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Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan
wifhout a grave, unknell'd, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him—thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spuring him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth-there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war—
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armad's Pride spoils of Trafalgar
thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Asysria, Greece, Rome, Carthage,
What are they? Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free
And many a tyrant Since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou-
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's torm
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time—
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime
The image of etenity, the, throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and My joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd With thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—it was a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee.
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.
Byron.
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea—mew,
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My Native Land—Good Night!
A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.
"Come hither, hither, my Little page;
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear—drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong
Our fleetest falcon scares can fly
More merrily along."
"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high
I fear not wave nor Wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Chide, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone.
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone.
But thee—and One above.
My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."—
"Enough enough, my little Lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry,"
Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman:
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French yoeman
Or shiver, at the gale?"—
"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek,
My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?"—
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, Who am of lighier mood,
Will laugh to flee away."
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feares will dry the bright blue eyes,
We late saw streaming e'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
Nothing that claims a tear.
And now I'm in the world alone
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why Sho'd I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
so not again to mine,
Welcome, Welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves!
My Native Land—Good Nigrht!
Byron.
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 Phoeous, sprung
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The seian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shorses refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires's "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 still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a savle.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea—born Salamis;
And ships, by thonsands, lay below,
And men in nation;—all were his!
He couoted them at break of day—
And when the sun set where were they?
And Where are they? and Where art thou,
My country? On the 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 with 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 country men.
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 remant ot 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;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force, Latin fraud,
Would break your shield. however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our Virgins dance beneath the shade—
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the turning tear-drop laves,
To think such breast must suckles slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan—like, let me sing and die:
A land o f slaves shall ne'er be mine—
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Byron.
Who presented the author with the veivet band which bound her tresses.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! the pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics of saints above.
Oh! Will wear it next my heart;
'Tis will bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again't will ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
The dew I gather from the lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss:
This will recall each youthtul scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of love will still be green
When memory bids them bud again.
Oh! Little lock of gloden hue,
In gently waving ringlets curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
Like rays Which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.
Byron
Live not the stars and mountain? Are the waves
Without a spirit? Are the dropping caves
Without a feeling in their silent tears?
No, no;—tlley woo and clasp us to their spheres,
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before
Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore.
Byron
O, my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
Till a' the seas gong dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
And I will luve three still, dear,
While the sand's o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho''t Were ten thorsand mile!
Burns.
And is the swallow gone?
Who be held-it?
Which way sailed it?
Farrwell bade it none?
No mortal saw it go:
But who doth hear
Its summer cheer.
As it flitteth to and fro?
So the freed spirit flies!
From its surrounding clay
It steals away
Like the swallow from the skies.
Wither? Wherefore doth it go?
'Tis all unknown;
We feel alone
What avoid is left below.
Howltt.
A Widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.
Shelley.
Willst du die Blü the frühen, die Früchte des späteren Jahres,
Willst du, was reizt und entzückt, willst du wäs sattigt und nährt,
Willst du den Himmel, die Erde, mit einem Namen begreiten,
Nenn'ich Sakontala, dich, und so ist alles gesagt.
Goethe 1791
Wouldst thou the young year's blossoms and the fruits of its decline,
And all by which the soul is charmed, enraptured feasted, fed,
Wouldst thou the earth and heaven itself in one sole name combine?
I name thee, O Sakoontala! and all at once said?
E.B.Eastwiek.
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light—green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red-red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can lovelier than the rangesL
Of bamboos to the eastward, When the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the White lotus changes
Into a cup of silver, one might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
Toru Dutt (Hindoo Poetess 1890—1908).
曼殊的译诗，在《南社丛刻》，《太平洋报》，《民国杂志》上，都曾登载过，《燕子龛残稿》中也辑成一卷；不过并无原文照对，阅者颇感不便。现在我们所辑录的，译拜伦《赞大海》，《去国行》，《哀希腊》，《答美人赠束发带诗》，根据《拜伦诗选》和《潮音》；译拜伦《星耶峰耶俱无生》一截，根据《文学因缘》；译彭斯《炯炯赤墙靡》，豪易特《去燕》，（《燕子山僧集》以《去燕》为师梨作，大误。）师梨《冬日》，陀露哆《乐苑》，根据《潮音》；译瞿德《题沙恭达罗诗》，根据《文学因缘》。《星耶峰耶》一截，在《文学因缘》上不署作者姓名，今考《天义报》第十五卷广告栏所登《文学因缘》目次，定为拜伦所作；但又见曼殊所译南印度瞿沙《娑罗海滨遁迹记》中，不知何故？曼殊译诗之可以考见者，大概尽在于此了。《拜伦诗选》和《潮音》内，尚有拜伦《别雅典女郎》四章，但据《文学因缘自序》目次，指为曼殊故友盛唐山民所译，故不录入。一九二七年五月编者记。