华兹华斯《迈克尔》

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.

But, courage! for around that boisterous brook

The mountains have all opened out themselves,

And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation can be seen; but they

Who journey thither find themselves alone

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites

That overhead are sailing in the sky.

It is in truth an utter solitude;

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell

But for one object which you might pass by,

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!

And to that simple object appertains

A story—unenriched with strange events,

Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,

Or for the summer shade. It was the first

Of those domestic tales that spake to me

Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men

Whom I already loved; —not verily

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills

Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy

Careless of books, yet having felt the power

Of Nature, by the gentle agency

Of natural objects, led me on to feel

For passions that were not my own, and think

(At random and imperfectly indeed)

On man, the heart of man, and human life.

Therefore, although it be a history

Homely and rude, I will relate the same

For the delight of a few natural hearts;

And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake

Of youthful Poets, who among these hills

Will be my second self when I am gone.

 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;

An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.

His bodily frame had been from youth to age

Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,

Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,

And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt

And watchful more than ordinary men.

Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,

Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,

When others heeded not, He heard the South

Make subterraneous music, like the noise

Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.

The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock

Bethought him, and he to himself would say,

"The winds are now devising work for me!"

And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives

The traveller to a shelter, summoned him

Up to the mountains: he had been alone

Amid the heart of many thousand mists,

That came to him, and left him, on the heights.

So lived he till his eightieth year was past.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose

That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,

Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed

The common air; hills, which with vigorous step

He had so often climbed; which had impressed

So many incidents upon his mind

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;

Which, like a book, preserved the memory

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts

The certainty of honourable gain;

Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid

Strong hold on his affections, were to him

A pleasurable feeling of blind love,

The pleasure which there is in life itself.

 His days had not been passed in singleness.

His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—

Though younger than himself full twenty years.

She was a woman of a stirring life,

Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had

Of antique form, this large, for spinning wool;

That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest,

It was because the other was at work.

The Pair had but one inmate in their house,

An only Child, who had been born to them

When Michael, telling o'er his years, began

To deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase,

With one foot in the grave. This only Son,

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,

The one of an inestimable worth,

Made all their household. I may truly say,

That they were as a proverb in the vale

For endless industry. When day was gone,

And from their occupations out of doors

The Son and Father were come home, even then,

Their labour did not cease; unless when all

Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,

Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)

And his old Father both betook themselves

To such convenient work as might employ

Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,

Or other implement of house or field.

 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,

That in our ancient uncouth country style

With huge and black projection overbrowed

Large space beneath, as duly as the light

Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;

An aged utensil, which had performed

Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn—and late,

Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,

Which, going by from year to year, had found,

And left, the couple neither gay perhaps

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,

Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,

There by the light of this old lamp they sate,

Father and Son, while far into the night

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,

Making the cottage through the silent hours

Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

This light was famous in its neighbourhood,

And was a public symbol of the life

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,

And westward to the village near the lake;

And from this constant light, so regular,

And so far seen, the House itself, by all

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,

Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.

 Thus living on through such a length of years,

The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs

Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart

This son of his old age was yet more dear—

Less from instinctive tenderness, the same

Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—

Than that a child, more than all other gifts

That earth can offer to declining man,

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,

And stirrings of inquietude, when they

By tendency of nature needs must fail.

Exceeding was the love he bare to him,

His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

Had done him female service, not alone

For pastime and delight, as is the use

Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced

To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked

His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.

 And in a later time, ere yet the Boy

Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,

Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

To have the Young-one in his sight, when he

Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool

Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched

Under the large old oak, that near his door

Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,

Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,

Thence in our rustic dialect was called

The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade,

With others round them, earnest all and blithe,

Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

Of fond correction and reproof bestowed

Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep

By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

 And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up

A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek

Two steady roses that were five years old;

Then Michael from a winter coppice cut

With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped

With iron, making it throughout in all

Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,

And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;

And, to his office prematurely called,

There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

Something between a hindrance and a help;

And for this cause not always, I believe,

Receiving from his Father hire of praise;

Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand

Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,

Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,

He with his Father daily went, and they

Were as companions, why should I relate

That objects which the Shepherd loved before

Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came

Feelings and emanations—things which were

Light to the sun and music to the wind;

And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?

 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:

And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,

He was his comfort and his daily hope.

 While in this sort the simple household lived

From day to day, to Michael's ear there came

Distressful tidings. Long before the time

Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound

In surety for his brother's son, a man

Of an industrious life, and ample means;

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

Had prest upon him; and old Michael now

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,

A grievous penalty, but little less

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,

At the first hearing, for a moment took

More hope out of his life than he supposed

That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had armed himself with strength

To look his trouble in the face, it seemed

The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once

A portion of his patrimonial fields.

