济慈生平简介(英文版)及部分诗作.doc

John Keats (1795-1821), renowned poet of the English Romantic Movement, wrote some of the greatest English language poems including La Belle Dame Sans Merci, Ode To A Nightingale, and Ode On a Grecian Urn;O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold pastoral!When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.、John Keats was born on 31 October 1795 in Moorgate, London, England, the first child born to Frances Jennings (b.1775-d.1810) and Thomas Keats (d.1804), an employee of a livery stable. He had three siblings: George (1797-1841), Thomas (1799-1818), and Frances Mary Fanny (1803-1889). After leaving school in Enfield, Keats went on to apprentice with Dr. Hammond, a surgeon in Edmonton. After his father died in a riding accident, and his mother died of tuberculosis, John and his brothers moved to Hampstead. It was here that Keats met Charles Armitage Brown (1787-1842) who would become a great friend. Remembering his first meeting with him, Brown writes His full fine eyes were lustrously intellectual, and beaming (at that time!). Much grieved by his death, Brown worked for many years on his memoir and biography, Life of John Keats (1841). In it Brown claims that it was not until Keats read Edmund Spencers Faery Queen that he realised his own gift for the poetic. Keats was an avid student in the fields of medicine and natural history, but he then turned his attentions to the literary works of such authors as William Shakespeare and Geoffrey Chaucer.Keats had his poems published in the magazines of the day at the encouragement of many including James Henry Leigh Hunt Esq. (1784-1859), editor of the Examiner and to whom Keats dedicated his first collection Poems (1817). It includes To My Brother George, O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, and Happy is England! I Could Be Content. Upon its appearance a series of personal attacks directed at Keats ensued in the pages of Blackwoods Magazine. Despite the controversy surrounding his life, Keatss literary merit prevailed. That same year Keats met Percy Bysshe Shelley who would also become a great friend. When Shelley invited the ailing Keats to stay with him and his family in Italy, he declined. When Shelleys body was washed ashore after drowning, a volume of Keatss poetry was found in his pocket.Having worked on it for many months, Keats finished his epic poem comprising four books, Endymion: A Poetic Romance-A thing of beauty is a joy for ever-in 1818. That summer he travelled to the Lake District of England and on to Ireland and Scotland on a walking tour with Brown. They visited the grave of Robert Burns and reminisced upon John Miltons poetry. While he was not aware of the seriousness of it, Keats was suffering from the initial stages of the deadly infectious disease tuberculosis. He cut his trip short and upon return to Hampstead immediately tended to his brother Tom who was then in the last stages of the disease. After Toms death in December of 1818, Keats lived with Brown.Early one morning I was awakened in my bed by a pressure on my hand. It was Keats, who came to tell me his brother was no more. I said nothing, and we both remained silent for awhile, my hand fast locked in his. At length, my thoughts returning from the dead to the living, I said-Have nothing more to do with those lodgings,-and alone too. Had you not better live with me? He paused, pressed my hand warmly, and replied,-I think it would be better. From that moment he was my inmate.-Life of John Keats.Around this time Keats met, fell in love with, and became engaged to eighteen year old Frances Fanny Brawne (1800-1865). He wrote one of his more famous sonnets to her titled Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art. While their relationship inspired much spiritual development for Keats, it also proved to be tempestuous, filled with the highs and lows from jealousy and infatuation of first love. Brown was not impressed and tried to provide some emotional stability to Keats. Many for a time were convinced that Fanny was the cause of his illness, or, used that as an excuse to try to keep her away from him. For a while even Keats entertained the possibility that he was merely suffering physical manifestations of emotional anxieties-but after suffering a hemorrhage he gave Fanny permission to break their engagement. She would hear nothing of it and by her word provided much comfort to Keats in his last days that she was ultimately loyal to him.Although 1819 proved to be his most prolific year of writing, Keats was also in dire financial straits. His brother George had borrowed money he could ill-afford to part with. His earning Fannys mothers approval to marry depended on his earning as a writer and he started plans with his publisher John Taylor (1781-1864) for his next volume of poems. At the beginning of 1820 Keats started to show more pronounced signs of the deadly tuberculosis that had killed his mother and brother. After a lung hemorrhage, Keats calmly accepted his fate, and he enjoyed several weeks of respite under Browns watchful eye. As was common belief at the time that bleeding a patient was beneficial to healing, Keats was bled and given opium to relieve his anxiety and pain. He was at times put on a starvation diet, then at other times prescribed to eat meat and drink red wine to gain strength. Despite these ill-advised good-intentions, and suffering increasing weakness and fever, Keats was able to emerge from his fugue and organise the publication of his next volume of poetry.Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems (1820) includes some of his best-known and oft-quoted works: Hyperion, To Autumn, and Ode To A Nightingale. Nightingale evokes all the pain and suffering that Keats experienced during his short life-time: the death of his mother; the physical anguish he saw as a young apprentice tending to the sick and dying at St. Guys Hospital; the death of his brother; and ultimately his own physical and spiritual suffering in love and illness. Keats lived to see positive reviews of Lamia, even in Blackwoods magazine. But the positivity was not to last long; Brown left for Scotland and the ailing Keats lived with Hunt for a time. But it was unbearable to him and only exacerbated his condition-he was unable to see Fanny, so, when he showed up at the Brawnes residence in much emotional agitation, sick, and feverish, they could not refuse him. He enjoyed a month with them, blissfully under the constant care of his beloved Fanny. Possibly bolstered by his finally having unrestricted time with her, and able to imagine a happy future with her, Keats considered his last hope of recovery of a rest cure in the warm climes of Italy. As a parting gift Fanny gave him a piece of marble which she had often clasped to cool her hand. In September of 1820 Keats sailed to Rome with friend and painter Joseph Severn (1793-1879, who was unaware of his circumstances with Fanny and the gravity of his health.Keats put on a bold front but it soon became apparent to Severn that he was terminally ill. They stayed in rooms on the Piazza Navona near the Spanish Steps, and enjoyed the lively sights and sounds of the people and culture, but Keats soon fell into a deep depression. When his attending doctor James Clark (1788-1870) finally voiced aloud the grim prognosis, Keatss medical background came to the fore and he longed to end his life and avoid the humiliating physical and mental torments of tuberculosis. By early 1821 he was confined to bed, Severn a devoted nurse. Keats had resolved not to write to Fanny and would not read a letter from her for fear of the pain it would cause him, although he constantly clasped her marble. During bouts of coughing, fever, nightmares, Keats also tried to cheer his friend, who held him till the end.John Keats died on 23 February 1821 in Rome, Italy, and now rests in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, by the pyramid of Caius Cestius, near his friend Shelley. His epitaph reads Here lies one whose name was writ in water, inspired by the line all your better deeds, Shall be in water writ from Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) and John Fletchers (1579-1625) five act play Philaster or: Love Lies A-bleeding. Just a year later, Shelley was buried in the same cemetery, not long after he had written Adonais (1821) in tribute to his friend;I weep for Adonais-he is dead!O, weep for Adonais! though our tearsThaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!And thou, sad Hour, selected from all yearsTo mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,And teach them thine own sorrow, say: With meDied Adonais; till the Future daresForget the Past, his fate and fame shall beAn echo and a light unto eternity!Fanny Brawne married in 1833 and died at the age of sixty-five. English poet and friend of Browns, Richard Monckton Milnes (1809-1885) wrote Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats (1848). During his lifetime and since, John Keats inspired numerous other authors, poets, and artists, and remains one of the most widely read and studied 19th century poets.Biography written by C. D. Merriman for Jalic Inc. Copyright Jalic Inc. 2007. All Rights Reserved.Works：长篇叙事诗Endymion恩底弥翁;The Eve of St.Agnes圣 艾格尼丝节前夜;Lamia拉米亚;（颂诗）Ode to Psyche普赛克颂;希腊古瓮颂Sleep and Poetry睡与诗As I lay in my bed slepe full unmeteWas unto me, but why that I ne mightRest I ne wist, for there nas erthly wightAs I suppose had more of hertis eseThan I, for I nad sicknesse nor disese.CHAUCER.What is more gentle than a wind in summer?What is more soothing than the pretty hummerThat stays one moment in an open flower,And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowingIn a green island, far from all mens knowing?More healthful than the leafiness of dales?More secret than a nest of nightingales?More serene than Cordelias countenance?More full of visions than a high romance?What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!Low murmurer of tender lullabies!Light hoverer around our happy pillows!Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!Silent entangler of a beautys tresses!Most happy listener! when the morning blessesThee for enlivening all the cheerful eyesThat glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.But what is higher beyond thought than thee?Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?What is it? And to what shall I compare it?It has a glory, and nought else can share it:The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,Chacing away all worldliness and folly;Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,Or the low rumblings earths regions under;And sometimes like a gentle whisperingOf all the secrets of some wondrous thingThat breathes about us in the vacant air;So that we look around with prying stare,Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,That is to crown our name when life is ended.Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,And die away in ardent mutterings.No one who once the glorious sun has seen,And all the clouds, and felt his bosom cleanFor his great Makers presence, but must knowWhat tis I mean, and feel his being glow:Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,By telling what he sees from native merit.O Poesy! for thee I hold my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven-Should I rather kneelUpon some mountain-top until I feelA glowing splendour round about me hung,And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?O Poesy! for thee I grasp my penThat am not yet a glorious denizenOf thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,Smoothed for intoxication by the breathOf flowering bays, that I may die a deathOf luxury, and my young spirit followThe morning sun-beams to the great ApolloLike a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bearThe oerwhelming sweets, twill bring to me the fairVisions of all places: a bowery nookWill be elysium-an eternal bookWhence I may copy many a lovely sayingAbout the leaves, and flowers-about the playingOf nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shadeKeeping a silence round a sleeping maid;And many a verse from so strange influenceThat we must ever wonder how, and whenceIt came. Also imaginings will hoverRound my fire-side, and haply there discoverVistas of solemn beauty, where Id wanderIn happy silence, like the clear meanderThrough its lone vales; and where I found a spotOf awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,Or a green hill oerspread with chequered dressOf flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,Write on my tablets all that was permitted,All that was for our human senses fitted.Then the events of this wide world Id seizeLike a strong giant, and my spirit teazeTill at its shoulders it should proudly seeWings to find out an immortality.Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a trees summit; a poor Indians sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?Life is the roses hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maidens veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.Then will I pass the countries that I seeIn long perspective, and continuallyTaste their pure fountains. First the realm Ill passOf Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders whiteInto a pretty shrinking with a biteAs hard as lips can make it: till agreed,A lovely tale of human life well read.And one will teach a tame dove how it bestMay fan the cool air gently oer my rest;Another, bending oer her nimble tread,Will set a green robe floating round her head,And still will dance with ever varied case,Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:Another will entice me on, and onThrough almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;Till in the bosom of a leafy worldWe rest in silence, like two gems upcurldIn the recesses of a pearly shell.And can I ever bid these joys farewell?Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,Where I may find the agonies, the strifeOf human hearts: for lo! I see afar,Oer sailing the blue cragginess, a carAnd steeds with streamy manes-the charioteerLooks out upon the winds with glorious fear:And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightlyAlong a huge clouds ridge; and now with sprightlyWheel downward come they into fresher skies,Tipt round with silver from the suns bright eyes.Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,And now I see them on a green-hills sideIn breezy rest among the nodding stalks.The charioteer with wondrous gesture talksTo the trees and mountains; and there soon appearShapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,Passing along before a dusky spaceMade by some mighty oaks: as they would chaseSome ever-fleeting music on they sweep.Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;Some with their faces muffled to the earBetween their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;Yes, thousands in a thousand different waysFlit onward-now a lovely wreath of girlsDancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;And now broad wings. Most awfully intentThe driver, of those steeds is forward bent,And seems to listen: O that I might knowAll that he writes with such a hurrying glow.The visions all are fled-the car is fledInto the light of heaven, and in their steadA sense of real things comes doubly strong,And, like a muddy stream, would bear alongMy soul to nothingness: but I will striveAgainst all doublings, and will keep aliveThe thought of that same chariot, and the strangeJourney it went.Is there so small a rangeIn the present strength of manhood, that the highImagination cannot freely flyAs she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,Paw up against the light, and do strange deedsUpon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?From the clear space of ether, to the smallBreath of new buds unfolding? From the meaningOf Joves large eye-brow, to the tender greeningOf April meadows? Here her altar shone,Een in this isle; and who could paragonThe fervid choir that lifted up a noiseOf harmony, to where it aye will poiseIts mighty self of convoluting sound,Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,Eternally around a dizzy void?Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloydWith honors; nor had any other careThan to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schismNurtured by foppery and barbarism,Made great Apollo blush for this his land.Men were thought wise who co