赫库兰尼姆的末日

Edwin Atherstone，1788—1872，was born at Nottingham，England，and became known to the literary world chiefly through two poems，“The Last Days of Herculaneum”and“The Fall of Nineveh.”Both poems are written in blank verse，and are remarkable for their splendor of diction and their great descriptive power.Atherstone is compared to Thomson，whom he resembles somewhat in style.

There was a man，

A Roman soldier，for some daring deed

That trespassed on the laws，in dungeon low

Chained down.His was a noble spirit，rough，

But generous，and brave，and kind.

He had a son；it was a rosy boy，

A little faithful copy of his sire，

In face and gesture.From infancy，the child

Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport

The father shared and heightened.But at length，

The rigorous law had grasped him，and condemned

To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot，

He felt in all its bitterness: the walls

Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh

And heart-heaved groan.His tale was known，and touched

His jailer with compassion；and the boy，

Thenceforth a frequent visitor，beguiled

His father's lingering hours，and brought a balm

With his loved presence，that in every wound

Dropped healing.But，in this terrific hour，

He was a poisoned arrow in the breast

Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn

Of that first day of darkness and amaze，

He came.The iron door was closed—for them

Never to open more！The day，the night

Dragged slowly by；nor did they know the fate

Impending o'er the city.Well they heard

The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath，

And felt its giddy rocking；and the air

Grew hot at length，and thick；but in his straw

The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped

The earthquake might pass by: nor would he wake

From his sound rest the unfearing child，nor tell

The dangers of their state.

On his low couch

The fettered soldier sank，and，with deep awe，

Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye，

To the great gods he breathed a prayer；then，strove

To calm himself，and lose in sleep awhile

His useless terrors.But he could not sleep:

His body burned with feverish heat；his chains

Clanked loud，although he moved not；deep in earth

Groaned unimaginable thunders；sounds，

Fearful and ominous，arose and died，

Like the sad mornings of November's wind，

In the blank midnight.Deepest horror chilled

His blood that burned before；cold，clammy sweats

Came o'er him；then anon，a fiery thrill

Shot through his veins.Now，on his couch he shrunk

And shivered as in fear；now，upright leaped，

As though he heard the battle trumpet sound，

And longed to cope with death.

He slept，at last，

A troubled，dreamy sleep.Well had he slept

Never to waken more！His hours are few，

But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm

Burst forth；the lightnings glanced；the air

Shook with the thunders.They awoke；they sprung

Amazed upon their feet.The dungeon glowed

A moment as in sunshine—and was dark:

Again，a flood of white flame fills the cell，

Dying away upon the dazzled eye

In darkening，quivering tints，as stunning sound

Dies throbbing，ringing in the ear.

With intensest awe，

The soldier's frame was filled；and many a thought

Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind，

As underneath he felt the fevered earth

Jarring and lifting；and the massive walls，

Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not，

While evils undefined and yet to come

Glanced through his thoughts，what deep and cureless wound

Fate had already given.—Where，man of woe！

Where，wretched father！is thy boy？Thou call'st

His name in vain：—he can not answer thee.

Loudly the father called upon his child:

No voice replied.Trembling and anxiously

He searched their couch of straw；with headlong haste

Trod round his stinted limits，and，low bent，

Groped darkling on the earth：—no child was there.

Again he called: again，at farthest stretch

Of his accursed fetters，till the blood

Seemed bursting from his ears，and from his eyes

Fire flashed，he strained with arm extended far，

And fingers widely spread，greedy to touch

Though but his idol's garment.Useless toil！

Yet still renewed: still round and round he goes，

And strains，and snatches，and with dreadful cries

Calls on his boy.

Mad frenzy fires him now.

He plants against the wall his feet；his chain

Grasps；tugs with giant strength to force away

The deep-driven staple；yells and shrieks with rage:

And，like a desert lion in the snare，

Raging to break his toils，—to and fro bounds.

But see！the ground is opening；—a blue light

Mounts，gently waving，—noiseless；—thin and cold

It seems，and like a rainbow tint，not flame；

But by its luster，on the earth outstretched，

Behold the lifeless child！his dress is singed，

And，o'er his face serene，a darkened line

Points out the lightning's track.

The father saw，

And all his fury fled：—a dead calm fell

That instant on him：—speechless—fixed—he stood，

And with a look that never wandered，gazed

Intensely on the corse.Those laughing eyes

Were not yet closed，—and round those ruby lips

The wonted smile returned.

Silent and pale

The father stands：—no tear is in his eye：—

The thunders bellow；—but he hears them not：—

The ground lifts like a sea；—he knows it not：—

The strong walls grind and gape：—the vaulted roof

Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind；

See！he looks up and smiles；for death to him

Is happiness.Yet could one last embrace

Be given't were still a sweeter thing to die.

It will be given.Look！how the rolling ground，

At every swell，nearer and still more near

Moves toward the father's outstretched arm his boy

Once he has touched his garment：—how his eye

Lightens with love，and hope，and anxious fears！

Ha，see！he has him now！—he clasps him round；

Kisses his face；puts back the curling locks，

That shaded his fine brow；looks in his eyes；

Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands；

Then folds him to his breast，as he was wont

To lie when sleeping；and resigned，awaits

Undreaded death.