Such was his first resolve; he thought again,

And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,

Two evenings after he had heard the news,

"I have been toiling more than seventy years,

And in the open sunshine of God's love

Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think

That I could not lie quiet in my grave.

Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself

Has scarcely been more diligent than I;

And I have lived to be a fool at last

To my own family. An evil man

That was, and made an evil choice, if he

Were false to us; and, if he were not false,

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but

'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

 When I began, my purpose was to speak

Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.

Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land

Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;

He shall possess it, free as is the wind

That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,

Another kinsman—he will be our friend

In this distress. He is a prosperous man,

Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,

And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift

He quickly will repair this loss, and then

He may return to us. If here he stay,

What can be done? Where every one is poor,

What can be gained?"

        At this the old Man paused,

And Isabel sat silent, for her mind

Was busy, looking back into past times.

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,

He was a parish-boy—at the church-door

They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought

A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;

And, with this basket on his arm, the lad

Went up to London, found a master there,

Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy

To go and overlook his merchandise

Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,

And left estates and monies to the poor,

And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored

With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.

These thoughts, and many others of like sort,

Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,

And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,

And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme

These two days has been meat and drink to me.

Far more than we have lost is left us yet.

We have enough—I wish indeed that I

Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.

Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best

Buy for him more, and let us send him forth

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:

—If he could go, the Boy should go tonight."

 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth

With a light heart. The Housewife for five days

Was restless morn and night, and all day long

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare

Things needful for the journey of her son.

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came

To stop her in her work: for, when she lay

By Michael's side, she through the last two nights

Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:

And when they rose at morning she could see

That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon

She said to Luke, while they two by themselves

Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:

We have no other Child but thee to lose,

None to remember—do not go away,

For if thou leave thy Father he will die."

The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;

And Isabel, when she had told her fears,

Recovered heart. That evening her best fare

Did she bring forth, and all together sat

Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

 With daylight Isabel resumed her work;

And all the ensuing week the house appeared

As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length

The expected letter from their kinsman came,

With kind assurances that he would do

His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;

To which, requests were added, that forthwith

He might be sent to him. Ten times or more

The letter was read over; Isabel

Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;

Nor was there at that time on English land

A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel

Had to her house returned, the old Man said,

"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word

The Housewife answered, talking much of things

Which, if at such short notice he should go,

Would surely be forgotten. But at length

She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,

In that deep valley, Michael had designed

To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard

The tidings of his melancholy loss,

For this same purpose he had gathered up

A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge

Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

With Luke that evening thitherward he walked;

And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,

And thus the old Man spake to him:—"My son,

To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart

I look upon thee, for thou art the same

That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,

And all thy life hast been my daily joy.

I will relate to thee some little part

Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good

When thou art from me, even if I should touch

On things thou canst not know of. —After thou

First cam'st into the world—as oft befalls

To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away

Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,

And still I loved thee with increasing love.

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds

Than when I heard thee by our own fireside

First uttering, without words, a natural tune;

While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy

Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,

And in the open fields my life was passed

And on the mountains; else I think that thou

Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.

But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,

As well thou knowest, in us the old and young

Have played together, nor with me didst thou

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."

Luke had a manly heart; but at these words

He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,

And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I see

That these are things of which I need not speak.

—Even to the utmost I have been to thee

A kind and a good Father: and herein

I but repay a gift which I myself

Received at others' hands; for, though now old

Beyond the common life of man, I still

Remember them who loved me in my youth.

Both of them sleep together: here they lived,

As all their Forefathers had done; and, when

At length their time was come, they were not loth

To give their bodies to the family mould.

I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived,

But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,

And see so little gain from threescore years.

These fields were burthened when they came to me;

Till I was forty years of age, not more

Than half of my inheritance was mine.

I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,

And till these three weeks past the land was free.

—It looks as if it never could endure

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good

That thou shouldst go."

        At this the old Man paused;

Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,

Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:

"This was a work for us; and now, my Son,

It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—

Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.

Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live

To see a better day. At eighty-four

I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;

I will do mine.—I will begin again

With many tasks that were resigned to thee:

Up to the heights, and in among the storms,

Will I without thee go again, and do

All works which I was wont to do alone,

Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me

Only by links of love: when thou art gone,

What will be left to us!—But I forget

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,

As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,

When thou art gone away, should evil men

Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,

And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,

And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou

May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,

Who, being innocent, did for that cause

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see

A work which is not here: a covenant

'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,

And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

 The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,

And, as his Father had requested, laid

The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight

The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart

He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;

And to the house together they returned.

