——anankta ton pantôn huperbal- lonta chronon makarôn。品达。赞美诗。碎片弹。昔日的灵啊!你!在你那幽深的洞穴里，在激流的岸边，你可以看到秋天的暴风雨在咆哮;或者，在那些爬满常春藤的墙壁上，暮色交织的月光落在幽深的过道和昏暗的回廊里，你可以听到灰色的修道士的诗句;或者，在柏树的树荫下，在那些被遗忘的首领长眠的地方，他缓慢而庄严地踱步，呼吸着唤醒死者的诗句——在孤独的爬满常春藤的修道院里，在符文战士的石碑上，在山间瀑布的怒吼中，精灵!我不再寻求你。让我，远离尘世的牵挂，与你哲学的守夜，在远古时代的残骸中，更悲伤，更庄严，更崇高，在那里，半沉在沙海中，狄摩的大理石废墟展开。这些无声的残骸，比言语更雄辩，充满了许多可怕的故事:比诗人或圣人所能传授的真理更严厉，这废墟的盛景压在心上，晚风从掌心里发出悲哀的叹息:寂寥弥漫，没有人声，那里躺着古代君主的残片，中间是长满草的大厅，和倒塌的柱廊。 Beneath the drifting sand, the clustering weed, Rest the proud relics of departed power. None may the trophy-cinctured tablet read, On votive urn, or monumental tower, Nor tell whose wasted forms the mouldering tombs embower. Enthusiast fancy, robed in light, Dispels oblivion's deepening night. Her charms a solemn train unfold, Sublime on evening clouds of gold, Of sceptred kings, in proud array, And laurelled chiefs, and sages grey. But whose the forms, oh fame! declare, That crowd majestic on the air? Pour from thy deathless roll the praise Of kings renowned in elder days. I call in vain! The welcome strain Of praise to them no more shall sound: Their actions bright must sleep in night, Till time shall cease his mystic round. The glories of their ancient sway The stream of years has swept away: Their names, that nations heard with fear, Shall ring no more on mortal ear. Yet still the muse's eye may trace The noblest chief of Thedmor's race, Who, by Euphrates' startling waves, Bade outraged Rome her prostrate might unfold, Tore from the brow of Persia's pride The wreath in crimson victory dyed, And o'er his flying slaves Tumultuous ruin rolled. Throned by his side, a lovely form, In youthful majesty sublime, Like sun-beams through the scattering storm, Shines through the floating mists of time: Even as in other years she shone, When here she fixed her desert-throne, Triumphant in the transient smiles of fate; When Zabdas led her conquering bands O'er Asia's many-peopled lands, And subject monarchs thronged her palace-gate: Ere yet stern war's avenging storm, Captivity's dejected form, And death, in solitude and darkness furled, Closed round the setting star, that ruled the eastern world. Dim shades around her move again, From memory blotted by the lapse of years: Yet, foremost in the sacred train, The venerable sage appears, Who once, these desolate arcades And time-worn porticoes among, Disclosed to princely youths and high-born maids The secret fountains of Mæonian song, And traced the mazy warblings of the lyre, With all a critic's art, and all a poet's fire. What mystic form, uncouth and dread, With withered cheek, and hoary head, Swift as the death-fire cleaves the sky, Swept on sounding pinions by? 'Twas Time. I know the foe of kings, His scythe, and sand, and eagle-wings: He cast a burning look around, And waved his bony hand, and frowned. Far from the spectre's scowl of fire, Fancy's feeble forms retire: Her air-born phantoms melt away, Like stars before the rising day. One shadowy tint enwraps the plain: No form is near, no steps intrude, To break the melancholy reign Of silence and of solitude. Ah! little thought the wealthy proud, When rosy pleasure laughed aloud, And music, with symphonious swell, Attuned to joy her festal shell, That here, amid their ancient land, The wanderer of the distant days Should mark, with sorrow-clouded gaze, The mighty wilderness of sand, While not a sound should meet his ear, Save of the desert-gales, that sweep, In modulated murmurs deep, The wasted graves above Of those, who once had revelled here In happiness and love. Short is the space to man assigned, His earthly vale to tread. He wanders, erring, weak, and blind, By adverse passions led: Love, that with feeling's tenderest flow To rapture turns divided woe, And