哀歌; 地獄のウラニア (星占いのミューズ） elegy; Subterrain Urania

there is starry sky underneath the ground.
地面の下には星空がある。
upon the welkin, the untainted black earth.
天幕の上に、穢れなく黒い浄土
each star in shimmering slumber can sing a lullaby.
一つ一つの星が煌めくまどろみの中で子守唄を歌う、
for the dying middle-bourne, the purple delineation
死ぬゆく中つ国境のために、紫色の境界線を描く
between the blue and black, in star's soothing rhyme,
青と黒の間、星の癒しの韻の中で、
for the human that has lived, She bid good-bye.
生きてきた人間のために、彼女は別れを告げた。
Urania beneath, facing upon high
下に居るウラニア、 黒い大空を仰ぐ
the black firmament, above which lies the eternal
その上空には、永遠に移り変わる
moving and shifting miracles and mysteries of light, through art
光の奇跡と神秘がござる
and science many, many, a life times' returned worth yet undeciphered.
幾つか輪廻の芸術と科学を通して、いまだ解明されてなく
and now they fell down as thrown-torch comet-woes.
そして今、彼らは投げられたたいまつの彗災（すいさい・彗星の災難・彗星の悲哀）のように舞い降りた。
and tears upon the unformed red ocean of Hades.
そして、黄泉の未定形の赤い海の上に涙を流した。
fell to dreaming like dead larvae in warm soil nevermore to be shiny flying moths.
堕ちて、暖かい土の中で死んだ幼虫のように夢見るようになった。
光り輝く飛翔する蛾になることはもう決してない事としても。

to Keats.
ジョン・キーツへ

to the Dead Pan from Greece.
死没したギリシャのパンへ

inspired by Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Adonais".

パーシー・ビッシュ・シェリーの詩《アドネイス》にインスパイアされた。

Appendix:
付録
other poems of this topic
他のこの主題に基づいてる詩
(in public domain)
(パブリックドメイン)

Ezra PoundさんのPan Is Dead

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Pan Is Dead

Ezra Pound

‘Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead.
Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all,
And weave ye him his coronal.’

'There is no summer in the leaves,
And withered are the sedges;
How shall we weave a coronal,
Or gather floral pledges?'

'That I may not say, Ladies.
Death was ever a churl.
That I may not say, Ladies.
How should he show a reason,
That he has taken our Lord away
Upon such hollow season?'

Robert Barret Browningさんより

The Dead Pan

I

Gods of Hellas,1 gods of Hellas,

Can ye listen in your silence?

Can your mystic voices tell us

Where ye hide? In floating islands,

With a wind that evermore

Keeps you out of sight of shore?

Pan, Pan is dead.

II

In what revels are ye sunken,

In old Æthiopia?9

Have the Pygmies made you drunken,

Bathing in mandaragora11

Your divine pale lips that shiver

Like the lotus in the river?

Pan, Pan is dead.

III

Do ye sit there still in slumber,

In gigantic Alpine rows?

The black poppies17 out of number

Nodding, dripping from your brows

To the red lees of your wine,

And so kept alive and fine?

Pan, Pan is dead.

IV

Or lie crushed your stagnant corses22

Where the silver spheres roll on,

Stung to life by centric forces

Thrown like rays out from the sun?25—

While the smoke of your old altars

Is the shroud that round you welters?

Great Pan is dead.

V

"Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,"

Said the old Hellenic tongue!30

Said the hero–oaths, as well as

Poets' songs the sweetest sung!

Have ye grown deaf in a day?

Can ye speak not yea or nay—

Since Pan is dead?

VI

Do ye leave your rivers flowing

All alone, O Naiades,37

While your drenchèd locks dry slow in

This cold feeble sun and breeze?—

Not a word the Naiads say,

Though the rivers run for aye.41

For Pan is dead.

VII

From the gloaming of the oak–wood,

O ye Drayads,44 could ye flee?