—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace

Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy

Began his journey, and, when he had reached

The public way, he put on a bold face;

And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,

Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,

That followed him till he was out of sight.

 A good report did from their Kinsman come,

Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy

Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,

Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout

"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."

Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.

So, many months passed on: and once again

The Shepherd went about his daily work

With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now

Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour

He to that valley took his way, and there

Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began

To slacken in his duty; and, at length,

He in the dissolute city gave himself

To evil courses: ignominy and shame

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last

To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

 There is a comfort in the strength of love;

'Twill make a thing endurable, which else

Would overset the brain, or break the heart:

I have conversed with more than one who well

Remember the old Man, and what he was

Years after he had heard this heavy news.

His bodily frame had been from youth to age

Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks

He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,

And listened to the wind; and, as before,

Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,

And for the land, his small inheritance.

And to that hollow dell from time to time

Did he repair, to build the Fold of which

His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet

The pity which was then in every heart

For the old Man—and 'tis believed by all

That many and many a day he thither went,

And never lifted up a single stone.

 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen

Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,

Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

The length of full seven years, from time to time,

He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought,

And left the work unfinished when he died.

Three years, or little more, did Isabel

Survive her Husband: at her death the estate

Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.

The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR

Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground

On which it stood; great changes have been wrought

In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left

That grew beside their door; and the remains

Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

就只有荒山野岭立在你面前。

别泄气！你瞧，那喋喋的溪水四周，

群山已经敞开了它们的怀抱，

让出地盘来，形成了一片幽谷。

远近看不到人烟；要是有旅客

来到这里，会发觉：除自己而外，

就只有大大小小的岩石，几头

吃草的羊儿，和几只盘旋的老鹰。

这里可真是荒凉满目；我本来

不会提到这地方，若不是为了

一样东西——你可能走过它跟前，

虽然看到它，却毫不在意——瞧呵，

溪水旁边那一堆散乱的石头！

多么平凡的一样东西，却藏着

一个故事——没什么离奇情节，

然而，当冬季在炉边闲坐，或夏天

在树下纳凉，讲起来却也动听。

谷地里住着牧羊人，他们的故事

我听过不少，听得最早的是这个。

我喜爱这些牧羊人，倒不是由于

他们自身，而是由于这一片

原野和山岭——他们游息的地方。

那时，我是个孩子，不喜欢念书，

而由于自然景物的温柔感染，

已经体会到造化的神奇力量；

那时，这故事引导过我，去探索

我自身之外别人的悲欢，去思考 

（当然，杂乱无章，也很不充分）

人，人的心灵，和人的生活。

因此，尽管这故事平凡而粗陋，

我还是把它讲出来，相信有一些

天性淳朴的有心人会乐于听取；

我还痴心地指望：它能够打动

年轻的诗人——他们，在这些山岭中，

我离去以后，将会接替我歌唱。

 在格拉斯密谷地里，森林旁边， 

住着一个牧羊人，名叫迈克尔；

老了，性子可刚强，手脚也硬朗。

从少到老，他那一副身子骨

一直是强健非凡；又俭省，又勤快，

心灵手巧，干什么活计都在行；

在他们牧羊人当中，他也比别人

遇事更留神，办事更干脆利落。

不论刮的是什么风，狂风唱的是

什么调，他都明白其中的含义；

往往，当别人谁也不曾留神，

他却听到了南风在隐约吹奏，

仿佛远处高山上传来的风笛。

这个老牧人，听到了这个信号，

便想起他的羊群，便自言自语：

“这股风，它想派点活计给我干！”

