英文朗诵致云雀

To a Skylark by Percy Bysshe Shelley雪莱 致云雀Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud. As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now!自由颂by Percy Bysshe Shelley[Composed early in 1820, and published, with “Prometheus Unbound”, in the same year. A transcript in Shelley’s hand of lines 1-21 is included in the Harvard manuscript book, and amongst the Boscombe manuscripts there is a fragment of a rough draft (Garnett). For further particulars concerning the text see Editor’s Notes.]Yet, Freedom, yet, thy banner, torn but flying,Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind.—BYRON.1.A glorious people vibrated againThe lightning of the nations: LibertyFrom heart to heart, from tower to tower, o’er Spain,Scattering contagious fire into the sky,Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its dismay, And in the rapid plumes of songClothed itself, sublime and strong;As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among,Hovering inverse o’er its accustomed prey;Till from its station in the Heaven of fame The Spirit’s whirlwind rapped it, and the rayOf the remotest sphere of living flameWhich paves the void was from behind it flung,As foam from a ship’s swiftness, when there cameA voice out of the deep: I will record the same. 2.The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth:The burning stars of the abyss were hurledInto the depths of Heaven. The daedal earth,That island in the ocean of the world,Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air: But this divinest universeWas yet a chaos and a curse,For thou wert not: but, power from worst producing worse,The spirit of the beasts was kindled there,And of the birds, and of the watery forms, And there was war among them, and despairWithin them, raging without truce or terms:The bosom of their violated nurseGroaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and worms on worms,And men on men; each heart was as a hell of storms. 3.Man, the imperial shape, then multipliedHis generations under the pavilionOf the Sun’s throne: palace and pyramid,Temple and prison, to many a swarming millionWere, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves. This human living multitudeWas savage, cunning, blind, and rude,For thou wert not; but o’er the populous solitude,Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves,Hung Tyranny; beneath, sate deified The sister-pest, congregator of slaves;Into the shadow of her pinions wideAnarchs and priests, who feed on gold and bloodTill with the stain their inmost souls are dyed,Drove the astonished herds of men from every side. 4.The nodding promontories, and blue isles,And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous wavesOf Greece, basked glorious in the open smilesOf favouring Heaven: from their enchanted cavesProphetic echoes flung dim melody. On the unapprehensive wildThe vine, the corn, the olive mild,Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled;And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea,Like the man’s thought dark in the infant’s brain, Like aught that is which wraps what is to be,Art’s deathless dreams lay veiled by many a veinOf Parian stone; and, yet a speechless child,Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strainHer lidless eyes for thee; when o’er the Aegean main 5.Athens arose: a city such as visionBuilds from the purple crags and silver towersOf battlemented cloud, as in derisionOf kingliest masonry: the ocean-floorsPave it; the evening sky pavilions it; Its portals are inhabitedBy thunder-zoned winds, each headWithin its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,—A divine work! Athens, diviner yet,Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set;For thou wert, and thine all-creative skillPeopled, with forms that mock the eternal deadIn marble immortality, that hillWhich was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. 6.Within the surface of Time’s fleeting riverIts wrinkled image lies, as then it layImmovably unquiet, and for everIt trembles, but it cannot pass away!The voices of thy bards and sages thunder With an earth-awakening blastThrough the caverns of the past:(Religion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks aghast:)A winged sound of joy, and love, and wonder,Which soars where Expectation never flew, Rending the veil of space and time asunder!One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and dew;One Sun illumines Heaven; one Spirit vastWith life and love makes chaos ever new,As Athens doth the world with thy delight renew. 7.Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest,Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmaean Maenad,She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearestFrom that Elysian food was yet unweaned;And many a deed of terrible uprightness By thy sweet love was sanctified;And in thy smile, and by thy side,Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died.But when tears stained thy robe of vestal-whiteness,And gold profaned thy Capitolian throne, Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness,The senate of the tyrants: they sunk proneSlaves of one tyrant: Palatinus sighedFaint echoes of Ionian song; that toneThou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown 8.From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill,Or piny promontory of the Arctic main,Or utmost islet inaccessible,Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign,Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks, And every Naiad’s ice-cold urn,To talk in echoes sad and sternOf that sublimest lore which man had dared unlearn?For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocksOf the Scald’s dreams, nor haunt the Druid’s sleep. What if the tears rained through thy shattered locksWere quickly dried? for thou didst groan, not weep,When from its sea of death, to kill and burn,The Galilean serpent forth did creep,And made thy world an undistinguishable heap. 9.A thousand years the Earth cried, ‘Where art thou?’And then the shadow of thy coming fellOn Saxon Alfred’s olive-cinctured brow:And many a warrior-peopled citadel.Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, Arose in sacred Italy,Frowning o’er the tempestuous seaOf kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crowned majesty;That multitudinous anarchy did sweepAnd burst around their walls, like idle foam, Whilst from the human spirit’s deepest deepStrange melody with love and awe struck dumbDissonant arms; and Art, which cannot die,With divine wand traced on our earthly homeFit imagery to pave Heaven’s everlasting dome. 10.Thou huntress swifter than the Moon! thou terrorOf the world’s wolves! thou bearer of the quiver,Whose sunlike shafts pierce tempest-winged Error,As light may pierce the clouds when they disseverIn the calm regions of the orient day! Luther caught thy wakening glance;Like lightning, from his leaden lanceReflected, it dissolved the visions of the tranceIn which, as in a tomb, the nations lay;And England’s prophets hailed thee as their queen, In songs whose music cannot pass away,Though it must flow forever: not unseenBefore the spirit-sighted countenanceOf Milton didst thou pass, from the sad sceneBeyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien. 11.The eager hours and unreluctant yearsAs on a dawn-illumined mountain stood.Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears,Darkening each other with their multitude,And cried aloud, ‘Liberty!’ Indignation Answered Pity from her cave;Death grew pale within the grave,And Desolation howled to the destroyer, Save!When like Heaven’s Sun girt by the exhalationOf its own glorious light, thou didst arise. Chasing thy foes from nation unto nationLike shadows: as if day had cloven the skiesAt dreaming midnight o’er the western wave,Men started, staggering with a glad surprise,Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. 12.Thou Heaven of earth! what spells could pall thee thenIn ominous eclipse? a thousand yearsBred from the slime of deep Oppression’s den.Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears.Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away; How like Bacchanals of bloodRound France, the ghastly vintage, stoodDestruction’s sceptred slaves, and Folly’s mitred brood!When one, like them, but mightier far than they,The Anarch of thine own bewildered powers, Rose: armies mingled in obscure array,Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred bowersOf serene Heaven. He, by the past pursued,Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours,Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ancestral towers. 13.England yet sleeps: was she not called of old?Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunderVesuvius wakens Aetna, and the coldSnow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder:O’er the lit waves every Aeolian isle From Pithecusa to PelorusHowls, and leaps, and glares in chorus:They cry, ‘Be dim; ye lamps of Heaven suspended o’er us!’Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smileAnd they dissolve; but Spain’s were links of steel, Till bit to dust by virtue’s keenest file.Twins of a single destiny! appealTo the eternal years enthroned before usIn the dim West; impress us from a seal,All ye have thought and done! Time cannot dare conceal. 14.Tomb of Arminius! render up thy deadTill, like a standard from a watch-tower’s staff,His soul may stream over the tyrant’s head;Thy victory shall be his epitaph,Wild Bacchanal of truth’s mysterious wine, King-deluded Germany,His dead spirit lives in thee.Why do we fear or hope? thou art already free!And thou, lost Paradise of this divineAnd glorious world! thou flowery wilderness! Thou island of eternity! thou shrineWhere Desolation, clothed with loveliness,Worships the thing thou wert! O Italy,Gather thy blood into thy heart; repressThe beasts who make their dens thy sacred palaces. 15.Oh, that the free would stamp the impious nameOf KING into the dust! or write it there,So that this blot upon the page of fameWere as a serpent’s path, which the light airErases, and the flat sands close behind!Ye the oracle have heard:Lift the victory-flashing sword.And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word,Which, weak itself as stubble, yet can bindInto a mass, irrefragably firm, The axes and the rods which awe mankind;The sound has poison in it, ’tis the spermOf what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorred;Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term,To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. 16.Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would kindleSuch lamps within the dome of this dim world,That the pale name of PRIEST might shrink and dwindleInto the hell from which it first was hurled,A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure; Till human thoughts might kneel alone,Each before the judgement-throneOf its own aweless soul, or of the Power unknown!Oh, that the words which make the thoughts obscureFrom which they spring, as clouds of glimmering dew From a white lake blot Heaven’s blue portraiture,Were stripped of their thin masks and various hueAnd frowns and smiles and splendours not their own,Till in the nakedness of false and trueThey stand before their Lord, each to receive its due! 17.He who taught man to vanquish whatsoeverCan be between the cradle and the graveCrowned him the King of Life. Oh, vain endeavour!If on his own high will, a willing slave,He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor What if earth can clothe and feedAmplest millions at their need,And power in thought be as the tree within the seed?Or what if Art, an ardent intercessor,Driving on fiery wings to Nature’s throne, Checks the great mother stooping to caress her,And cries: ‘Give me, thy child, dominionOver all height and depth’? if Life can breedNew wants, and wealth from those who toil and groan,Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousandfold for one! 18.Come thou, but lead out of the inmost caveOf man’s deep spirit, as the morning-starBeckons the Sun from the Eoan wave,Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her carSelf-moving, like cloud charioted by flame; Comes she not, and come ye not,Rulers of eternal thought,To judge, with solemn truth, life’s ill-apportioned lot?Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the FameOf what has been, the Hope of what will be? O Liberty! if such could be thy nameWert thou disjoined from these, or they from thee:If thine or theirs were treasures to be boughtBy blood or tears, have not the wise and freeWept tears, and blood like tears?—The solemn harmony 19.Paused, and the Spirit of that mighty singingTo its abyss was suddenly withdrawn;Then, as a wild swan, when sublimely wingingIts path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn,Sinks headlong through the aereal golden light On the heavy-sounding plain,When the bolt has pierced its brain;As summer clouds dissolve, unburthened of their rain;As a far taper fades with fading night,As a brief insect dies with dying day, My song, its pinions disarrayed of might,Drooped; o’er it closed the echoes far awayOf the great voice which did its flight sustain,As waves which lately paved his watery wayHiss round a drowner’s head in their tempestuous play.太多了，去雪莱吧找吧

《致云雀》是英国诗人雪莱的抒情诗代表作之一。诗歌运用浪漫主义的手法，热情地赞颂了云雀。在诗人的笔下，云雀是欢乐、光明、美丽的象征。诗人运用比喻、类比、设问的方式，对云雀加以描绘。原文Hail to thee, blithe Spirit！Bird thou never wert，That from Heaven, or near it，Pourest thy full heart，In profuse strains of unpremeditated art。Higher still and higher，From the earth thou springest，Like a cloud of fire；The blue deep thou wingest，And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest。In the golden lightning，Of the sunken sun，O‘er which clouds are bright’ning，Thou dost float and run，Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun。The pale purple even，Melts around thy flight；Like a star of Heaven，In the broad daylight，Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight；Keen as are the arrows，Of that silver sphere，Whose intense lamp narrows，In the white dawn clear，Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there。All the earth and air，With thy voice is loud。As，when night is bare。From one lonely cloud，The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed。What thou art we know not；What is most like thee？From rainbow clouds there flow not，Drops so bright to see，As from thy presence showers a rain of melody。Like a poet hidden，In the light of thought，Singing hymns unbidden，Till the world is wrought，To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not；Like a high-born maiden，In a palace tower，Soothing her love-laden，Soul in secret hour，With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower；Like a glow-worm golden，In a dell of dew，Scattering unbeholden，Its aerial hue。Like a rose embowered，In its own green leaves，By warm winds deflowered，Till the scent it gives，Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves。Sound of vernal showers，On the twinkling grass，Rain-awakened flowers，All that ever was，Joyous， and clear，and fresh，thy music doth surpass。.Teach us，sprite or bird，What sweet thoughts are thine，I have never heard，Praise of love or wine，That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine。Chorus hymeneal，Or triumphal chaunt，Matched with thine, would be all，But an empty vaunt，A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want。What objects are the fountains，Of thy happy strain？What fields, or waves, or mountains？What shapes of sky or plain？What love of thine own kind？ what ignorance of pain？With thy clear keen joyance，Languor cannot be，Shadow of annoyance，Never came near thee。Thou lovest，but ne'er knew love's sad satiety。Waking or asleep，Thou of death must deem，Things more true and deep，Than we mortals dream，Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream？We look before and after，And pine for what is not，Our sincerest laughter，With some pain is fraught；Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought。Yet if we could scorn，Hate ，and pride，and fear；If we were things born，Not to shed a tear，I know not how thy joy we ever should come near。Better than all measures，Of delightful sound，Better than all treasures，That in books are found，Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground！Teach me half the gladness，That thy brain must know，Such harmonious madness，From my lips would flow，The world should listen then, as I am listening now！《西风颂》是英国浪漫主义诗人雪莱的诗作。全诗共五节，始终围绕作为革命力量象征的西风来加以咏唱。原文第一节O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leavesdeadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,Who chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azuresister of the Spring shall blowHer clariono'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!第二节Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,Angels of rain and lightning: there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine aery surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height,The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!第三节Thou who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrownwith azure moss and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!第四节If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'dOne too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.第五节Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep, autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawaken'd earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! Oh Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?