LESSON 10

PICTURES OF MEMORY

记忆中的画

Alice Cary, 1820-1871, was born near Cincinnati. One of her ancestors was among the “Pilgrim Fathers,” and the first instructor of Latin at Plymouth, Mass. Miss Cary commenced her literary career at her western home, and, in 1849, published a volume of poems, the joint work of her younger sister, Phoebe, and herself. In 1850, she moved to New York. Two of her sisters joined her there, and they supported themselves by their literary labor. Their home became a noted resort for their literary and artistic friends. Miss Cary was the author of eleven volumes, besides many articles contributed to periodicals. Her poetry is marked with great sweetness and pathos. Some of her prose works are much admired, especially her “Clovernook Children.”

Among the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory’s wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all;

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden,

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies,

That lean from the fragrant hedge,

Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge;

Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest,

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that dim old forest,

He lieth in peace asleep:

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother,

A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face;

And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree tops bright, He fell, in his saintlike beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory’s wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

【中文阅读】

在那些美轮美奂的画中间

挂在记忆墙上的，

是古老的森林一抹幽暗，

似乎在其中画工最善；

不是因为那株长了瘤节的老橡树，和着槲寄生的暗淡；

不是因为金色紫罗兰，

在下面的山谷闪闪发光；

不是因为奶白色的百合，倚着芬芳的树篱，

在阳光下整天卖弄风情，偷了它们金色边缘；

不是因为高地上的葡萄树，

那里还有鲜红的浆果，

并非粉色，亦非苍白，芳香的黄花九轮草，在我看来是最好。

曾有一个小兄弟，

一双黑幽幽的眼睛呦；在幽暗的古老森林洼地，静静躺着睡着了；

光明如树下的蓟，

自由似吹拂而过的风，

我们在美丽的夏日漂泊，

很久以前的夏日；

可是他踏上山丘的腿却越来越衰弱，一个秋天的夜晚，

我为小兄弟的床上，

洒下枯叶。

他那苍白的双臂惬意地

将我的脖颈揽进温顺的怀抱，这时不朽的美的光芒

静谧地洒在他的脸上；

当落日的箭矢

嵌进光闪闪的树顶，

他倒下了，在他圣人一般的美中倚着光芒之门睡去了。

就这样，挂在记忆墙上的所有图画，那张的森林一抹幽暗，

似乎画工最善。