这话不假：不论是什么时辰，

只要风暴一来，行人趋避，

老汉便上山；不知有几千几百回，

他在山上被浓雾重重围裹，

独自坚持着，从雾起直到雾散。

就这样，这老汉活过了八十个年头。

谁要是猜想，这里的青山、翠谷、

溪流、岩石，都与牧羊人的心境

漠不相关，那可就大错特错了。

这原野，他常在这里畅快地呼吸；

这山岭，他曾多少次健步攀登；

这些熟悉的老地方，把多少往事

（他的辛劳和艰险，本领和胆量，

欢乐和忧愁）铭刻在他的心底；

这些老地方，像书本一样，记录着

那一群哑巴畜生的经历——它们

他喂过，掩护过，风暴里多次抢救过；

凭这些辛劳，保住他正当的收益；

原野和山岭（它们会短缺什么？）

已经牢牢执掌了他的心灵；

他对它们的热爱，几乎是盲目的，

却又是愉悦的，是生活本身的愉悦。

 迈克尔并不是独自一人过日子。

他老伴，原先长得挺秀气，如今

也老了，却比他足足年轻二十岁。

她是个整天手脚不闲的家主婆，

一心扑在家务上；房里有两架

老式的纺车：大号的用来纺羊毛，

小号的纺麻；要是有一架停了，

那是因为另一架转得正欢。

老两口跟前还有个独生儿子；

这孩子出世那年，迈克尔数了数

自己的一把年纪，寻思自己

也该算老啦——正像乡下人说的，

一条腿已经入土啦。老两口，儿子，

风暴里磨练出来的两条看羊狗

（有一条真厉害，简直是千金难买），

这五口便是迈克尔一家。说真的，

这一家勤劳刻苦，干起来没个完，

谷地里无人不晓。老汉和儿子

白天在外边干活，晚上才回来；

回来以后，也还要忙这忙那；

要歇息一会儿，只有吃饭的时刻——

到那时，他们才坐到干干净净的

饭桌旁边：篮子里堆着燕麦饼，

一个人一碗脱脂奶，一碗菜汤，

还有家里自做的粗淡干酪。

这顿晚饭一吃完，老汉和儿子

（他名叫路克）又赶紧做起事情来，

免得两手在炉火旁边闲得慌；

他们总有那么多事情要做：

不是把羊毛梳理好，供纺车使用，

便是把残缺破损的农具、家具——

镰刀啦，弯刀啦，连枷啦——再给拾掇好。

 天光一昏暗，家主婆便把一盏灯

挂在天花板下面、烟囱旁边；

烟囱是老式的，又粗笨，又土里土气，

它挡在那里，把下边一大块地方

都遮成黑糊糊一片；他们那盏灯

也老掉牙了，要是问它的工龄，

准保超过了所有的同类。天一黑，

它就亮起来；到了深更半夜，

单单剩下它，跟无数时辰作伴——

这些时辰，一年又一年地流走，

看到，又只得撇下，这一对公婆，

没多少乐趣，心情也未必舒坦，

可总是悬着目标，怀着希望，

过着这种勤苦操劳的生活。

如今，路克长大了，到了十八岁。

半夜里，爷儿俩还坐在那盏灯底下；

家主婆摇着纺车，专心干活，

四外静悄悄，只有这一座小屋

像夏天的蝇子一样嗡嗡直叫。

这灯光，在附近一带出了名，正好是

老两口所过勤俭生活的象征。

说来也凑巧，他们这一座小屋

孤零零立在一块隆起的高地上，

看的地方可远啦：北边和南边

望得见伊斯山谷、丹美尔高阜，

西边望得见靠近湖边的村子；

这一点灯光，每晚都准时出现，

又照得那么远，所以这片谷地里

老老少少的居民，给这座小屋

起了个外号，叫作“晚上的金星”。

 长年累月，他们就这样过下去。

老牧人爱他自己，也爱他老伴；

可是从迈克尔心里来说，他晚年

得来的这个儿子却更为亲爱——

那原因，除了天生的骨肉之情

（这一种痴情，人人心里都会有），

主要还在于：一个垂暮的老人，

本来没什么指望了，偏偏却得了

一个孩子，这可比什么都强——

这叫他有了希望，有了奔头，

叫他振奋，也叫他激动不安。

他对儿子的热爱胜过了一切，

儿子是他的心肝，是他的幸福！

路克还是个偎在怀里的婴儿，

迈克尔就跟慈母一样照料他，

并不是单单为了逗乐开心——

就像一般做父亲的通常那样，

而是下苦功学会耐心和温柔，

像妇人一般，把摇篮轻轻摇晃。

 又过了一些日月，他们这娃娃

快要穿上童装了；别看迈克尔

性子又硬又倔，他可最喜欢

让这小家伙呆在他身边——不论他

是干地里活，还是坐在凳子上，

前面是一头羊，拴住了，趴在那里，

紧挨着一棵又高又大的橡树；

这棵树，孤零零立在小屋门外，

绿叶稠密，剪羊毛的时候，正好

靠它来遮阴，乡下人给它起个名，

叫作“剪毛树”，——至今还这么叫它。

