<Header>
<Author: 白居易>
<Title: 琵琶行>
<Format: 七言古詩>
<Year: 1911>
<BookName: A LUTE OF JADE>
<Translator: L. CRANMER-BYNG& Dr. S. A. KAPADIA>
<TranslatedTitle: THE LUTE GIRL>
<BookPage: 75-76>
<UsedPage: 2>
<Feature: 1, 3, 5>
<End Header>
<Poem>
潯陽江頭夜送客，楓葉荻花秋瑟瑟。
主人下馬客在船，舉酒欲飲無管絃。
醉不成歡慘將別，別時茫茫江浸月。
忽聞水上琵琶聲，主人忘歸客不發。
尋聲闇問彈者誰，琵琶聲停欲語遲。
移船相近邀相見，添酒回燈重開宴。
千呼萬喚始出來，猶抱琵琶半遮面。
轉軸撥絃三兩聲，未成曲調先有情。
絃絃掩抑聲聲思，似訴平生不得志。
低眉信手續續彈，說盡心中無限事。
輕攏慢撚抹復挑，初為霓裳後綠腰。
大絃嘈嘈如急雨，小絃切切如私語。
嘈嘈切切錯雜彈，大珠小珠落玉盤。
間關鶯語花底滑，幽咽泉流冰下難。
冰泉冷澀絃凝絕，凝絕不通聲暫歇。
別有幽愁闇恨生，此時無聲勝有聲。
銀瓶乍破水漿迸，鐵騎突出刀槍鳴。
曲終收撥當心畫，四絃一聲如裂帛。
東船西舫悄無言，唯見江心秋月白。
沉吟放撥插絃中，整頓衣裳起斂容。
自言本是京城女，家在蝦蟆陵下住。
十三學得琵琶成，名屬教坊第一部。
曲罷常教善才服，妝成每被秋娘妒。
五陵年少爭纏頭，一曲紅綃不知數。
鈿頭銀篦擊節碎，血色羅裙翻酒汙。
今年歡笑復明年，秋月春風等閒度。
弟走從軍阿姨死，暮去朝來顏色故。
門前冷落車馬稀，老大嫁作商人婦。
商人重利輕別離，前月浮梁買茶去。
去來江口守空船，繞船月明江水寒。
夜深忽夢少年事，夢啼妝淚紅闌幹。
我聞琵琶已歎息，又聞此語重唧唧。
同是天涯淪落人，相逢何必曾相識。
我從去年辭帝京，謫居臥病潯陽城。
潯陽地僻無音樂，終歲不聞絲竹聲。
住近湓江地低溼，黃蘆苦竹繞宅生。
其間旦暮聞何物，杜鵑啼血猿哀鳴。
春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒還獨傾。
豈無山歌與村笛，嘔啞嘲哳難為聽。
今夜聞君琵琶語，如聽仙樂耳暫明。
莫辭更坐彈一曲，為君翻作琵琶行。
感我此言良久立，卻坐促絃絃轉急。
淒淒不似向前聲，滿座重聞皆掩泣。
座中泣下誰最多？江州司馬青衫濕。
<End Poem>
<Translation>
By night, beside the river, underneath
The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone
In autumn’s silent revels of decay,
We said farewell.  The host, dismounting, sped
The parting guest whose boat rocked under him,
And when the circling stirrup-cup went round,
No light guitar, no lute, was heard again;
But on the heart aglow with wine there fell
Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu
Of fading friends—when suddenly beyond
The cradled waters stole the lullaby
Of some faint lute; then host forgot to go,
Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell,
Besought the dim enchantress to reveal
Her presence; but the music died and gave
No answer, dying.  Then a boat shot forth
To bring the shy musician to the shore.
Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again,
And so the festival went on.  At last,
Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came,
Hiding her burning face behind her lute;
And twice her hand essayed the strings, and twice
She faltered in her task; then tenderly,
As for an old sad tale of hopeless years,
With drooping head and fingers deft she poured
Her soul forth into melodies.  Now slow
The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords,
0 Now loudly with the crash of falling rain,
Now soft as the leaf whispering of words,
Now loud and soft together as the long
Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish
Of marble; liquid now as from the bush
Warbles the mango bird; meandering
Now as the streamlet seawards; voiceless now
As the wild torrent in the strangling arms
Of her ice-lover, lying motionless,
0 Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound.
Then as the water from the broken vase
Gushes, or on the mailèd horseman falls
The anvil din of steel, as on the silk
The slash of rending, so upon the strings
Her plectrum fell.  .  .  .
                                       Then silence over us.
No sound broke the charmed air.  The autumn moon
Swam silver o’er the tide, as with a sigh
The stranger stirred to go.
                                         “I passed,” said she,
“My childhood in the capital; my home
Was near the hills.  A girl of twelve, I learnt
The magic of the lute, 0 the passionate
Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls
Of the great masters to acknowledgment;
And lovely women, envious of my face,
Bowed at the shrine in secret.  The young lords
Vied for a look’s approval.  One brief song
Brought many costly bales.  Gold ornaments
And silver pins were smashed and trodden down,
And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine
In oft-times echoing applause.  And so
I laughed my life away from year to year
While the spring breezes and the autumn moon
Caressed my careless head.  Then on a day
My brother sought the battles in Kansuh;
My mother died: nights passed and mornings came,
And with them waned my beauty.  Now no more
My doors were thronged; few were the cavaliers
That lingered by my side; so I became
A trader’s wife, the chattel of a slave
Whose lord was gold, who, parting, little recked
Of separation and the unhonoured bride.
