第 101 节
作者:空白协议书      更新:2021-02-21 16:30      字数:9322
  The Curate is waiting in the hall;
  Most eager and alive of all
  To welcome the Baron and Baroness;
  But his mind is full of vague distress;
  For he hath read in Jesuit books
  Of those children of the wilderness;
  And now; good; simple man! he looks
  To see a painted savage stride
  Into the room; with shoulders bare;
  And eagle feathers in her hair;
  And around her a robe of panther's hide。
  Instead; he beholds with secret shame
  A form of beauty undefined;
  A loveliness with out a name;
  Not of degree; but more of kind;
  Nor bold nor shy; nor short nor tall;
  But a new mingling of them all。
  Yes; beautiful beyond belief;
  Transfigured and transfused; he sees
  The lady of the Pyrenees;
  The daughter of the Indian chief。
  Beneath the shadow of her hair
  The gold…bronze color of the skin
  Seems lighted by a fire within;
  As when a burst of sunlight shines
  Beneath a sombre grove of pines;
  A dusky splendor in the air。
  The two small hands; that now are pressed
  In his; seem made to be caressed;
  They lie so warm and soft and still;
  Like birds half hidden in a nest;
  Trustful; and innocent of ill。
  And ah! he cannot believe his ears
  When her melodious voice he hears
  Speaking his native Gascon tongue;
  The words she utters seem to be
  Part of some poem of Goudouli;
  They are not spoken; they are sung!
  And the Baron smiles; and says; 〃You see;
  I told you but the simple truth;
  Ah; you may trust the eyes of youth!〃
  Down in the village day by day
  The people gossip in their way;
  And stare to see the Baroness pass
  On Sunday morning to early Mass;
  And when she kneeleth down to pray;
  They wonder; and whisper together; and say;
  〃Surely this is no heathen lass!〃
  And in course of time they learn to bless
  The Baron and the Baroness。
  And in course of time the Curate learns
  A secret so dreadful; that by turns
  He is ice and fire; he freezes and burns。
  The Baron at confession hath said;
  That though this woman be his wife;
  He bath wed her as the Indians wed;
  He hath bought her for a gun and a knife!
  And the Curate replies: 〃O profligate;
  O Prodigal Son! return once more
  To the open arms and the open door
  Of the Church; or ever it be too late。
  Thank God; thy father did not live
  To see what he could not forgive;
  On thee; so reckless and perverse;
  He left his blessing; not his curse。
  But the nearer the dawn the darker the night;
  And by going wrong all things come right;
  Things have been mended that were worse;
  And the worse; the nearer they are to mend。
  For the sake of the living and the dead;
  Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed;
  And all things come to a happy end。〃
  O sun; that followest the night;
  In yon blue sky; serene and pure;
  And pourest thine impartial light
  Alike on mountain and on moor;
  Pause for a moment in thy course;
  And bless the bridegroom and the bride!
  O Gave; that from thy hidden source
  In you mysterious mountain…side
  Pursuest thy wandering way alone;
  And leaping down its steps of stone;
  Along the meadow…lands demure
  Stealest away to the Adour;
  Pause for a moment in thy course
  To bless the bridegroom and the bride!