At the rushing thunderstroke, would

No sob tremble through the tree?—

Not a word the Dryads say,

Though the forests wave for aye.

For Pan is dead.

VIII

Have ye left the mountain places,

Oreads51 wild, for other tryst?

Shall we see no sudden faces

Strike a glory through the mist?

Not a sound the silence thrills

Of the everlasting hills.

Pan, Pan is dead.

IX

O twelve gods of Plato's vision,57

Crowned to starry wanderings,—

With your chariots in procession,

And your silver clash of wings!

Very pale ye seem to rise,

Ghosts of Grecian deities,—

Now Pan is dead!

X

Jove,64, that right hand is unloaded,

Whence the thunder did prevail,

While in idiocy of godhead

Thou art staring the stars pale!

And thine eagle, blind and old,

Roughs his feathers in the cold.

Pan, Pan is dead.

XI

Where, O Juno,71 is the glory

Of thy regal look and tread?

Will they lay, for evermore, thee,

On thy dim,strait,74 golden bed?

Will thy queendom all lie hid

Meekly under either lid?76

Pan, Pan is dead.

XII

Ha, Apollo!78 floats his golden

Hair all mist–like where he stands,

While the Muses80 hang enfolding

Knee and foot with faint wild hands?

'Neath the clanging of thy bow,

Niobe83 looked lost as thou!

Pan, Pan is dead.

XIII

Shall the casque85 with its brown iron,

Pallas'86 broad blue eyes, eclipse,

And no hero take inspiring

From the god–Greek of her lips?

‘Neath her olive89 dost thou sit,

Mars90 the mighty, cursing it?

Pan, Pan is dead.

XIV

Bacchus, Bacchus!92 On the panther

He swoons,—bound with his own vines.

And his Mænads slowly saunter,

Head aside, among the pines,

While they murmur dreamingly,

"Evohe!—ah—evohe—!"97

Ah, Pan is dead!

XV

Neptune99 lies beside the trident,

Dull and senseless as a stone;

And old Pluto101 deaf and silent

Is cast out into the sun.

Ceres103 smileth stern thereat,

"We all now are desolate—

Now Pan is dead."

XVI

Aphrodite!106 Dead and driven

As thy native foam, thou art;

With the cestus long done heaving

On the white calm of thine heart!

Ai Adonis! At that shriek,

Not a tear runs down her cheek—

Pan, Pan is dead.

XVII

And the Loves113 we used to know from

One another, huddled lie,

Frore115 as taken in a snow–storm,

Close beside her tenderly,—

As if each had weakly tried

Once to kiss her as he died.

Pan, Pan is dead.

XVIII

What, and Hermes?120 Time enthralleth

All thy cunning, Hermes, thus,—

And the ivy blindly crawleth

Round thy brave caduceus?

Hast thou no new message for us,

Full of thunder and Jove–glories?

Nay, Pan is dead.

XIX

Crownèd Cybele's127 great turret

Rocks and crumbles on her head.

Roar the lions of her chariot

Toward the wilderness, unfed.

Scornful children are not mute,—

"Mother, mother, walk a–foot—

Since Pan is dead."

XX

In the fiery–hearted center

Of the solemn universe,

Ancient Vesta,136 —who could enter

To consume thee with this curse?

Drop thy grey chin on thy knee,

O thou palsied Mystery!

For Pan is dead.

XXI

Gods, we vainly do adjure141 you,—

Ye return nor voice nor sign!

Not a votary143 could secure you

Even a grave for your Divine!

Not a grave, to show thereby,

Here these grey old gods do lie.

Pan, Pan is dead.

XXII

Even that Greece who took your wages,

Calls the obolus149 outworn.

And the hoarse, deep–throated ages

Laugh your godships unto scorn.

And the poets do disclaim you,

Or grow colder if they name you—

And Pan is dead.