那时，他们爷儿俩坐在树阴里，

旁边是剪毛的帮工们，干得正欢，

剪刀底下，羊儿都趴着不动；

要是这孩子捣乱，拽住羊腿，

或是他大声嚷嚷，惊吓了羊儿，

迈克尔就会硬起心肠，用那种

又疼爱又责备的神情，瞪他几眼。

 蒙老天恩典，这小子越长越结实，

红扑扑两块脸蛋，活像是两朵

开不败的玫瑰。他五岁那年冬天，

迈克尔亲手从一片矮树丛里

砍下来一棵树苗，用铁箍箍好，

上上下下，缺什么装上什么，

做成了一根地地道道的放羊棍，

把它交给这娃娃。有了这玩意儿，

他便活像个小羊倌，兴冲冲站在

门边或缺口，把羊儿拦住或赶开。

要他干这种差事，未免早了点：

你不难想象，小淘气站在羊群里，

又像给他爹帮忙，又像帮倒忙；

别看他举棍子，喊叫，瞪眼，晃拳头

吓唬羊群，哪一样也没少干，

我还是相信：这小子难得有几回

从他爹那儿得到夸赞和奖赏。

 路克满了十周岁，已经顶得住

山上的狂风；一天又一天，跟他爹

爬山过岭，不怕劳累，也不嫌

路远难熬，爷儿俩成了好搭档。

老牧人向来喜爱的原野和山岭，

这时仿佛都变得更加可爱了；

是这个孩子给了他柔情和活力，

好比太阳的光辉，天风的音乐；

老人的心境就像是转世重生——

这些，还用得着我来一一细讲？

 就这样，父亲眼看着儿子长大了；

如今，路克到了十八岁；老牧人

每天的希望，安慰，全在他身上。

 这一户淳朴人家，日子就这样

一天一天过下去，直到有一天

老牧人耳边传来了恼人的音讯。

原来，迈克尔早在多少年以前

就给他一个侄子当了保人；

那侄子，辛苦发家，钱财不少；

意想不到的祸事从天而降，

把家财赔损一空；如今迈克尔

既然是保人，免不了要替他还债：

是一笔大数目，说起来叫人心疼，

差不多抵得上他整个家业的一半。

这个意外的消息，他刚一听说

便灰心丧气，觉得这样的祸事

天底下哪个老年人也经受不起。

后来，他打起精神，想方设法

对付眼前的难关；想来想去，

只有一条路好走：马上卖掉

他家里那份祖传的田产。开头，

他这么决定了；后来，左思右想，

心里实在舍不得。他听到这消息

两天以后，对他老伴说：“伊莎贝，

七十多年来，我一直辛辛苦苦；

这些年，咱们谁不是靠上帝恩典，

在太阳底下过日子？咱们那块地

要是落到了外人手里，往后，

我就是入了土，在土里也睡不安稳。

咱们命苦哇！天天从东头往西头

猛跑的太阳，也不比我更勤快；

我活了这些年，到头来稀里糊涂

捅了这么个娄子，带累了一家。

那个人要是骗咱们，他就是坏蛋；

要是他没有骗咱们，这笔钱也不该

咱们出，世上有成千上万的阔人

出这么一笔钱简直不当一回事。

我不怪罪他；——说这些还不如不说。

 “我本来不想说这些，我想说的是

对付这件事，咱们有办法，有指望。

伊莎贝，我想叫路克出门走走；

可是那块地，咱们一定得保住；

那块地会是路克的，会是自由的，

自由得就像它上边刮过的轻风。

咱们还有个亲戚，这你也知道；

他走运，做生意发了财；咱们出了事，

他会帮忙的。叫路克上他那儿去；

靠亲戚帮忙，再靠他自己节省，

很快能攒下钱，补上这一笔亏空；

这事一办妥，咱们就叫他回来。

眼下他留在家里，又能干什么？

这地方人人都穷，上哪儿挣钱去？”

 老汉说完了；伊莎贝坐着不吭气，

心里可忙着呢，想着从前的事情。

她想起：有个男孩，叫理查·贝特曼，

是孤儿，靠教区公费养活；乡亲们

在教堂门口给他募了一次捐， 

得了些先令、便士、半便士，给他

买了个篮子，装上些日用杂货；

这小子挎着篮子，上了伦敦；  

后来，在那儿跟上了一位大老板，

那老板见他本分，便不派别人，

单单派他去照管海外的分店；

他在那边发了财，成了阔佬；

临死的时候，把财产留给穷人，

还出钱给老家新盖了一座教堂，

地下铺的大理石也是外国货。 

伊莎贝想起这件事，接着又想起

别的几件事，想着想着，她也就

舒眉展眼了。老头子满心高兴，

又接着往下说：“伊莎贝，你听我说呀，

这两天，我这么一盘算，可把我乐坏了。

咱们能挣的，比咱们丢了的多得多。

有这些也够了；——我要是年轻点多好啊；——

眼下有这么个盼头，也就不错啦。

给路克找几件好衣裳，不够，再给他

买几件顶好的；明天就叫他动身；

要不然，就是后天；要不然，今晚：

只要今晚走得成，今晚就走。”

