
    Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
    With a huge empty flagon by his side:
    The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
    But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
    By one, and one, the bolts fill easy slide:---
    The chains lie silent on the footworn stones,---
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
    And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
    These lovers fled away into the storm.
    That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
    And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
    Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
    Were long be-nightmar';d. Angela the old
    Died palsy-twitch';d, with meagre face deform;
    The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

[B]小常识[/B]：圣亚尼节因戴克里先统治时期（公元四世纪）罗马著名的殉道者St.Agnes而得名。十三岁时，她承受火烧，铁钩之苦和其他可怕的折磨，仍不放弃自己的信仰。她对执行斩首的人说：“我的血会沾在你的刀上，但你永远不可以玷污我已奉献给基督的身体。”然后，她便前去受刑的地方。她的童贞感动上苍，死刑前雷电交加。在她死后8天，她的父母去拜祭她的墓地时，听到了天使降临的歌声，天使中包括他们的女儿，身旁伴着一只绵羊。
圣亚尼节在每年的1月21日。民间流传着这样的习俗：在圣亚尼节前夜（1月20日），姑娘们必须规规矩矩地遵守仪式，虔诚地祈祷，不吃晚餐就上床睡觉，洁白的玉体一丝不挂地仰卧床上，这样，到了午夜，她们的床前就会摆满仙果，她们就可看见自己的未来的丈夫的模样。

PS：马上就到圣亚尼节了，有没有人想试一下？听起来很有意思呀。我在MSN上的注册名就是Madeline,then,who';s my Porphyro? ^^

[专题]怀念济慈

aimita要18了吗？
昨天聊天的时候就突然怕起来，等年龄真的是2字开头的时候不知道是不是要每天哭了。
女人的青春在25就开始结束了，我已经过了大半，可是生命还没有值得记忆的灿烂呢。

[专题]怀念济慈

还有11个月，尽管不算很久，我却开始有些迫不及待了。成年啊，一直以来于我就是一件值得向往的事情。尽管18岁不过是个标志，对于那些大人来说，甚至不是一件严肃的事情——依然当我是小孩子，只有对我有所要求的时候，才会以“你已经是成年人了”来提醒我应尽的义务，而成年人的权利，却始终不会给我。我知道是这样的，但是，18岁，听起来都会让人变得更坚定一点呢。2字开头才哪里到哪里，女人四十还一支花呢，那是真正有价值的一段时光，生理上的青春即将结束，而人生的青春才刚刚萌芽。如果能做选择，我也不会回到无忧无虑的童年去享受无知和依赖带来的快乐，我会选择继续走下去。因为，童年是婆婆口中的童话故事，而壮年是一首诗啊，或者华美，或者朴素，或者厚重，或者恬淡，生命的戏剧在上演，让我们来贡献一首诗吧！

[专题]怀念济慈

[B]《伊莎贝拉》[/B]
本诗完成于1818年4月27日，由六十三个八行体诗节组成，共五百零四行，取材于薄伽丘的《十日谈》中第四日第五个故事。这是一个爱情悲剧故事，描写两个天真无邪的男女青年之间至死不渝的纯真爱情。济慈以主人公伊莎贝拉的名字作为诗的标题，又以故事中主要的道具“罗勒花盆”作为诗的副标题。由于薄伽丘的故事简短，缺乏细节，诗人进行了大量的充实、润色，也做了一些改动和增补。例如，诗中伊莎贝拉只有两个哥哥，而薄伽丘的作品中则有三个；故事发生的地点改在佛罗伦萨而不是原著中的墨西拿。全诗情节安排得十分紧凑，主题突出，故事叙述得悲切感人，尤其是济慈自己增补的生动细节，大大地加深了故事的含意，提高了思想和艺术的效果。诗中反映了意大利文艺复兴时期人文主义的进步思想，表达了诗人对不掺杂任何私心杂念、不涉及任何物质条件的爱的歌颂和对封建贵族和资产阶级所信奉的等级制度的蔑视和嘲弄，体现了诗人的民主主义思想倾向。无论是语言上还是思想上，都有着济慈独特的风格。评论家一致认为，这是济慈诗歌创作的一个重要的发展阶段，标志着诗人的诗艺更加成熟，更加精湛。但诗中仍然存在着过分的修饰与压抑，尚为完全做到表达上的自我控制和清晰明朗，与他日后的作品还有一定的差距。