XXIII

Gods bereavèd, gods belated,

With your purples156 rent asunder!

Gods discrowned and desecrated,

Disinherited of thunder!

Now, the goats may climb and crop

The soft grass on Ida's160 top—

Now, Pan is dead.

XXIV

Calm, of old, the bark went onward,

When a cry more loud than wind,

Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward,

From the pilèd Dark behind;

And the sun shrank and grew pale,

Breathed against by the great wail—

"Pan, Pan is dead."

XXV

And the rowers from the benches

Fell,—each shuddering on his face—

While departing Influences171

Struck a cold back through the place;

And the shadow of the ship

Reeled along the passive deep—

"Pan, Pan is dead."

XXVI

And that dismal cry rose slowly

And sank slowly through the air,

Full of spirit's melancholy

And eternity's despair!

And they heard the words it said—

Pan is dead—Great Pan is dead—

Pan, Pan is dead.

XXVII

'Twas the hour when One in Sion183

Hung for love's sake on a cross;

When His brow was chill with dying,

And His soul was faint with loss;

When His priestly blood dropped downward,

And His kingly eyes looked throneward—

Then, Pan was dead.

XXVIII

By the love He stood alone in,

His sole Godhead rose complete,

And the false gods fell down moaning,

Each from off his golden seat;

All the false gods with a cry

Rendered up their deity—

Pan, Pan was dead.

XXIX

Wailing wide across the islands,

They rent, vest–like, their Divine!

And a darkness and a silence

Quenched the light of every shrine;

And Dodona's201 oak swang lonely

Henceforth, to the tempest only,

Pan, Pan was dead.

XXX

Pythia204 staggered,—feeling o'er her,

Her lost god's forsaking look.

Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror,

And her crispy fillets207 shook,

And her lips gasped through their foam,

For a word that did not come.

Pan, Pan was dead.

XXXI

O ye vain false gods of Hellas,

Ye are silent evermore!

And I dash down this old chalice,

Whence libations214 ran of yore.

See, the wine crawls in the dust

Wormlike—as your glories must,

Since Pan is dead.

XXXII

Get to dust, as common mortals,

By a common doom and track!

Let no Schiller from the portals

Of that Hades, call you back,

Or instruct us to weep all

At your antique funeral.

Pan, Pan is dead.

XXXIII

By your beauty, which confesses

Some chief Beauty conquering you,—

By our grand heroic guesses,

Through your falsehood, at the True,—

We will weepnot … ! earth shall roll

Heir to each god's aureolo230—

And Pan is dead.

XXXIV

Earth outgrows the mythic fancies

Sung beside her in her youth;

And those debonaire romances

Sound but dull beside the truth.

Phœbus'236 chariot–course is run.

Look up, poets, to the sun!

Pan, Pan is dead.

XXXV

Christ hath sent us down the angels;

And the whole earth and the skies

Are illumed by altar–candles

Lit for blessèd mysteries;

And a Priest's hand, through creation,

Waveth calm and consecration—

And Pan is dead.

XXXVI

Truth is fair: should we forgo it?

Can we sigh right for a wrong?

God himself is the best Poet,248

And the Real is his song.

Sing his truth out fair and full,

And secure his beautiful!

Let Pan be dead.

XXXVII

Truth is large. Our aspiration

Scarce embraces half we be.

Shame, to stand in His creation

And doubt truth's sufficiency!—

To think God's song unexcelling

The poor tales of our own telling—

When Pan is dead.

XXXVIII

What is true and just and honest,

What is lovely, what is pure—

All of praise that hath admonisht,

All of virtue, shall endure,—

These are themes for poets'uses,

Stirring nobler than the Muses,

Ere Pan was dead.

XXXIX

O brave poets, keep back nothing,

Nor mix falsehood with the whole.

Look up Godward; speak the truth in

Worthy song from earnest soul!

Hold, in high poetic duty,

Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.272

Pan, Pan is dead.