海盗生涯

－拜伦

我的海盗的梦，我的烧杀劫掠的使命，

在暗蓝色的海上，海水在欢快地泼溅，

我们的心如此自由，思绪辽远无边。

广袤啊，凡长风吹拂之地、凡海波翻卷之处，

量一量我们的版图，看一看我们的家乡！

这全是我们的帝国，它的权力横扫一切，

我们的旗帜就是王笏，所遇莫有不从。

我们豪放的生涯，在风暴的交响中破浪，

从劳作到休息，尽皆欢乐的时光。

这美境谁能体会？绝不是你，娇养的奴仆！

你的灵魂对着起伏的波浪就会退缩。

更不是你，安乐和荒淫的虚荣的贵族！

睡眠不能抚慰你，欢乐不能感染你。

谁知道那乐趣，除非他的心灵受过创痛的洗礼，

而又在广阔的海洋上骄傲地翱翔过，

那狂喜之感——那脉搏畅快的跳动，

这只有绝境求生的漂泊者才能体会。

为这快乐，我们迎向战斗；

为这快乐，我们享受着冒险。

凡是懦夫躲避的，我们反热烈追寻，

那使衰弱的人晕绝的，我们反而感到——

感到在我们博大胸怀的最深处

希望在苏醒，精灵在翱翔。

我们不畏死亡——宁愿与敌人战死一处，

虽然，没能寿终正寝会让人略觉遗憾。

来吧，随上天高兴，我们攫取了生中之生，

如果倒下——谁在乎是死于刀剑还是疾病？

让那些爬行的人去跟“衰老”长久缠绵；

让他们粘在自己的卧榻上，苦度年岁；

让他们摇着麻痹的头颅，喘着艰难的呼吸。

我们不要病床，宁可静躺在清新的草地上。

让他们一喘一喘地咳出自己的灵魂吧！

我们只在一刹那的疼痛中超脱出肉体。

让他们的尸首去炫耀坟穴和骨灰瓮，

憎恨他一生的人会给他的墓座镶金。

而我们的葬礼将伴随珍贵的真情之泪，

由海波抚盖、收容下我们的躯体。

之后，即便是欢宴也会带来深心的痛惜，

在红色的酒杯中旋起我们的记忆。

呵，危难的岁月最终化作简短的墓志铭，

胜利的伙伴平分宝藏，但却潸然泪下。

那一刻，回忆让每一个同伴垂首致哀，

那一刻，倒下的勇士得以欣然长辞。

The Corsair

CANTO THE FIRST

I

'O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our soul's as free
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
whom slumber soothes not - pleasure cannot please -
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint can only feel -
Feel - to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and Its spirit soar?
No dread of death if with us die our foes -
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will - we snatch the life of life -
When lost - what recks it but disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away:
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours - the fresh turf; and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang - one bound - escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!'

每一天都是全新的出发，

我再次上路

自庸常里上路

我做这水泥丛林里的海盗之王