Since the tenth moon was full my husband went
To where the tea-fields ripen.  I remained,
To wander in my little lonely boat
Over the cold bright wave o’ nights, and dream
Of the dead days, the haze of happy days,
And see them set again in dreams and tears.”
        •          •         •          •         •          •
Already the sweet sorrows of her lute
Had moved my soul to pity; now these words
Pierced me the heart.  “O lady fair,” I cried,
“We are the vagrants of the world, and need
No ceremony to be friends.  Last year
I left the Imperial City, banished far
To this plague-stricken spot, where desolation
Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute
Nor love’s guitar is heard.  By marshy bank
Girt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboos
I dwell. Night long and day no stir, no sound,
Only the lurking cuckoo’s blood-stained note,
The gibbon’s mournful wail. 0 0 Hill songs I have,
And village pipes with their discordant twang.
But now I listen to thy lute methinks
The gods were parents to thy music.  Sit
And sing to us again, while I engrave
Thy story on my tablets!”  Gratefully
(For long she had been standing) the lute girl
Sat down and passed into another song,
Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song
Of now ago.  Then all her hearers wept
In sorrow unrestrained; and I the more,
Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums
Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew.
<End Translation>
<Formatted Translation>
By night, beside the river, We said farewell.
underneath The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone In autumn’s silent revels of decay,
The host, dismounting, sped The parting guest whose boat rocked under him,
And when the circling stirrup-cup went round, No light guitar, no lute, was heard again;
But on the heart aglow with wine there fell
Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu Of fading friends─
when suddenly beyond The cradled waters stole the lullaby Of some faint lute; 
then host forgot to go, Guest lingered on: 
all, wondering at the spell, Besought the dim enchantress to reveal Her presence; 
but the music died and gave No answer, dying.
Then a boat shot forth To bring the shy musician to the shore.
Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again, And so the festival went on.
At last, Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came,
Hiding her burning face behind her lute;
And twice her hand essayed the strings, 
and twice She faltered in her task; 
then tenderly, 
As for an old sad tale of hopeless years,
With drooping head and fingers deft 
she poured Her soul forth into melodies.
Now slow The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords,
0
Now loudly with the crash of falling rain,
Now soft as the leaf whispering of words,
Now loud and soft together 
as the long Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish Of marble; 
liquid now as from the bush Warbles the mango bird; 
meandering Now as the streamlet seawards; voiceless now 
As the wild torrent in the strangling arms Of her ice-lover, 
lying motionless, 
0
Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound.
Then as the water from the broken vase Gushes, 
or on the mailed horseman falls The anvil din of steel, 
so upon the strings Her plectrum fell....
as on the silk The slash of rending, 
Then silence over us. No sound broke the charmed air.
The autumn moon Swam silver o’er the tide, 
as with a sigh
The stranger stirred to go.
“I passed,” said she, “My childhood in the capital; 
my home Was near the hills. 
A girl of twelve, I learnt The magic of the lute, 
0
the passionate Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls Of the great masters to acknowledgment;
And lovely women, envious of my face, Bowed at the shrine in secret.
The young lords Vied for a look’s approval.
One brief song Brought many costly bales.
Gold ornaments And silver pins were smashed and trodden down,
And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine In oft-times echoing applause.
And so I laughed my life away from year to year
While the spring breezes and the autumn moon Caressed my careless head.
Then on a day My brother sought the battles in Kansuh; My mother died: 
nights passed and mornings came, And with them waned my beauty.
Now no more My doors were thronged; few were the cavaliers That lingered by my side; 
so I became A trader’s wife, the chattel of a slave 
Whose lord was gold, who, parting, little recked Of separation and the unhonoured bride.
Since the tenth moon was full my husband went To where the tea-fields ripen.
I remained, To wander in my little lonely boat
Over the cold bright wave o’ nights, 
and dream Of the dead days, the haze of happy days,
And see them set again in dreams and tears.”
Already the sweet sorrows of her lute Had moved my soul to pity; 
now these words Pierced me the heart.
“O lady fair,” I cried, “We are the vagrants of the world, 
and need No ceremony to be friends.
Last year I left the Imperial City, 
banished far To this plague-stricken spot, 
where desolation Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute 
Nor love’s guitar is heard.
By marshy bank 
Girt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboos I dwell.
Night long and day no stir, no sound,
Only the lurking cuckoo’s blood-stained note, The gibbon’s mournful wail.
0
0
Hill songs I have, And village pipes 
with their discordant twang.
But now I listen to thy lute methinks
The gods were parents to thy music.
Sit And sing to us again, 
while I engrave Thy story on my tablets!”
Gratefully (For long she had been standing) the lute girl
Sat down and passed into another song,
Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song Of now ago. 
Then all her hearers wept In sorrow unrestrained; 
and I the more, Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums
Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew.
<End Formatted Translation>