[B]Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil
A Story from Boccaccio[/B]
I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
   Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love';s eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
   Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
    It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
II.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
   With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
   But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
   To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
III.
He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
   Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
   Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
   Because her face was turn';d to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
IV.
A whole long month of May in this sad plight
   Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:
"To morrow will I bow to my delight,
   "To-morrow will I ask my lady';s boon."--
"O may I never see another night,
   "Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love';s tune."--
So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,
Honeyless days and days did he let pass;
V.
Until sweet Isabella';s untouch';d cheek
   Fell sick within the rose';s just domain,
Fell thin as a young mother';s, who doth seek
   By every lull to cool her infant';s pain:
"How ill she is," said he, "I may not speak,
   "And yet I will, and tell my love all plain:
"If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,
"And at the least ';twill startle off her cares."
VI.
So said he one fair morning, and all day
   His heart beat awfully against his side;
And to his heart he inwardly did pray
   For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide
Stifled his voice, and puls';d resolve away--
   Fever';d his high conceit of such a bride,
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!
VII.
So once more he had wak';d and anguished
   A dreary night of love and misery,
If Isabel';s quick eye had not been wed
   To every symbol on his forehead high;
She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
   And straight all flush';d; so, lisped tenderly,
"Lorenzo!"--here she ceas';d her timid quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.
VIII.
"O Isabella, I can half perceive
   "That I may speak my grief into thine ear;
"If thou didst ever any thing believe,
   "Believe how I love thee, believe how near
"My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve
   "Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear
"Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live
"Another night, and not my passion shrive.
IX.
"Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,
   "Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,
"And I must taste the blossoms that unfold
   "In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time."
So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,
   And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme:
Great bliss was with them, and great happiness
Grew, like a lusty flower in June';s caress.
X.
Parting they seem';d to tread upon the air,
   Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart
Only to meet again more close, and share
   The inward fragrance of each other';s heart.
She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
   Sang, of delicious love and honey';d dart;
He with light steps went up a western hill,
And bade the sun farewell, and joy';d his fill.
XI.
All close they met again, before the dusk
   Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
All close they met, all eves, before the dusk
   Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
   Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.
Ah! better had it been for ever so,
Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.
XII.
Were they unhappy then?--It cannot be--
Too many tears for lovers have been shed,
Too many sighs give we to them in fee,
Too much of pity after they are dead,
Too many doleful stories do we see,
Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;
Except in such a page where Theseus'; spouse
Over the pathless waves towards him bows.
XIII.
But, for the general award of love,
The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;
Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
And Isabella';s was a great distress,
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove
Was not embalm';d, this truth is not the less--
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
XIV.
With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enriched from ancestral merchandize,
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories,
And many once proud-quiver';d loins did melt
In blood from stinging whip;--with hollow eyes
Many all day in dazzling river stood,
To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.
XV.
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark;
For them his ears gush';d blood; for them in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark
Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:
Half-ignorant, they turn';d an easy wheel,
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.
XVI.
Why were they proud? Because their marble founts
Gush';d with more pride than do a wretch';s tears?--
Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?--
Why were they proud? Because red-lin';d accounts
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?--
Why were they proud? again we ask aloud,
Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
XVII.
Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies,
The hawks of ship-mast forests--the untired
And pannier';d mules for ducats and old lies--
Quick cat';s-paws on the generous stray-away,--
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.
XVIII.
How was it these same ledger-men could spy
Fair Isabella in her downy nest?
How could they find out in Lorenzo';s eye
A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt';s pest
Into their vision covetous and sly!
How could these money-bags see east and west?--
Yet so they did--and every dealer fair
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.
XIX.
O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!
Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,
And of thy roses amorous of the moon,
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow
Now they can no more hear thy ghittern';s tune,
For venturing syllables that ill beseem
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.
XX.
Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;
There is no other crime, no mad assail
To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet:
But it is done--succeed the verse or fail--
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung.
XXI.
These brethren having found by many signs
What love Lorenzo for their sister had,
And how she lov';d him too, each unconfines
His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad
That he, the servant of their trade designs,
Should in their sister';s love be blithe and glad,
When ';twas their plan to coax her by degrees
To some high noble and his olive-trees.
XXII.
And many a jealous conference had they,
And many times they bit their lips alone,
