一
希腊群岛呵，美丽的希腊群岛！
火热的萨弗在这里唱过恋歌；
在这里，战争与和平的艺术并兴，
狄洛斯崛起，阿波罗跃出海面！
永恒的夏天还把海岛镀成金，
可是除了太阳，一切已经消沉。
二
开奥的缪斯，蒂奥的缪斯，
那英雄的竖琴，恋人的琵琶，
原在你的岸上博得了声誉，
而今在这发源地反倒喑哑；
呵，那歌声已远远向西流传，
远超过你祖先的“海岛乐园”。
三
起伏的山峦望着马拉松－
马拉松望着茫茫的海波；
我独自在那里冥想一刻钟，
梦想希腊仍旧自由而欢乐；
因为，当我在波斯墓上站立，
我不能想象自己是个奴隶。
四
一个国王高高坐在石山顶，
了望着萨拉密挺立于海外；
千万只船舶在山下靠停，
还有多少队伍全由他统率！
他在天亮时把他们数了数，
但日落的时候他们都在何处？
五
呵，他们而今安在？还有你呢，
我的祖国？在无声的土地上，
英雄的颂歌如今已沉寂－
那英雄的心也不再激荡！
难道你一向庄严的竖琴，
竟至沦落到我的手里弹弄？
六
也好，置身在奴隶民族里，
尽管荣誉都已在沦丧中，
至少，一个爱国志士的忧思，
还使我的作歌时感到脸红；
因为，诗人在这儿有什么能为？
为希腊人含羞，对希腊国落泪。
七
我们难道只好对时光悲哭
和惭愧？－我们的祖先却流血。
大地呵！把斯巴达人的遗骨
从你的怀抱里送回来一些！
哪怕给我们三百勇士的三个，
让德魔比利的决死战复活！
八
怎么，还是无声？一切都喑哑？
不是的！你听那古代的英魂
正象远方的瀑布一样喧哗，
他们回答：“只要有一个活人
登高一呼，我们就来，就来！”
噫！倒只是活人不理不睬。
九
算了，算了；试试别的调门：
斟满一杯萨摩斯的美酒！
把战争留给土耳其野人，
让开奥的葡萄的血汁倾流！
听呵，每一个酒鬼多么踊跃
响应这一个不荣誉的号召！
一0
你们还保有庇瑞克的舞艺，
但庇瑞克的方阵哪里去了？
这是两课，为什么只记其一，
而把高尚而坚强的一课忘掉？
凯德谟斯给你们造了字体－
难道他是为了传授给奴隶？
一一
把萨摩斯的美酒斟满一盅！
让我们且抛开这样的话题！
这美酒曾使阿纳克瑞翁
发为神圣的歌；是的，他屈于
波里克瑞底斯，一个暴君，
但这暴君至少是我们国人。
一二
克索尼萨斯的一个暴君
是自由的最忠勇的朋友：
暴君米太亚得留名至今！
呵，但愿现在我们能够有
一个暴君和他一样精明，
他会团结我们不受人欺凌！
一三
把萨摩斯的美酒斟满一盅！
在苏里的山岩，巴加的岸上，
住着一族人的勇敢的子孙，
不愧是斯巴达的母亲所养；
在那里，也许种子已经散播，
是赫剌克勒斯血统的真传。
一四
自由的事业别依靠西方人，
他们有一个做买卖的国王；
本土的利剑，本土的士兵，
是冲锋陷阵的唯一希望；
但土耳其武力，拉丁的欺骗，
会里应外合把你们的盾打穿。
一五
把萨摩斯的美酒斟满一盅！
树荫下正舞蹈着我们的姑娘－
我看见她们的黑眼亮晶晶，
但是，望着每个鲜艳的姑娘，
我的眼就为火热的泪所迷，
这乳房难道也要哺育奴隶？
一六
让我攀登苏尼阿的悬崖，
可以听见彼此飘送着悄悄话，
让我象天鹅一样歌尽而亡；
我不要奴隶的国度属于我－
干脆把那萨摩斯酒杯打破！
1
The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
2
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'
3
The mountains look on Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
4
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations; — all were his!
He counted them at break of day —
And when the sun set where were they?
5
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now —
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
6
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear.
7
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
8
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no; — the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, 'Let one living head,
But one arise, — we come, we come!'
