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爱伦·坡诗选_第3节(2/3)

爱伦·坡诗选  | 作者:爱伦·坡|  2026-01-15 00:52:23 | TXT下载 | ZIP下载

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同上《特洛伊罗斯与克瑞西达》)

要写的是人——而不是神灵。(蒲柏《人论》)

(1827)

注释

① 此诗被写在爱伦·坡珍藏女友照片的相簿里,应该是一篇未完之作,在爱伦·坡生前未曾发表。——译者注

"To Octavia"

When wit, and wine, and friends have met

And laughter crowns the festive hour

In vain I struggle to forget

Still does my heart confess thy power

And fondly turn to thee!

But Octavia, do not strive to rob

My heart, of all that soothes its pain

The mournful hope that every throb

Will make it break for thee!

(1827)

“致奥克塔维娅”①

当智慧、美酒、朋友们相逢

当朗朗笑声把欢乐时光充溢

我的试图忘却仍徒然落空

我的心仍在坦露你的魅力

依然深情地把你追随!

但奥克塔维娅,千万别夺光

能减轻我心儿痛苦的一切

每一次搏动的悲哀的希望

都会使我心为你而破碎!

(1827)

注释

① 这首诗和《致玛格丽特》一样也是写在爱伦·坡珍藏女友照片的相簿里,在爱伦·坡生前未曾发表,诗下面的落款日期是1827年5月1日。——译者注

Tamerlane

Kind solace in a dying hour!

Such, father, is not (now) my theme—

I will not madly deem that power

Of Earth may shrive me of the sin

Unearthly pride hath revell'd in—

I have no time to dote or dream:

You call it hope—that fire of fire!

It is but agony of desire:

If I can hope—Oh God! I can—

Its fount is holier—more divine—

I would not call thee fool, old man,

But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.

O yearning heart! I did inherit

Thy withering portion with the fame,

The searing glory which hath shone

Amid the Jewels of my throne,

Halo of Hell! and with a pain

Not Hell shall make me fear again—

O craving heart, for the lost flowers

And sunshine of my summer hours!

The undying voice of that dead time,

With its interminable chime,

Rings, in the spirit of a spell,

Upon thy emptiness—a knell.

I have not always been as now:

The fever'd diadem on my brow

I claim'd and won usurpingly——

Hath not the same fierce heirdom given

Rome to the C?sar—this to me?

The heritage of a kingly mind,

And a proud spirit which hath striven

Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:

The mists of the Taglay have shed

Nightly their dews upon my head,

And, I believe, the winged strife

And tumult of the headlong air

Hath nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven—that de

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