Before they fix';d upon a surest way
To make the youngster for his crime atone;
And at the last, these men of cruel clay
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;
For they resolved in some forest dim
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.
XXIII.
So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
Into the sun-rise, o';er the balustrade
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent
Their footing through the dews; and to him said,
"You seem there in the quiet of content,
"Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade
"Calm speculation; but if you are wise,
"Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.
XXIV.
"To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount
"To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;
"Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count
"His dewy rosary on the eglantine."
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,
Bow';d a fair greeting to these serpents'; whine;
And went in haste, to get in readiness,
With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman';s dress.
XXV.
And as he to the court-yard pass';d along,
Each third step did he pause, and listen';d oft
If he could hear his lady';s matin-song,
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;
And as he thus over his passion hung,
He heard a laugh full musical aloft;
When, looking up, he saw her features bright
Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.
XXVI.
"Love, Isabel!" said he, "I was in pain
"Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow:
"Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain
"I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow
"Of a poor three hours'; absence? but we';ll gain
"Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.
"Good bye! I';ll soon be back."--"Good bye!" said she:--
And as he went she chanted merrily.
XXVII.
So the two brothers and their murder';d man
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno';s stream
Gurgles through straiten';d banks, and still doth fan
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream
Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan
The brothers'; faces in the ford did seem,
Lorenzo';s flush with love.--They pass';d the water
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
XXVIII.
There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,
There in that forest did his great love cease;
Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,
It aches in loneliness--is ill at peace
As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin:
They dipp';d their swords in the water, and did tease
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,
Each richer by his being a murderer.
XXIX.
They told their sister how, with sudden speed,
Lorenzo had ta';en ship for foreign lands,
Because of some great urgency and need
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.
Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow';s weed,
And ';scape at once from Hope';s accursed bands;
To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,
And the next day will be a day of sorrow.
XXX.
She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;
Sorely she wept until the night came on,
And then, instead of love, O misery!
She brooded o';er the luxury alone:
His image in the dusk she seem';d to see,
And to the silence made a gentle moan,
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,
And on her couch low murmuring, "Where? O where?"
XXXI.
But Selfishness, Love';s cousin, held not long
Its fiery vigil in her single breast;
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung
Upon the time with feverish unrest--
Not long--for soon into her heart a throng
Of higher occupants, a richer zest,
Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,
And sorrow for her love in travels rude.
XXXII.
In the mid days of autumn, on their eves
The breath of Winter comes from far away,
And the sick west continually bereaves
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
Of death among the bushes and the leaves,
To make all bare before he dares to stray
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel
By gradual decay from beauty fell,
XXXIII.
Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes
She ask';d her brothers, with an eye all pale,
Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes
Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale
Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes
Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom';s vale;
And every night in dreams they groan';d aloud,
To see their sister in her snowy shroud.
XXXIV.
And she had died in drowsy ignorance,
But for a thing more deadly dark than all;
It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,
Which saves a sick man from the feather';d pall
For some few gasping moments; like a lance,
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall
With cruel pierce, and bringing him again
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.
XXXV.
It was a vision.--In the drowsy gloom,
The dull of midnight, at her couch';s foot
Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb
Had marr';d his glossy hair which once could shoot
Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears
Had made a miry channel for his tears.
XXXVI.
Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,
To speak as when on earth it was awake,
And Isabella on its music hung:
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
As in a palsied Druid';s harp unstrung;
And through it moan';d a ghostly under-song,
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.
XXXVII.
Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof
From the poor girl by magic of their light,
The while it did unthread the horrid woof
Of the late darken';d time,--the murderous spite
Of pride and avarice,--the dark pine roof
In the forest,--and the sodden turfed dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.
XXXVIII.
Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet!
"Red whortle-berries droop above my head,
"And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
"Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed
"Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
"Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
"Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
"And it shall comfort me within the tomb.
XXXIX.
"I am a shadow now, alas! alas!
"Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling
"Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,
"While little sounds of life are round me knelling,
"And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,
"And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,
"Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me,
"And thou art distant in Humanity.
XL.
"I know what was, I feel full well what is,
"And I should rage, if spirits could go mad;
"Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,
"That paleness warms my grave, as though I had
"A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss
"To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad;
"Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel
"A greater love through all my essence steal."
XLI.
The Spirit mourn';d "Adieu!"--dissolv';d, and left
