生’’’’詩
’’’心對’’詩’’’說
不’’’’’韻’’’我’
“生’’’’場’虛’夢’”
’爲’睡’’魂’’’’
’’’’’’實’’’’
生’’’實’’生’’’’’’
生’’目標不’’墓’
’魂不’’樣說’
“’本塵’’終’塵’”’
’樂’’’’
不’我們’’’目標’’路’
’有’動’我們
’天比’天’’’
藝’’漫’’’’間’飛’’
儘管我們’心’健’敢’
’而’像’音’’’鼓’
正’打著’樂走’’墓’
’’’’闊’戰場’
’生’’’營’
不’做’’’趕’蠢’’
做’個鬥’’’雄’
不管未’’’’’不’’賴它’
讓’’’’’葬’’’
’動’’’’生生’’’’動’
心’內’’’’’
偉’們’’生提醒我們’
我們’’’’’生’高’
我們離’’’’’間’’’’
’’我們’’’’
’’’’’’’’個’
’’生’莊’’’’’
’’翻’船’’’’’’
見’’’’’’’’’’’’
那麽讓我們’’’’’
做’’接’種’’’準備’
我們仍’成’’仍’’’’
學’勞動’學’等’’
’
|
A Psalm of Life
WHAT
THE HEART OF THE YOUNG
MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST
Tell me
not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem
Life is
real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not
enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day
Art is
long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the
world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust
no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives
of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us,
then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait |
|
’’’’
’’’’’’’樹’’
有’’’’’’’
’’’個’壯’’’’
’雙’手’’壯’
’’雄健’’’’’
’肉’像’’樣’
’’’’’捲曲’’’黑’’’
還有個竭’’’’’
’’’毛’’誠實’’’
’掙’’掙’錢’
’敢面對整個’’’
’爲’對誰’不欠賬’
’’’’’’’早’晚’
’都’聽見’’風’’’’
’’聽見’’揮動’重’’錘’
’’而’’’’’打著’
’像’’陽’’’’候’
’’教堂’打鍾’’’鍾’樣’
’’們’學’’’
’敞’’’’裏’望’
’們’’’著’’’熔’’
’們’聽’著’風’’
’們’’’’’’’’
那’’’像打’場’’殼’飛揚’
’期天’’教堂’’
坐’’’’們中央’
傾聽’’’’禱’傳’’
傾聽’’’’’
’’’唱詩’裏唱’’’音’
’’’心情舒’’
’覺’’’’’’’’
’像’’母親’天堂裏’唱’
’’’’’’’’’
不’’’’墓休’’’樣’
’’’用粗’’手’
’’眼裏’’’’
勞累’’’樂’’’傷
’生中’’’’’’
’天早晨’’著’’’’’
’天晚’’’著它結’’
有’’’’劃’有’’’完成’’
’’’’’’’’’’詳’
’謝’’謝’’我’’’’友’
謝謝’給我’’’課’
’’樣’著’’’’生熔’裏’
’’’’煉’我們’’’’
’樣鏗鏘’’’’’’’
’’’’’’個’’’’’’’’’
’
|
The Village Blacksmith
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,
Has 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! |
|
’羅’裏維爾’馬’
聽’’’們’’們’聽’’
’羅’裏維爾’’’馬’’
’五’’月’’日’
’’’著’’’’’有’個
’’’’個著’’日’’’’’
’對’友說’“’’今’’國’
’’裏由’’’陸路’我們’攻’
’’’教堂樓頂’鐘塔’’’’
’’’籠’爲’號’’’
’’由陸路’’’’盞’
’’由’’’’’’盞’
我’對’’’’準備’
’馬傳播警報’’
傳’米’爾塞’斯’’’個’莊’’場’
讓’’們’’’’’’器’”
’’’說’“晚’’”
’’布’’槳’’劃’’爾斯敦’邊’
’’’’月’’’’升’’
’’’’停’’’’’’’
’’國薩’塞’號’艦’
’’’艘鬼船’’’’’’檣
’像’監獄’橫’’’月’’
’’’個巨’’黑塊’
’’’’’’潮裏’倒’而膨脹’
’’’’’’’’友’’’街’’’
’’走動’豎’耳朵’切’監視著’
’’’’圍’籟俱’中’’聽’
’’’’營’’集中’’’’
’器’’’’’’’’們踏著整齊’’’’
’’’’邊船隊’’’’
’’’’’老’教堂’塔樓’邊’
順著木樓梯’’手’’’
走’’面’鐘塔裏
棲’’’’椽木’’’’
’驚飛’’’’’圍亂成’’’
’見’’’飛動’
順著’’’’’’高’’’樓梯’
’’’牆’最高’窗戶’
’那裏’停’傾聽’朝’’’
’’’’’’’頂’
’著月’’’’’’’
’’’教堂墓’裏躺著’’’
還有’’’’們’’營’
’’’籟俱’’’止不動’
’’’’聽’警覺’’風
像’踏著哨’’’’’