And death came soon and swift

And pangless.The huge pile sank down at once

Into the opening earth.Walls—arches—roof—

And deep foundation stones—all—mingling—fell ！

译文　TRANSLATION

埃德温·阿瑟斯通（1788—1872），出生于英国诺丁汉。他以《赫库兰尼姆的末日》和《尼尼微的覆亡》驰名文坛。这两首素体诗不仅用词华美而且描写生动。阿瑟斯通与托马森齐名，二人风格有些相近。

从前，有一个

罗马士兵，违反了法律。

披枷带锁关进了地牢。

他禀性高贵，质朴而慷慨。

他的儿子，乖巧又伶俐。

相貌和神态都同他酷似，

从襁褓到如今，都是他的慰藉和牵挂。

他们曾一起嬉闹，一起玩耍，

那般陶然！可严苛的法律却将他

戴上脚镣，投入黑牢。

囚室里，他痛苦万分，

四壁间回响着他的叹息、呻吟。

人们知道了他的故事，就连狱卒也同情。

随后，那男孩就常常来探望父亲，

陪父亲共度最后的时光。

他每次来都带着止痛药膏，

为父亲擦拭。

但在这凄惨的时刻，

男孩却由父亲昔日的良药

变成了他心头的伤。

在那阴暗、诡异的第一天，

凌晨时分，孩子来到狱室，

身后的铁门关上了——再也不会为他们打开！

白昼、暗夜，时间一点点流逝；

他们不知道赫库兰尼姆即将迎来的命运。

他们只听见地下郁结的雷声，

感到大地眩晕的颠簸；空气最终变得炎热、污浊；

而在草席上，孩子睡得正酣。

父亲祈盼着地震结束。那无畏的孩子还在熟睡

他不愿唤醒，不愿讲述城邦的劫难。

在简陋的地铺上，

戴着脚镣的士兵，满怀敬畏，

凝神谛听那可怕的声响。

他喃喃地祈祷诸神保佑；竭力平复自己，

期冀小睡片刻忘却恐惧。可是他却难以成眠。

他在发烧，虽然不曾辗转反侧，

身上的锁链却铮铮作响。地下的声音，

像阵阵雷吼，那么怪诞、瘆人；

在空洞的子夜，起起落落，

如秋日的清晨那些哀伤的风。

最深的忧惧让他刚刚还沸腾的血液结冰，

冷汗流遍了周身，一阵寒战，

他在地铺上缩成一团，瑟瑟发抖。

恍惚间听到军号鸣响，他蓦地跳起，

要与死神决斗。

终于，他睡了，噩梦连连。

他多想不再醒来，他已时日无几。

痛苦却未尝稍减。

忽然，暴雨倾盆，雷声激荡，

闪电划破长空。他们醒了，

吃惊地跳起来。一时间，

黑暗的地牢亮如白昼。

白色的光焰在囚室中汹涌，

随之，那夺目的光华又在黑暗中隐去，

只剩下丝丝光晕在摇曳；震耳欲聋的巨响

也不再搏动，只有余音在耳中回荡。

士兵满怀敬畏，奇思异想在他心中穿梭。

脚下的地面在悸动；厚厚的狱墙

在扭曲、呻吟。而他尚不知道，

那些即将到来的无可名状的恶灵，

透过他纷乱的思绪，窥视着命运

给他的难以愈合的深重的伤。

啊，痛苦的人！啊，可怜的父亲！

你的孩子呢？你徒然地将他呼唤，

他却再不能应答。

父亲高声地唤着儿子，

却没有回应。他心急如焚，

颤抖着，屈着身，

在地铺的草中、在地上匆匆地摸索。

找不到孩子！他一遍遍唤着儿子的名字，

试图挣脱那令人诅咒的脚镣，直至耳中、眼里

都流出了血。火光闪耀，他展开双臂，

大张着手，渴盼着摸到孩子，哪怕只是他的衣服！

啊，无用的辛劳！然后又是重来，

他在囚室中一圈圈地来回走着，

伸出双臂，撕扯着，呼唤着儿子的名字。

狂怒将他点燃，他用脚踢着墙；

拼尽全力挣开了锁链；愤怒地嘶吼着，

像沙漠里的狮子，要奋力冲决罗网。

但是，看！地面在开裂，一道幽蓝的光隆起，

轻柔、无声地摆动，看去不像火焰，

而像又瘦又冷的虹影；光亮在地面扩展，

他看到了儿子，孩子已断了气：衣服烧焦了，

面庞却是那样宁静，光照下现出一道暗痕。

看到这一切，那位父亲的愤怒消失了，

那一刻只有死一般的安静笼罩着他。

他定定地站着，一言不发。

他的目光不再游移，只盯着儿子的尸体。

那含笑的眼睛还未合上，那唇边的微笑还未散去。

父亲沉默着，脸色惨白。他的眼中一点泪也没有；

雷声轰鸣，他却一点也听不到。

地面像大海在颠簸，他却毫无觉察。

四壁裂开了，穹形的屋顶像风中飘动的水珠。

看！他抬起头，微笑了；因为对他来说，死是种幸福。

而若能有那最后的拥抱，却比死更甜蜜。

他得到了那最后的一拥。看！随着地面的隆起，

他的儿子离他越来越近，终于到了他怀中。

他又摸到了孩子的衣服：孩子的眼中闪耀着

爱、希望、焦灼和恐惧。

啊，看！他抱住了孩子！他紧紧抱着他，吻着他，

撩起他额前的卷发，看着他的眼睛，

合上那双胖嘟嘟的小手，把他抱在胸前，

像他从前临睡时一样。做完这一切，

士兵静待着那不再令人畏惧的死神。

而死来得那样迅疾，一点痛苦也没有。

墙壁、拱廊、屋顶、基石搅在一起，

一下落入地面张开的巨口。