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
9
In vain — in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
10
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave —
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
11
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served — but served Polycrates —
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
12
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
13
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
14
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
15
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade —
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves
16
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine —
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
希腊群岛呵，美丽的希腊群岛！
火热的萨弗在这里唱过恋歌；
在这里，战争与和平的艺术并兴，
狄洛斯崛起，阿波罗跃出海面！
永恒的夏天还把海岛镀成金，
可是除了太阳，一切已经消沉。
二
开奥的缪斯，蒂奥的缪斯，
那英雄的竖琴，恋人的琵琶，
原在你的岸上博得了声誉，
而今在这发源地反倒喑哑；
呵，那歌声已远远向西流传，
远超过你祖先的“海岛乐园”。
三
起伏的山峦望着马拉松－
马拉松望着茫茫的海波；
我独自在那里冥想一刻钟，
梦想希腊仍旧自由而欢乐；
因为，当我在波斯墓上站立，
我不能想象自己是个奴隶。
四
一个国王高高坐在石山顶，
了望着萨拉密挺立于海外；
千万只船舶在山下靠停，
还有多少队伍全由他统率！
他在天亮时把他们数了数，
但日落的时候他们都在何处？
五
呵，他们而今安在？还有你呢，
我的祖国？在无声的土地上，
英雄的颂歌如今已沉寂－
那英雄的心也不再激荡！
难道你一向庄严的竖琴，
竟至沦落到我的手里弹弄？
六
也好，置身在奴隶民族里，
尽管荣誉都已在沦丧中，
至少，一个爱国志士的忧思，
还使我的作歌时感到脸红；
因为，诗人在这儿有什么能为？
为希腊人含羞，对希腊国落泪。
七
我们难道只好对时光悲哭
和惭愧？－我们的祖先却流血。
大地呵！把斯巴达人的遗骨
从你的怀抱里送回来一些！
哪怕给我们三百勇士的三个，
让德魔比利的决死战复活！
八
怎么，还是无声？一切都喑哑？
不是的！你听那古代的英魂
正象远方的瀑布一样喧哗，
他们回答：“只要有一个活人
登高一呼，我们就来，就来！”
噫！倒只是活人不理不睬。
九
算了，算了；试试别的调门：
斟满一杯萨摩斯的美酒！
把战争留给土耳其野人，
让开奥的葡萄的血汁倾流！
听呵，每一个酒鬼多么踊跃
响应这一个不荣誉的号召！
一0
你们还保有庇瑞克的舞艺，
但庇瑞克的方阵哪里去了？
这是两课，为什么只记其一，
而把高尚而坚强的一课忘掉？
凯德谟斯给你们造了字体－
难道他是为了传授给奴隶？
一一
把萨摩斯的美酒斟满一盅！
让我们且抛开这样的话题！
这美酒曾使阿纳克瑞翁
发为神圣的歌；是的，他屈于
波里克瑞底斯，一个暴君，
但这暴君至少是我们国人。
一二
克索尼萨斯的一个暴君
是自由的最忠勇的朋友：
暴君米太亚得留名至今！
呵，但愿现在我们能够有
一个暴君和他一样精明，
他会团结我们不受人欺凌！
一三
把萨摩斯的美酒斟满一盅！
在苏里的山岩，巴加的岸上，
住着一族人的勇敢的子孙，
不愧是斯巴达的母亲所养；
在那里，也许种子已经散播，
是赫剌克勒斯血统的真传。
一四
自由的事业别依靠西方人，
他们有一个做买卖的国王；
本土的利剑，本土的士兵，
是冲锋陷阵的唯一希望；
但土耳其武力，拉丁的欺骗，
会里应外合把你们的盾打穿。
一五
把萨摩斯的美酒斟满一盅！
树荫下正舞蹈着我们的姑娘－
我看见她们的黑眼亮晶晶，
但是，望着每个鲜艳的姑娘，
我的眼就为火热的泪所迷，
这乳房难道也要哺育奴隶？
一六
让我攀登苏尼阿的悬崖，
可以听见彼此飘送着悄悄话，
让我象天鹅一样歌尽而亡；
我不要奴隶的国度属于我－
干脆把那萨摩斯酒杯打破！
1
The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
2
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'
3
The mountains look on Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
4
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations; — all were his!
He counted them at break of day —
And when the sun set where were they?
5
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now —
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
6
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear.
7
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
8
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no; — the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, 'Let one living head,
But one arise, — we come, we come!'
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
9
In vain — in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
10
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave —
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
11
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served — but served Polycrates —
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
12
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
13
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
14
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
15
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade —
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves
16
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine —
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
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