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,
And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:
It made sad Isabella';s eyelids ache,
And in the dawn she started up awake;
XLII.
"Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this hard life,
"I thought the worst was simple misery;
"I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife
"Portion';d us--happy days, or else to die;
"But there is crime--a brother';s bloody knife!
"Sweet Spirit, thou hast school';d my infancy:
"I';ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,
"And greet thee morn and even in the skies."
XLIII.
When the full morning came, she had devised
How she might secret to the forest hie;
How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
And sing to it one latest lullaby;
How her short absence might be unsurmised,
While she the inmost of the dream would try.
Resolv';d, she took with her an aged nurse,
And went into that dismal forest-hearse.
XLIV.
See, as they creep along the river side,
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife.--"What feverous hectic flame
"Burns in thee, child?--What good can thee betide,
"That thou should';st smile again?"--The evening came,
And they had found Lorenzo';s earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.
XLV.
Who hath not loiter';d in a green church-yard,
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,
To see skull, coffin';d bones, and funeral stole;
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr';d,
And filling it once more with human soul?
Ah! this is holiday to what was felt
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.
XLVI.
She gaz';d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
One glance did fully all its secrets tell;
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
Upon the murderous spot she seem';d to grow,
Like to a native lily of the dell:
Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
To dig more fervently than misers can.
XLVII.
Soon she turn';d up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play';d in purple phantasies,
She kiss';d it with a lip more chill than stone,
And put it in her bosom, where it dries
And freezes utterly unto the bone
Those dainties made to still an infant';s cries:
Then ';gan she work again; nor stay';d her care,
But to throw back at times her veiling hair.
XLVIII.
That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core
At sight of such a dismal labouring,
And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:
Three hours they labour';d at this travail sore;
At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
And Isabella did not stamp and rave.
XLIX.
Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?
Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?
O for the gentleness of old Romance,
The simple plaining of a minstrel';s song!
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
For here, in truth, it doth not well belong
To speak:--O turn thee to the very tale,
And taste the music of that vision pale.
L.
With duller steel than the Persèan sword
They cut away no formless monster';s head,
But one, whose gentleness did well accord
With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord:
If Love impersonate was ever dead,
Pale Isabella kiss';d it, and low moan';d.
';Twas love; cold,--dead indeed, but not dethroned.
LI.
In anxious secrecy they took it home,
And then the prize was all for Isabel:
She calm';d its wild hair with a golden comb,
And all around each eye';s sepulchral cell
Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
She drench';d away:--and still she comb';d, and kept
Sighing all day--and still she kiss';d, and wept.
LII.
Then in a silken scarf,--sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck';d in Araby,
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully,--
She wrapp';d it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,
And cover';d it with mould, and o';er it set
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
LIII.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten';d it with tears unto the core.
LIV.
And so she ever fed it with thin tears,
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers
Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew
Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,
From the fast mouldering head there shut from view:
So that the jewel, safely casketed,
Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.
LV.
O Melancholy, linger here awhile!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us--O sigh!
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;
Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.
LVI.
Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!
Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
And touch the strings into a mystery;
Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;
For simple Isabel is soon to be
Among the dead: She withers, like a palm
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.
LVII.
O leave the palm to wither by itself;
Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!--
It may not be--those Baalites of pelf,
Her brethren, noted the continual shower
From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,
Among her kindred, wonder';d that such dower
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside
By one mark';d out to be a Noble';s bride.
LVIII.
And, furthermore, her brethren wonder';d much
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,
And why it flourish';d, as by magic touch;
Greatly they wonder';d what the thing might mean:
They could not surely give belief, that such
A very nothing would have power to wean
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,
And even remembrance of her love';s delay.
LIX.
Therefore they watch';d a time when they might sift
This hidden whim; and long they watch';d in vain;
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain;
And when she left, she hurried back, as swift
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again;
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.
LX.
Yet they contriv';d to steal the Basil-pot,
And to examine it in secret place:
The thing was vile with green and livid spot,
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo';s face:
The guerdon of their murder they had got,
And so left Florence in a moment';s space,
Never to turn again.--Away they went,
With blood upon their heads, to banishment.
LXI.
O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, on some other day,
From isles Lethean, sigh to us--O sigh!
Spirits of grief, sing not your "Well-a-way!"
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;
Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
Now they have ta';en away her Basil sweet.
LXII.
Piteous she look';d on dead and senseless things,
Asking for her lost Basil amorously:
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
To ask him where her Basil was; and why
';Twas hid from her: "For cruel ';tis," said she,
"To steal my Basil-pot away from me."
LXIII.
And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
In pity of her love, so overcast.
And a sad ditty of this story born
From mouth to mouth through all the country pass';d:
Still is the burthen sung--"O cruelty,
"To steal my Basil-pot away from me!"