偷偷’’’個’’走’’’個’’’
’’’’’’說’“平’’’’”
那’’’有’’覺’’間’’’’’’’
’覺’’’’塔樓’’’’藏’’懼’
’爲’’間’’’’
’部集中’遠方’’個’’’’
那’’’’變’’’’’接’’方’
’’漲’潮’裏’’條黑’’飄’’
’像’’’船’’橋樑’
’’’對’’’羅’裏維爾’
’忙’馬’’著馬’’著馬’’
踏著’重’’伐走著’
’而’’’馬側’
’而’著遠’’’’’
’’’’’’面’踩’
轉身收緊馬’腹’’
’’’’還’’切’監視著
老’教堂’鐘樓’
鐘樓高’’’’’墓’’’
’’’’止’’’’’像’’’’
’’’’’塔樓頂’
’絲’’’接著’’’’’
’’’’’轉’馬勒’
’’’’’’’視著’
’’完’’’塔樓裏’’第’盞’’
’’’’街’’馬蹄’’
月’’’個身’’黑’中’團’’’
’’’匹’馬’’而輕快’飛馳而’
’’’石’’’’’’’
’辦’’’’’’那天晚’國’’’’
’’著馬’’黑’見’’’’
那飛馳’’馬踢’’’’’
’熱’足’’’’’’’’’’’
’離’’’’’’’’’’
’’’面’梅斯蒂’’’’潮匯’’
’’’’面’’’’’闊’
’那’環繞’邊’赤楊樹’’
’聽’’’坐’馬蹄’’’
’而輕輕踏’’’’’
’而’’石’’’’
’裏’鍾’’’’’’
’’’’橋’’麥’福’’圍’
’聽’鐘’’噹’
’聽’’夫’’’’’
太陽’’之’’
’’’覺’’’薄霧’濕’’
’裏’鐘’’’’’’
’’’飛馳’’’’’敦’區’
當’’’’’’’鍍’’風’雞
’月’裏轉’轉’’
’議’’窗戶’’’蕩蕩’
緊’著’’’’’’’’’’
面對’’擔’’’’’’’
它們’’’’’’’’’
’裏’鐘’’’’’
’’’’’’’’’’橋’’
’聽’羊’’’’
’樹間’鳥鳴’
晨風’’’黃’’’’
’’’’風’’’’
’本’’睡’’’’’’’
’’’’’’’橋邊第’個倒’’’
’’’’’國’’’’’’’’’
’’那天躺’’’’
’們’’’’’生’’’
’’們讀’’’裏’
’’’’國正’’’’’’’’’’’’
’夫們’’’堵’’’’
’’’個’’’牆’’
’’’’’們’’’還擊
’們把’’’’趕’’’’
接著’’’田野重’’’’
’路邊’’’’樹’’
’們停’’裝’藥’
’羅’裏維爾’整’都’樣’著馬’’
’整’都’聽’’’喊’’
喊’’個米’爾塞’斯’’莊’’場’
那’蔑視’喊’’不’’’’’號’
那’黑’中’’音’’’’’’音’
那’’個’永遠産生’鳴’詞’
’爲’’’’風載著’個詞’
’歷’我們’’部歷’’’最’’辰’
’黑’中’’’’’’’需’’’
’們’醒’傾聽那’馬’’’馬蹄’
’’羅’裏維爾’’’報’’
’ |
Paul Revere's Ride
Listen,
my children, and you shall hear
Of the
midnight
ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
’
He said
to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town tonight,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the
Charlestown
shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
’
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
’
Then he
climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
’
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy- something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,-
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
’
On the
opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
’
A hurry
of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
’
He has
left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
’
It was
twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into
Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
’
It was
two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge -would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
’
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road.
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoofbeats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. |