  The choir is singing the matin song;
  The doors of the church are opened wide;
  The people crowd; and press; and throng
  To see the bridegroom and the bride。
  They enter and pass along the nave;
  They stand upon the father's grave;
  The bells are ringing soft and slow;
  The living above and the dead below
  Give their blessing on one and twain;
  The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain;
  The birds are building; the leaves are green;
  And Baron Castine of St。 Castine
  Hath come at last to his own again。
  FINALE
  〃Nunc plaudite!〃 the Student cried;
  When he had finished; 〃now applaud;
  As Roman actors used to say
  At the conclusion of a play〃;
  And rose; and spread his hands abroad;
  And smiling bowed from side to side;
  As one who bears the palm away。
  And generous was the applause and loud;
  But less for him than for the sun;
  That even as the tale was done
  Burst from its canopy of cloud;
  And lit the landscape with the blaze
  Of afternoon on autumn days;
  And filled the room with light; and made
  The fire of logs a painted shade。
  A sudden wind from out the west
  Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill;
  The windows rattled with the blast;
  The oak…trees shouted as it passed;
  And straight; as if by fear possessed;
  The cloud encampment on the hill
  Broke up; and fluttering flag and tent
  Vanished into the firmament;
  And down the valley fled amain
  The rear of the retreating rain。
  Only far up in the blue sky
  A mass of clouds; like drifted snow
  Suffused with a faint Alpine glow;
  Was heaped together; vast and high;
  On which a shattered rainbow hung;
  Not rising like the ruined arch
  Of some aerial aqueduct;
  But like a roseate garland plucked
  From an Olympian god; and flung
  Aside in his triumphal march。
  Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom;
  Like birds escaping from a snare;
  Like school…boys at the hour of play;
  All left at once the pent…up room;
  And rushed into the open air;
  And no more tales were told that day。
  PART THIRD
  PRELUDE
  The evening came; the golden vane
  A moment in the sunset glanced;
  Then darkened; and then gleamed again;
  As from the east the moon advanced
  And touched it with a softer light;
  While underneath; with flowing mane;
  Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced;
  And galloped forth into the night。
  But brighter than the afternoon
  That followed the dark day of rain;
  And brighter than the golden vane
  That glistened in the rising moon;
  Within the ruddy fire…light gleamed;
  And every separate window…pane;
  Backed by the outer darkness; showed
  A mirror; where the flamelets gleamed
  And flickered to and fro; and seemed
  A bonfire lighted in the road。
  Amid the hospitable glow;
  Like an old actor on the stage;
  With the uncertain voice of age;
  The singing chimney chanted low
  The homely songs of long ago。
  The voice that Ossian heard of yore;
  When midnight winds were in his hall;
  A ghostly and appealing call;
  A sound of days that are no more!
  And dark as Ossian sat the Jew;
  And listened to the sound; and knew
  The passing of the airy hosts;
  The gray and misty cloud of ghosts
  In their interminable flight;
  And listening muttered in his beard;
  With accent indistinct and weird;
  〃Who are ye; children of the Night?〃
  Beholding his mysterious face;
  〃Tell me;〃 the gay Sicilian said;
  〃Why was it that in breaking bread
  At supper; you bent down your head
  And; musing; paused a little space;
  As one who says a silent grace?〃
  The Jew replied; with solemn air;
  〃I said the Manichaean's prayer。
  It was his faith;perhaps is mine;
  That life in all its forms is one;
  And that its secret conduits run
  Unseen; but in unbroken line;
  From the great fountain…head divine
  Through man and beast; through grain and grass。
  Howe'er we struggle; strive; and cry;
  From death there can be no escape;
  And no escape from life; alas
  Because we cannot die; but pass
  From one into another shape:
  It is but into life we die。
  〃Therefore the Manichaean said
  This simple prayer on breaking bread;
  Lest he with hasty hand or knife
  Might wound the incarcerated life;
  The soul in things that we call dead:
  'I did not reap thee; did not bind thee;
  I did not thrash thee; did not grind thee;
  Nor did I in the oven bake thee!
  It was not I; it was another
  Did these things unto thee; O brother;
  I only have thee; hold thee; break thee!'〃
  〃That birds have souls I can concede;〃
  The poet cried; with glowing cheeks;
  〃The flocks that from their beds of reed
  Uprising north or southward fly;
  And flying write upon the sky
  The biforked letter of the Greeks;
  As hath been said by Rucellai;
  All birds that sing or chirp or cry;
  Even those migratory bands;
  The minor poets of the air;
  The plover; peep; and sanderling;
  That hardly can be said to sing;
  But pipe along the barren sands;
  All these have souls akin to ours;
  So hath the lovely race of flowers:
  Thus much I grant; but nothing more。
  The rusty hinges of a door
  Are not alive because they creak;
  This chimney; with its dreary roar;
  These rattling windows; do not speak!〃
  〃To me they speak;〃 the Jew replied;
  〃And in the sounds that sink and soar;
  I hear the voices of a tide
  That breaks upon an unknown shore!〃
  Here the Sicilian interfered:
  〃That was your dream; then; as you dozed
  A moment since; with eyes half…closed;
  And murmured something in your beard。〃
  The Hebrew smiled; and answered; 〃Nay;
  Not that; but something very near;
  Like; and yet not the same; may seem
  The vision of my waking dream;
  Before it wholly dies away;
  Listen to me; and you shall hear。〃
  THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE
  AZRAEL
  King S