生活是真實的！生活是認真的！
生活的目標不是墳墓；
靈魂不是這樣說，
「人本塵土，終歸塵土」。 

享樂和憂患，
不是我們預定的目標或道路；
只有行動使我們
一天比一天進步。

藝術是漫長的，時間在飛度，
儘管我們的心強健勇敢，
然而就像聲音低沈的鼓，
正敲打著哀樂走向墳墓。

在世界廣闊的戰場，
在生活的軍營，
不要做被人驅趕的蠢牛，
做一個鬥爭的英雄！

不管未來多美好，不要信賴它！
讓死的過去埋葬死亡！
行動──在活生生的現在行動！
心在內，主在上！

偉人們的一生提醒我們，
我們可使自己一生崇高，
我們離開時，在時間沙灘上，
留下我們的腳印。

腳印，也許是另一個，
駛過生活莊嚴的大海，
一位翻了船的孤零兄弟，
見了腳印，就會再振作起來。

那麼讓我們幹起來吧，
做好迎接各種命運的準備；
我們仍在成功，仍在追求，
學會勞動，學會等待。

A Psalm of Life

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG
   MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
    "Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem

Life is real! Life is earnest!
    And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
    Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
    Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
   Finds us farther than to-day

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
    And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
    Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
    In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
    Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
    Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
    Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
    We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
    Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
    Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
    Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
    With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
    Learn to labour and to wait

在一株繁茂的栗樹下，
有家鄉村鐵匠鋪。
鐵匠是個強壯的漢子，
一雙大手真強壯；
在他雄健的胳膊上，
肌肉就像鐵一樣。

他的頭髮是捲曲的，又黑又長，
還有個竭色的臉龐； 
他的眉毛浸透誠實的汗水
他掙他能掙的錢，
他敢面對整個世界，
因為他對誰也不欠賬。

一週又一週，從早到晚，
你都能聽見他的風箱在響，
你能聽見他在揮動沈重的大錘，
緩慢而又節奏地敲打著，
就像在夕陽西下的時候，
鄉村教堂的打鍾人在敲鐘一樣。

孩子們放學回家，
從敞開的門往裏張望，
他們愛看冒著火焰的熔爐，
他們愛聽吼著的風箱，
他們愛捉燃燒的火花，
那火花就像打穀場上穀殼帶飛揚。

星期天他到教堂去，
坐在他兒子們中央； 
傾聽牧師的祈禱和傳道，
傾聽他的女兒，
在鄉村唱詩班裏唱歌的聲音，
這使他心情舒暢。

他覺得他女兒的歌聲，
就像是她母親在天堂裏歌唱。
他一定又想起她了，
不知她在墳墓休息得怎樣，
於是他用粗硬的手，
抹去眼裏的淚光。

勞累──歡樂──悲傷
一生中他努力向上，
每天早晨他看著工作開始，
每天晚上又看著它結束； 
有的工作計劃，有的工作完成了，
然後他得到了一夜的安詳。

多謝，多謝你，我珍貴的朋友，
謝謝你給我上了一課！
帶這樣冒著火焰的人生熔爐裏，
一定可以煉出我們的財富； 
這樣鏗鏘作響的鐵砧上，
便可造就出每個火紅的事業和思想！

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree
    The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
    With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
    Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
    His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
    He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
    For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
   You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
    With measured beat and slow.
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
    When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
    Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge.
    And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
    Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
   And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
    He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
   And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
    Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
    How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
   A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling.--rejoicing,--sorrowing
   Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks. thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
    For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
    Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
   Each burning deed and thought!

聽，孩子們，你們會聽到，
保羅‧裏維爾夜半騎馬來，
七五年四月十八日：
現在活著的人幾乎沒有一個
能記住這個著名的日子和年代。

他對朋友說，「如果今夜英國人
從城裏由海上或陸路向我們進攻，
就在北教堂樓頂的鐘塔拱門上，
掛起燈籠作為信號燈──
如果由陸路來，掛一盞，
如果由海上來，掛兩盞，
我在對岸會作好準備，
騎馬傳播警報聲，
傳到米德爾塞克斯的每一個村莊和農場， 
讓同胞們起來並配上武器。」
然後他說，「晚安！」
拿起布包的槳悄悄劃到查爾斯敦岸邊，
就在這時月亮從海灣升起，
在海灣的停泊處激烈起浮的
是英國薩默塞特號軍艦，
這是一艘鬼船，每根桅桿和檣
就像是監獄的橫桿攔住月亮，
她是一個巨大的黑塊，
隨她自己在海潮裏的倒影而膨脹。