 迈克尔说完了，松松爽爽，起身

向地里走去。接着，整整五天，

家主婆从早到晚，片刻不停，

拿出她最好的手艺，给儿子添制

这次出门需要的衣服用品。

星期天到了，伊莎贝倒也乐意

把活计停下来：因为接连两晚上

她躺在迈克尔身边，听见老头子

翻过来转过去，唉声叹气没个完；

早晨爬起来以后，她看得出来

他灰头土脸，就像丢了魂一样。

这天晌午，娘儿俩在门口坐着，

她对路克说：“孩子，你千万不能走；

我们就生你一个，丢了你，就没啦；

丢了你，就没什么人可想啦；——别走，

你要是走了，你爹非死了不行。”

小伙子却乐呵呵的，劝母亲宽心。

伊莎贝，把担心的事儿一说了出来，

心里也就踏实了。晚上，她做了

最好的饭菜，一家人坐在一起，

又开心，又热火，像过圣诞节一样。

 天一亮，伊莎贝又去忙她的事情。

接着，整整一星期，这座小屋里

喜气洋洋，赛似春天的树林子。

他们那位亲戚的回信来了，

好心好意向他们担保：他一定

尽力而为，给这个孩子帮忙；

接着又补上一笔：事不宜迟，

叫孩子马上动身，上他那儿去。

这封信，他们至少念了十来遍；

伊莎贝走东家串西家，拿信给邻舍们

传看；那时，偌大的英国国土上，

再没有什么人比路克更扬扬得意啦。

伊莎贝回到家里，老头子对她说：

“他明天就动身。”家主婆听了这话，

便说：有不少事情还没有办好，

走得这么急，准保会丢三拉四，

不是忘了这，就是忘了那。后来

她总算答应了，迈克尔也就放了心。

 靠近那喧闹的山溪——格林赫吉尔，

在那片幽谷里，迈克尔早就打算

给他的羊群砌一座新的羊栏。 

当他还不曾听到那恼人的音讯，

便已经从附近搬来了不少石头，

靠那条溪水旁边堆放在一起，

为这座羊栏动工做好了准备。

那天傍晚，他特意带着路克

到那儿走了一遭；刚一到那儿，

老汉便停下脚步，说道：“孩子，

明天你就要走了。我满心疼爱，

眼巴巴瞅着你。是你呀，正是你，当初

还没生下来，就成了我的盼头；

生下来以后，天天是我的甜头。

咱们爷儿俩从前的一些事，我要

说给你听听；你在外边的日子里，

想想这些事有好处；有的事我不说

你就根本不知道。——你刚生下来，

就迷迷糊糊，睡着了两天两夜

（才生的娃娃，这种事倒也常见）；

那时候，为你祷告祝福的话儿

便从你爹舌头上滚下来。日子

一天天过去，我爱你越来越深。

记得咱们家火炉子旁边，头一回

听到你哼哼唧唧——没有词儿，

是天然的调子——那时候你还吃奶呢，

一高兴，就在你妈怀里哼起来。

比这更好听的声音，天底下什么人

也没听见过！多少年，我的日子

都丢在地里，丢在山头了；要不然

我会把你抱在膝头上养大的。

可是，咱俩还是玩伴儿呢，路克，

你总该记得；在这些山头上，咱俩

老是一块玩；有这老家伙陪着，

小家伙开心的事儿哪一样也不缺。”

路克本是个硬汉子，听了这番话

也抽抽搭搭哭起来。这时老牧人

抓住他的手说道：“别，别这样，

我明白，我本来用不着再提这些事。

为你，我心也操尽了，劲也使完了，

待你这么好，算得上一个好爸爸；

其实无非是：人家怎么样待我，

我也怎么样待人。别看我今天

早过了世上一般人入土的年纪，

我可还记得小时候疼我的爹妈。

他们俩一块睡下了，在这块地方

他们过了一辈子，祖宗、老祖宗

也全是这样，日子一到，都乐意

把身子交给祖传的坟山。本来，

我指望你也像他们那样，一辈子

不离家；可是往回看，日子这么长，

六十年也只挣下这么点家业。

咱们这块地，刚到我手里的时候，

租子重着呢；到我四十岁那年，

这一份产业还有一半不属我。

我拼死拼活地苦干；靠上帝恩典，

到三个星期以前，它全是我的啦。 

看起来，叫它再换个新主子，它可

受不了。路克，我给你出的主意

要是错了，那就求老天饶恕；

不过，照我看起来，你还是去的好。”