[专题]怀念济慈

我竟然让它沉掉了。我怎么可以让它沉掉……
englishhistory忽然坏掉了，在Byron生日的前一天。Marilee做了7年的网站，今年是第8年了。她那么用心，为什么会这样呢。为什么这样……
想起来有点难过，没有心情继续下去。
明天开始，重新振作。
晚安，Keats.

[b]《闲适颂》[/b]
（通译《惰颂》，我却独爱傅延修先生的译法，尽管不甚准确，但更有诗意）
写于1819年3月，按年代顺序，是济慈的六大颂歌之首。全诗由六个十行体诗节组成，五音步抑扬格，每节前四行使用交叉韵（abab），后六行韵脚安排稍有变动（第一、二、四、五节均为cdecde,第三节为cdedce，第六节为cdeced）。它讲述的故事很简单—— 一个年轻人懒散地打发着令人昏昏欲睡的夏日清晨，却被[b]爱[/b]、[b]雄心[/b]与[b]诗歌[/b]的幻影所打搅。他因为渴望追随他们的影子而忙忙碌碌，最终发觉夏日清晨懒散的诱惑，超出了[b]爱[/b]、[b]雄心[/b]与[b]诗歌[/b]对他的诱惑。
死亡的痛苦是济慈颂歌中一个重要的主题：人生不可避免的变故、结束所带来的痛苦与挫败感，同艺术的持久不朽形成鲜明对比，贯穿于他的诗篇中。在这首颂歌中，诗人的懒散似乎企图在不经意间模糊世界的界限，短暂的人生就不会显得过于痛苦难忍。诗人拒绝追随那些影子，因为它们要求他用一种过于紧张的方式去体验生活，并控制着通向生命必然结局的前途——爱究竟是什么，它在哪里；雄心壮志总是在死后才得以实现；而不朽的诗歌威胁着他的闲适安宁，催促他加速燃烧有限的生命。相比之下，眼前令人愉快的麻木状态也许更为可取，更为美好。由此，我们可以看出诗人消极避世的感情色彩。
《闲适颂》虽是诗人所作颂歌中评价最低的一首，却为其他五大颂歌在主题与意象上的探索照亮了道路，并对此有了初步的涉及：每首颂歌中诗人都会面对一些神的影像，通常是位女神——在《闲适颂》中有三位；从诗中对夏日风景的描绘，可以预见《心灵颂》中那些虚无缥渺之景的创造；对麻木的体验，预示着后来《夜莺颂》中美感的麻木以及《忧郁颂》中痛苦的麻木；画眉鸟的鸣叫预示了以后的夜莺和《秋颂》中的燕子；影像希腊式的服装以及瓮式的排列方式预示了《希腊古翁颂》，也回应了较早时的诗作《观埃尔金大理石雕有感》（第一段结尾提到"Phidian lore"，而菲底亚斯(Phidias)正是埃尔金大理石雕的作者）——其中诗人面对一些古希腊雕塑品，感觉到自己被自己的必然死亡击败；诗歌的结尾，尽管诗人表示拒绝，但影子的持续骚扰以及诗人热情洋溢的回答表明他还是不得不从舒适的草坪中抬起头来，更直接地面对它们，这种对质在其他五大颂歌中体现为诗人挣扎于创造力、死亡、想象力和艺术带来的困苦中。
由此看来，《闲适颂》更象是其它五首颂歌的序言。它对爱、雄心或艺术本身并没有何等戏剧性的探索，但它华美的语言，以及诗人在诱惑与拒绝之间的摇摆不定，预示着更为完整、深刻，更为激烈的探索即将到来。只是现在，诗人更愿意让那些影像消失，留他独自享受这懒散麻木的梦境。



