II
La época termina, el mundo esta todavía
La edad ha hablado y trabajado hasta saciarse-
Los oradores famosos han brillado,
Los poetas famosos cantaron y se fueron,
Los famosos hombres de guerra han luchado,
Los famosos especuladores pensaron,
Los famosos jugadores, escultores, forjados,
Los pintores famosos llenaron su pared,
Los críticos famosos lo juzgaron todo.
Los combatientes están separados ahora-
Colgó la lanza, desdobló el arco
El poderoso coronado, el débil abatido
Y en el dulce silencio posterior
Ahora las luchas están silenciadas, nuestros oídos se encuentran
Ascendiendo pura, la fama de campana
De tal o cual nombre pisoteado,
Espíritus delicados, empujados
En la presión caliente del mediodía .
Y sobre la llanura donde los muertos envejecen
Su guerra silenciosa ahora pagó
Sobre esa amplia llanura ahora envuelta en penumbra.
Donde muchos esplendores encuentran su tumba.
Muchas famas gastadas y poderíos caídos
Las una o dos luces inmortales
Suben lentamente hacia el cielo
Para brillar allí eternamente
Como estrellas sobre la colina que bordea.
La época termina el mundo está todavía.
Trueno y estallido
En torrentes en olas
Villancicos y gritos
Sobre tumbas en medio de tumbas-
Mira en la llanura llena de obstáculos
Limpiando un escenario
Esparciendo un pasado
Llega la nueva era
Los bardos hacen nuevos poemas
Pensadores nuevas escuelas
Estadistas nuevos sistemas
Críticos nuevas reglas.
Todas las cosas comienzan de nuevo;
La vida es su premio;
Llenan la tierra con sus obras
Llena con sus gritos.
Poeta que te pasa entonces?
Por que tan mudo?
Adelante con tu voz de alabanza
Adelante con tu flauta!
Vago! Por que te sientas?
Hundido en tu sueño?
No tienta la brillante nueva era?
No brilla su corriente?
Mira ah que ingenio!
Soldados como Cesar,
Estadistas como Pit!
Escultores como Fidias
Rafael en cardúmenes
Poetas como Shakespeare,
Bellas almas!
Mira sus mejillas resplandecientes
Celestial el rubor!
Ah asi era el silencio!
Asi fue el silencio!
El mundo solo siente el hechizo del presente,
El poeta siente también el pasado,
Todo lo que han hecho los hombres, podría hacerlo
Cualquier pensamiento podría pensarlo.
Bacchanalia
I
The evening comes, the fields are still.
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Unheard all day, ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,
The last-left haymaker is gone.
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder-blossom white
And pale dog-roses in the hedge,
And from the mint-plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blows
The perfume which the day forgoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with the first-born star,
The liquid sky above the hill!
The evening comes, the fields are still.
Loitering and
leaping,
With saunter,
with bounds—
Flickering and
circling
In files and
in rounds—
Gaily their
pine-staff green
Tossing in
air,
Loose o'er
their shoulders white
Showering
their hair—
See! the wild
Maenads
Break from the
wood,
Youth and
Iacchus
Maddening
their blood.
See! through
the quiet land
Rioting they
pass—
Fling the
fresh heaps about,
Trample the
grass.
Tear from the
rifled hedge
Garlands,
their prize;
Fill with
their sports the field,
Fill with
their cries.
Shepherd, what
ails thee, then?
Shepherd, why
mute?
Forth with thy
joyous song!
Forth with thy
flute!
Tempts not the
revel blithe?
Lure not their
cries?
Glow not their
shoulders smooth?
Melt not their
eyes?
Is not, on
cheeks like those,
Lovely the
flush?
—Ah, so the quiet was!
So was the hush!
II
The epoch ends, the world is still.
The age has talk'd and work'd its fill—
The famous orators have shone,
The famous poets sung and gone,
The famous men of war have fought,
The famous speculators thought,
The famous players, sculptors, wrought,
The famous painters fill'd their wall,
The famous critics judged it all.
The combatants are parted now—
Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,
The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.
And in the after-silence sweet,
Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet,
Ascending pure, the bell-like fame
Of this or that down-trodden name,
Delicate spirits, push'd away
In the hot press of the noon-day.
And o'er the plain, where the dead age
Did its now silent warfare wage—
O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,
Where many a splendour finds its tomb,
Many spent fames and fallen mights—
The one or two immortal lights
Rise slowly up into the sky
To shine there everlastingly,
Like stars over the bounding hill.
The epoch ends, the world is still.
Thundering and
bursting
In torrents,
in waves—
Carolling and
shouting
Over tombs,
amid graves—
See! on the
cumber'd plain
Clearing a
stage,
Scattering the
past about,
Comes the new
age.
Bards make new
poems,
Thinkers new
schools,
Statesmen new
systems,
Critics new
rules.
All things
begin again;
Life is their
prize;
Earth with
their deeds they fill,
Fill with
their cries.
Poet, what
ails thee, then?
Say, why so
mute?
Forth with thy
praising voice!
Forth with thy
flute!
Loiterer! why
sittest thou
Sunk in thy
dream?
Tempts not the
bright new age?
Shines not its
stream?
Look, ah, what
genius,
Art, science,
wit!
Soldiers like
Caesar,
Statesmen like
Pitt!
Sculptors like
Phidias,
Raphaels in
shoals,
Poets like
Shakespeare—
Beautiful
souls!
See, on their
glowing cheeks
Heavenly the
flush!
—Ah, so the silence was!
So was the hush!
The world but feels the present's spell,
The poet feels the past as well;
Whatever men have done, might do,
Whatever thought, might think it too.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario