叶芝Yeats《Under Ben Bulben》（本布尔本山下）或译为（班磅礴山麓下）

PhoenixChee

突然看到了叶芝的墓志铭

        

是他诗歌中的一句话

   

觉得充满对生活热血沸腾的高傲

   ：

对生活，对死亡

      
投去冷冷的一瞥

      
骑士啊

      
向前

Cast a cold eye
         

On life, on death.
   

Horseman, pass by!

  

      

在本布尔山下


1

凭着围绕马理奥提克的轻波的
那些圣人所说的一切，起誓说，
阿特勒斯的女巫确确实实知道，
讲了出来，还让一只只鸡叫。
凭着那些骑士、女人——体形和肤色
都证明了他们真是超人，起誓说，
脸色苍白、面容瘦长的伴侣，
永远、永远充满了生机的空气，
赢得了他们激情的完整；
此刻，他们疾驶在冬日的黎明，
本布尔本山是他们身后的景致。

这些，是他们想说的要旨。

2

许多次，一个人死，一个人生
在他们那两个来世之中，
民族的来世，灵魂的来世，
古老的爱尔兰熟悉这一切．
无论人是死在他的床上，
或送他命的是一声枪响，
与亲爱的人们的暂时分离
是人都恐惧的最糟的事。
虽然挖坟者的劳作悠长，
他们的铁锹锋利，肌肉强壮，
他们只是把他们埋葬的人
重新推进了人类的思想中。

3

你听到过米切尔的祷告声声：
“主呵，结我们的时代带来战争！”
你知道，当一切话儿都已说完，
而一个人正在疯狂地鏖战，
从早巳瞎的眼睛里落下了什么，
他完整了他不完整的思索．
于是有一会儿站得消停，
高声大笑，心里一片宁静。
甚至最聪明的人在使命实现、
工作认识、伙伴选择之前，
也全因为某种暴力行为，
心里总是感到那么惴惴。

4

诗人和雕塑家，干你们的工作，
别让那种时髦的画家一味去躲
他的伟大的祖先曾做过的事，
把人的灵魂给上帝带去，
使他把摇篮正确地填好。

衡量开始了我们的力量，
——个典型的埃及人把形状思想，
温和的费迪阿斯做出的形状。
在西斯汀教堂的屋顶中，
米开朗琪罗留下了证明；
那里，只是一个半醒的亚当
就能够使走遍地球的女人惶惶，
最后她的内心一片激情洋溢，
证明有一个预先确定的目的，
在那秘密工作的思想之前，
人类的完美实际上平凡。

十五世纪的意大利的大师，
设计上帝和圣人的背景时，
总画着花园，那里灵魂安宁，
人们看到的一切东西，
花朵、芳革．还有无云的天空，
多像睡觉的人醒了又在梦中，
看到的那些仿佛如此的形状
这种形状消失了，只剩下床
和床架，依然在声言
天国的门打开了。
哦旋转
一场更大的梦已经消逝，
卡尔弗特和威尔逊、布莱克和克劳德，
为信上帝的人准备了一种休息，
是帕尔默的话吧，但在那之后，
我们的思想就充满了混乱、忧愁。

5

爱尔兰诗人，学好你们的专业，
歌唱那美好地做成的一切，
轻视那种正从头到脚
都已失去了模样的奥妙，
他们缺乏记忆的头和心——
低卑的床上的低卑的产品。
歌唱农民们，然后是
策马疾驶的乡间绅士，
修士们的神圣，仿效
饮完苦啤酒的人狂笑；
歌唱那些欢乐的爵士和夫人，
那是在英勇的七个世纪中
形成的最根本的本质；
让你的头脑想着其它的日子，
这样．我们在将来依然能
成为不可征服的爱尔兰人。

6

在光秃秃的本布尔本山头下面，
叶芝躺于特拉姆克力夫墓地中间。

一个祖先曾是那里的教区长，
许多年之俞，一座教堂就在近旁，
在路旁，是一个古老的十字架，
没有大理石碑，也没有套话；
在附近采来的石灰石上，
是按他的指示刻下的字样：
对生活，对死亡
投上冷冷的一眼
骑士呵，向前！

     

I

Swear by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.

Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

Here's the gist of what they mean.

II

Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-diggers' toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscles strong.
They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

III

You that Mitchel's prayer have heard,
'Send war in our time, O Lord!'
Know that when all words are said
And a man is fighting mad,
Something drops from eyes long blind,
He completes his partial mind,
For an instant stands at ease,
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate.

IV

Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did.
Bring the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradles right.

Measurement began our might:
Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
Forms that gentler phidias wrought.
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapel roof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till her bowels are in heat,
proof that there's a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane perfection of mankind.

Quattrocento put in paint
On backgrounds for a God or Saint
Gardens where a soul's at ease;
Where everything that meets the eye,
Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
Resemble forms that are or seem
When sleepers wake and yet still dream.
And when it's vanished still declare,
With only bed and bedstead there,
That heavens had opened.
Gyres run on;
When that greater dream had gone
Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
Prepared a rest for the people of God,
Palmer's phrase, but after that
Confusion fell upon our thought.

V

Irish poets, earn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into the clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry.

VI

Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!