 这时，老汉停了一会儿，然后  

便指着身旁那一堆石头，又说：

“本来，这是咱俩的差事；如今

得我一个人来干了。我要你，在这儿，

先摆好一块基石——你亲手给我摆。

别难过，孩子，咱们有指望；日后的

好光景，我看咱俩都亲眼见得着。

我八十四了，身子骨还硬朗，还结实；

你去尽你的本分吧，我来尽我的。

好些事，本来是交给你干的，又得

靠我了。往后，我得一个人去放牧，

一个人爬山过岭，风里来雨里去；

好在这些事，你还没出世以前，

我早就一个人干惯了。——老天保佑你！

这两个星期，因为有指望，有盼头，

你心里嘣嘣直跳，——这也怪不得。

我知道，路克，你不会想要离开我；

把咱俩拴在一块的，没别的，只有爱。

你走了，你爹你妈还剩下什么！

唉！我把正经事忘了。听我说，

照我的吩咐，把这块石头摆好。

路克，从明天往后，你到了外边，

要是有什么坏人把你缠上了，

那你就想想我吧，就想想今天

这个时刻吧，把心思转向家里吧，

上帝会扶你一把的。要是有什么

邪门歪道勾引你，我求你记住

你祖祖辈辈是怎么过活的：他们

心地清白，就知道一心做好事。

好了，祝福你一路顺风，孩子！

咱们的羊栏，如今还没个影儿呢，

等你一回来，你就瞧得见：完工啦。

这就算咱俩订下的一份合同吧。

不管你日后怎么样，我爱你不会变，

到我入土的时候，也还惦记你。”

 老牧人说完了，路克便弯下腰去，

照他爹的嘱咐，摆好这座羊栏的

第一块石头。这时，老汉止不住

一阵心酸，他搂住儿子，流着泪

亲他；然后，他们就一路回家。

这个家，在天黑以前，安安静静——

也许，只是表面上安安静静吧？

第二天天一亮，路克便匆忙动了身；

一走上那条大路，便装出一副

满不在乎的神气；他一路走过

邻近各家各户的门口，乡亲们

都来到门前跟他道别，祝福他

称心如意，一直眼看他走远。

 他们那亲戚送来了好消息，说路克

干得不错；路克也连连写信来，

讲城里七七八八的奇闻怪事；

老两口念信的时候有多么高兴 

那就甭提了；伊莎贝逢人便说：

“信写得这么棒，天底下有谁见过！”