與此同時，他的朋友穿過大街小巷，
四處走動，豎起耳朵急切地監視著，
直至在周圍萬籟俱寂中，他聽到
士兵在兵營門口集中的聲響。
武器聲，腳步聲，士兵們踏著整齊的腳步，
挺進到岸邊船隊的近旁。

然後他爬到老北教堂的塔樓上邊，
順著木樓梯，躡手躡腳地
走到上面的鐘塔裏
棲息在暗色椽木上的鴿子
被驚飛了，在他周圍亂成一片，
只見影子在飛動，
順著搖搖晃晃，又高又陡的樓梯，
他爬到牆上最高的窗戶，
在那裏他停下傾聽並朝下看，
看一會全城的屋頂，
看著月光將全城灑遍。

底下，教堂墓地裏躺著死人，
還有山崗上他們的軍營，
四周萬籟俱寂，靜止不動，
使他可以聽到警覺的夜風
像是踏著哨兵的腳步，
偷偷地從一個帳篷走到另一個帳篷，
似乎在悄悄地說，「平安無事！」
那一刻只有他感覺到時間和地點的魔力，
感覺到孤獨的塔樓和死人暗藏的恐懼，
因為突然間他的思想
全部集中到遠方的一個影子上，
那是在河道變寬與海灣相接的地方，
在上漲的潮水裏，一條黑線在飄浮，
就像是一座船搭的橋樑。

這時在對岸的保羅‧裏維爾，
急忙上馬，穿著馬靴套著馬刺，
踏著沈重的步伐走著，
時而他拍拍馬側，
時而盯著遠近的山水，
然後猛地在地面一踩，
轉身收緊馬的腹帶，
但他主要還是急切地監視著
老北教堂的鐘樓，
鐘樓高聳在山崗的墓地上頭
孤獨，靜止，昏暗，就像是幽靈。
瞧！他看到塔樓頂上
一絲光線，接著是一線光！
他躍到鞍上轉過馬勒，
但他只是徘徊注視著，
直至完全看到塔樓裏燃起第二盞燈。

在鄉村的街道上馬蹄匆匆
月光下一個身影，黑暗中一團東西，
底下一匹駿馬無畏而輕快地飛馳而去
在鵝卵石上將火星燃起，
沒辦法了！可是，那天晚上國家的命運
卻騎著馬穿過黑暗見到光明，
那飛馳的駿馬踢出的火星，
其熱量足以使火焰燃遍這片土地。

他離開了村子，登上陡坡，
在他下面，梅斯蒂克河與海潮匯合，
幽深的水面，寂靜，寬闊，
在那些環繞河邊的赤楊樹下，
可聽到他的坐騎馬蹄的的，
時而輕輕踏在沙灘上，
時而在礁石上作響。

村裏的鍾已敲十二點，
這時他過橋進入麥得福德城圍，
他聽到鐘在叮噹，
他聽到農夫的狗在吠，
太陽下山之後，
他可感覺到河上薄霧的濕氣，
村裏的鐘敲到了一點，
這時他飛馳進入列剋星敦地區。
當他經過時，看到鍍金的風信雞
在月光裏轉來轉去，
會議室的窗戶，空空蕩蕩，
緊盯著他射出幽靈般的光芒，
面對即在擔負的血腥的工作
它們似乎已經嚇得發呆。

村裏的鐘敲到兩響，
這時他來到康科德城的橋上，
他聽到羊群的叫聲
和樹間的鳥鳴，
晨風吹過枯黃的草地，
他感到了風的氣息，
他本可安睡在自己的床上，
可他現在可能在橋邊第一個倒下，‧
他可能被英國人的火槍子彈穿透，
就在那天躺下死去。

你們知道後來發生的事。
在你們讀過的書裏，
你知道英國正規軍是如何開火和逃命的，
農夫們從每一堵籬笆後，
從每一個農院的牆後，
以子彈將他們的子彈還擊
他們把英軍士兵趕進小巷，
接著又越過田野重新出現，
在路邊拐彎處的樹下，
他們停火和裝彈藥。
保羅‧裏維爾一整夜都這樣騎著馬跑，
一整夜都能聽到他的喊叫，
喊遍每個米德爾塞克斯的村莊和農場，
那是蔑視的喊聲，不是害怕的呼號，
那是黑暗中的聲音，是敲門的聲音，
那是一個將永遠產生共鳴的詞！
因為過去的夜風載著這個詞，
經歷過我們的全部歷史直至最後時辰，
在黑暗中，在危險時，在需要時，
人們就醒來傾聽那駿馬匆匆的馬蹄聲
和保羅‧裏維爾夜半的報信。

Paul Revere's Ride

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town tonight,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy- something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,-
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge -would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road.
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoofbeats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.