[b]Ode on Indolence[/b]

             They toil not, neither do they spin.

                          I.

        One morn before me were three figures seen,
          With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
        And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
          In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
        They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn
          When shifted round to see the other side;
            They came again, as, when the urn once more
        Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
          And they were strange to me, as may betide
            With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

                         II.

        How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
          How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
        Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
          To steal away, and leave without a task
        My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
          The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
            Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
        Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:
          O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
            Unhaunted quite of all but-nothingness?

                        III.

        A third time came they by;- alas! wherefore?
          My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
        My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
          With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
        The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
          Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
            The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine,
        Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
          O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
            Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

                         IV.

        A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
          Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
        Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
          And ach'd for wings because I knew the three;
        The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
          The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
            And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
        The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
          Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,-
            I knew to be my demon Poesy.

                          V.

        They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
          O folly! What is love! and where is it?
        And for that poor Ambition! it springs
          From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;
        For Poesy!- no,- she has not a joy,-
          At least for me,- so sweet as drowsy noons,
            And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
        O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
          That I may never know how change the moons,
            Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

                         VI.

        So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
          My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
        For I would not be dieted with praise,
          A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
        Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
          In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
            Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
        And for the day faint visions there is store;
            Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
          Into the clouds, and never more return!


[b]小链接[/b]:[url=http://news.hongen.com/news/show_33_2230.html][u]关于音节、音步、格律等[/u][/url]

[[i] Last edited by Aimita on 2005-6-18 at 09:17 PM [/i]]

“次年二月便客死罗马，年仅25岁。三天后，济慈被葬在罗马英国新教徒公墓……”
——呵呵，第一次听到这个名字是小学的时候看《罗马假日》天使和记者在争：“是济慈的诗！”
:)
很甜美

虽然我更欣赏叶芝和乔伊斯，但同样对济慈表示敬意！他是一位真正的诗人！

既然Jane在影音把镇坛双坑之一给顶起来了，我索性厚着脸皮把之二也弄上来。

的确是厚着脸皮。不得不承认这是我的耻辱。它活生生地戳在这里嘲笑着我的没长性。

算是小更新吧，贴些我关于Keats的收藏。如果我顺利逃脱了懒惰的魔掌，就会把这帖继续下去的。

[[i] 本帖最后由 Aimita 于 2006-7-27 06:00 PM 编辑 [/i]]

还有本书信集我不知道放哪里去了
找到了再贴上来

永远,永远想念这位用水写成的伟大诗人.