By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross
Somber and rich, the skies;
Great glooms, and starry plains.
Gently the night wind sighs;
Else a vast silence reigns.
The splendid silence clings
Around me; and around
The saddest of all kings
Crowned, and again discrowned.
Comely and calm, he rides
Hard by his own Whitehall.
Only the night wind glides;
No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.
Gone, too, his Court; and yet,
The stars his courtiers are─
Stars in their stations set,
And every wandering star.
Alone he rides, alone,
The fair and fatal king;
Dark night is all his own,
That strange and solemn thing.
Which are more full of fate─
The stars, or those sad eyes?
Which are more still and great─
Those brows, or the dark skies?
Although his whole heart yearn
In passionate tragedy,
Never was face so stern
With sweet austerity.
Vanquished in life, his death
By beauty made amends;
The passing of his breath
Won his defeated ends.
Brief life, and hapless? Nay;
Through death, life grew sublime.
Speak after sentence? Yea─
And to the end of time.
Armored he rides, his head
Bare to the stars of doom;
He triumphs now, the dead,
Beholding London‘s gloom.
Our wearier spirit faints,
Vexed in the world‘s employ;
His soul was of the saints,
And art to him was joy.
King, tried in fires of woe!
Men hunger for thy grace;
And through the night I go,
Loving thy mournful face.
Yet, when the city sleeps,
When all the cries are still,
The stars and heavenly deeps
Work out a perfect will.
──by Lionel Johnson (1867-1902)
Johnson, Lionel Pigot, 1867–1902, British poet and critic, b. Broadstairs, Kent, educated at Oxford. He lived an ascetic, scholarly life in London, converting to Roman Catholicism in 1891. His keen interest in the Irish literary renaissance is reflected in many of his poems. As a whole Johnson‘s poetry is spare and austere, often spiritual in content and deeply emotional. His works include Poems (1895) and Ireland and Other Poems (1897), and a critical work, The Art of Thomas Hardy (1894). Johnson died of a fall at the age of 35.
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在查陵十架區英皇查理一世銅像旁
玄青華貴的蒼穹；
深邃遼闊的星空。
晚風輕輕地嘆息；
風停了，萬籟俱寂。
莊嚴靜穆的黑夜
繞着我，又縈繞着
那最可悲的元首--
加了冠冕，丟了頭。
鞍上，他英俊冷靜，
飛馳過他的白廳。
只有晚風在輕送；
沒有暴民的哄動。
俱往矣！文官武將；
然而，繁星在天上，
無論恆星或流星，
都是他芸芸眾卿。
孤單啊，孤單的他，
英烈之君騎着馬
在那詭譎肅穆的，
全屬於他的黑夜。
星星和他的眼睛--
是誰更蘊藏天命？
穹蒼和他的眉毛--
是那個更濃更高？
雖然激昂的悲劇
已把他全心佔據，
臉龐卻綳得緊緊，
清秀而冷峻嚴謹。
在命途上的全輸
用淒美的死彌補；
吐了最後一口氣，
把潰敗化為勝利。
短暫、不幸的一生？
不對，是身殺仁成。
慷慨赴義的陳詞？
是的，千古將永誌。
災星下，他策騎走，
披甲，但沒有頭鍪；
他戰勝了，從天府
俯視倫敦的慘霧。
世界迷惑了我們
疲憊暈眩的靈魂；
他卻有聖人的心，
藝術是他的歡欣。
歷鍊劫火的王啊！
眾人愛你的瀟灑；
我獨在這長夜裡
慕你悲哀的容儀。
然而，當京城入睡，
當喧囂已如潮退，
迢迢銀漢的眾星
正在把天機裁定。
----萊昂內爾.約翰遜 (1867-1902)
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