过了几个月又是几个月，老牧人

还是天天照旧，干他的老行当，

还是兴头十足，信心也十足。

如今，只要抽得出半晌空闲，

他便走向那荒凉山谷，在那里

动手砌他的羊栏。可是这时候

路克有点不那么安分守己了；

到后来，在那座荒淫浪荡的城市里，

他终于陷进了泥坑；丑事和耻辱

弄得他没脸见人，最后他只得

逃到海外去，找一个藏身之所。

 在爱的强大力量中有一种安慰，

它能使祸事变得可以忍受，

否则，这祸事是会搅昏头脑，

捣碎心灵的。我和谷地里好几个

熟识老汉的村民交谈过，他们

都清楚记得老汉的生平，也记得

他儿子出事以后那几年的情况：

从少到老，他那一副身子骨

一直是强健非凡。他照样上山去，

仰望太阳和云彩，听风的呼唤；

照样干各种活计，侍弄那群羊，

侍弄那块地——他那份小小产业。

也时常走向那一片空旷山谷，

给他的羊群砌那座新的羊栏。

和我交谈的村民都没有忘记

那时节人人心里对他的怜惜；

人人都相信：有好些好些日子，

尽管这老汉到了羊栏工地，

却不曾在那上边垒一块石头。

 那儿，挨着那没有砌好的羊栏，

有时候可以看见他独自坐着，

要么，还有他那条忠心的看羊狗，

也老了，陪着他，蜷伏在他的脚旁。

整整七年里，他还在断断续续

砌那座羊栏，没完工，他就死了。

伊莎贝比她老头子晚死三四年；

她死的时候，他们家那份产业

已经卖出去，落到了外人手里。

那座小屋—— “晚上的金星”，也没了，

它的地基早已被犁铧犁翻；

依据羊子乔「光复前台湾新诗论」一文的规划，日据时期台湾新诗的发展厘分三阶段，简述背景与进程如下：

奠基期

从一九二○年至一九三二年，即「台湾青年」创刊至「台湾新民报」，由周刊改为日刊为止。台湾新诗的奠基有两项主要难题，一是统治者高压在台籍作者精神与思想上的监视；二是语言工具上有新兴白话的实验摸索和民族尊严对日文语言殖民的排斥，艰难而仿徨。此时期的中文诗主要作者为：崇五、赖和、杨守愚、杨华、张我军；日文诗主要作者为王白渊、陈奇云、郭水潭。由于置身异族统治的箝制下，新诗作品普遍呈现反抗的特质，兹举一九二七年台湾民报白话诗征选第一名作品误认（崇五作）为代表，反讽隐匿于诗行间：

公园里的踯躅花，

　不论看了谁都是笑。

狂蝶儿误认了，

－－误认做对他有深长的意思。

每日只在她的头上飞绕，

　踯躅花更是笑，

狂蝶儿呵！我说给你吧－－

　她的笑是冷笑－－嘲笑。

成熟期

从一九三二年至一九三七年，即「台湾新民报」改日刊至日本政府全面禁止使用中文为止。此时期发表园地增多，尤其一九三四年台湾文艺联盟成立，创办「台湾文艺」影响巨大。日文报纸经常转载日本杰出诗人作品，台湾文艺青年并从日本导进西洋名家诗作及文学理论，对台湾新诗产生了思想与形式的广泛影响。此时期重要作者为：吴坤煌、翁闹、水荫萍、李张瑞、林修二、吴新荣、岚吼、梦湘等。中文诗延续社会写实的路线，诗情上愈加悲愤精神苦闷，了无心力捶炼语言；反倒是日文诗的写作接收了从欧洲传抵日本的现代主义，超现实思潮及手法，语言与意象运用灵活，颇具现代感，透过隐喻象征方式透视现实人生，巧妙避开了日帝当局的言论取缔，语言形式较受重视思考，精神内涵则被压抑到潜意识里，以「风车诗社」成员的作品为其典型。例举水荫萍的青色钟楼片

段（叶笛译）：

发亮的柏油路上一点荫影在动

他的耳膜里漩流着钟声青色的音波

无蓬的卡车的爆音

真忙吶

这南方的森林里

讥讽的天使不断地在舞蹈

笑我锈的无知……

有人站在朦胧的钟楼……

卖春妇因寒冷死去……

清脆得发紫的音波……

钢骨演奏的光和疲劳的响声

冷峭的晨早的响声

心灵的声响

决战期

从一九三七年四月一日日本政府全面禁止使用中文至四五年十月二十五日台湾光复为止。由于国际情势紧张，为消弭台胞的祖国意识全面废止杂志报纸汉文栏，中文刊物被迫停刊，中文作品因而消藏。日文作品则从四○年的「文艺台湾」与四一年的「台湾文学」出现后，才又活跃。此时期登场诗人以丘淳洸、杨云萍、张冬芳为重要。精神阴影被转化为个人抒情以逃避帝国主义的政治迫害，抵抗意识则深藏于语言组织中或以废弃语言（停笔）坚执。例举杨云萍的作品鳄鱼：

我静止着不动，

但地球却还在那里运动。

「这里的水是多么冷呵，

再稍稍地温暖一些吧。」

然而寒冷，寒冷，

啊，寒冷，

惟有我尾巴上的剑

却永远锋利，决不黝黯。

正当太平洋战争末期，物质匮乏精神萧条，一九四二年张彦勋创办了「银铃会」主编「缘草」季刊，聚合了以日文写作的年轻同仁，维系文学活动于时代暗角，实属不易。一九四五年台湾光复，因为语言的再度变易及五○年代国民党白色恐怖的高压统治，致使前辈诗人遭受精神冲击而停笔。银铃会的同仁及其它新一代诗人们成长于日据时代最严厉的禁制汉语阶段，虽然努力学习中国语文，奈何短时期内仍无法突破语言文字障碍，「缘草」维持到一九四七年暂停，翌年更名为「潮流」以中、日文夹杂合用的方式继续出版六期，一九四九年正式停办。

推荐阅读：

中曲不觉泪滂沱 揽衣出户夜如何