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安徒生童話故事第53篇：鳳凰The Phoenix Bird
引導(dǎo)語：鳳凰據(jù)說是吉祥鳥，那么小編整理了相關(guān)的安徒生童話故事，中英文版本俱全，歡迎大家閱讀與學(xué)習(xí)。
在天國花園里，在知識樹底下，有一叢玫瑰花。在這兒，那第一朵開出的玫瑰花生出一只鳥來。它飛起來像一道閃光。它的色彩華麗，它的歌聲美妙。
不過當(dāng)夏娃①摘下那顆知識的果子的時(shí)候，當(dāng)她和亞當(dāng)被驅(qū)出了天國花園的時(shí)候，有一顆火星從復(fù)仇天使的火劍上落到這鳥兒的巢里去，把它燒起來。鳥兒就在火中被焚死了。不過從巢里的那個(gè)火紅的蛋中飛出一只新的鳥兒——世界上唯一的鳳凰。
神話上面說，這只鳳凰住在阿拉伯;它每過一百年就把自己在巢里燒死一次。不過每次總有一個(gè)新的鳳凰——世界上唯一的鳳凰——從那個(gè)紅蛋里飛出來。
這鳥兒在我們的周圍飛翔，快速得像閃電;它的顏色非常美麗，歌聲非常悅耳。當(dāng)母親坐在她孩子的搖籃旁的時(shí)候，它就站在枕頭上，拍著翅膀，在孩子頭上形成一個(gè)光圈。它飛過這樸素的房間。這里面有太陽光;那張簡陋的桌上發(fā)出紫羅蘭花的香氣。
但是鳳凰不僅僅是一只阿拉伯的鳥兒。它在北極光的微曦中飛過拉普蘭的冰凍的原野;它在短暫的格陵蘭的夏天里，在黃花中間走過。在法龍②的銅山下，在英國的煤礦里，它作為一個(gè)全身布滿了灰塵的蛾子，在虔誠的礦工膝上攤開的那本《圣經(jīng)》上面飛。它在一片荷葉上，順著恒河的圣水向下流。印度姑娘的眼睛一看到它就閃出亮光。
這只鳳凰!你不認(rèn)識它嗎?這只天國的鳥兒，這只歌中的神圣的天鵝!它作為一個(gè)多嘴的烏鴉，坐在德斯比斯③的車上，拍著粘滿了渣滓的黑翅膀。它用天鵝的紅嘴在冰島的豎琴上彈出聲音;作為奧丁④的烏鴉坐在莎士比亞的肩上，同時(shí)在他耳邊低聲地說：“不朽!”它在詩歌比賽的時(shí)候，飛過瓦特堡⑤的騎士宮殿。
這只鳳凰!你不認(rèn)識它嗎?它對你唱著《馬賽曲》;你吻著從它翅膀上落下的羽毛。它從天國的光輝中飛下來;也許你就在這時(shí)把頭掉開，去看那翅上帶著銀紙的、坐著的麻雀吧。
天國的鳥兒!它每一個(gè)世紀(jì)重生一次——從火焰中出生，在火焰中死去!你的鑲著金像框的畫像懸在有錢人的大廳里，但是你自己常常是孤獨(dú)地、茫然地飛來飛去。你是一個(gè)神話——“阿拉伯的鳳凰”。
在天國花園里，你在那知識樹下，在那第一朵玫瑰花里出生的時(shí)候，上帝吻了你，給了你一個(gè)正確的名字——“詩”。
①據(jù)古代希伯萊人的傳說，亞當(dāng)和夏娃是人類的第一對夫婦。上帝讓他們無憂無慮地住在天國的樂園里，只是不準(zhǔn)他們吃知識樹上的果子。有一天亞當(dāng)受夏娃的慫恿，吃了這樹上的果子，于是他們被驅(qū)逐出了天國。
②法龍(Fahlun)是瑞典中部的一個(gè)城市，從前是銅礦的中心。
③德斯比斯(Thespis)是紀(jì)元前第六世紀(jì)的一個(gè)希臘詩人。他是希臘悲劇的創(chuàng)始人。
④奧丁(Odin)是北歐神話中的上帝。他的事跡常常是詩人們寫作的主題。
⑤瓦特堡(Wartbung)是德國Eisenach地方的一個(gè)古老的宮殿，同時(shí)也是許多吟游詩人集會的地方。1207年這兒舉行了一個(gè)吟游詩人競賽會(Sangerkrieg)。名作曲家瓦格納(Wagner)曾把這次賽會寫進(jìn)他不朽的歌劇Tannhauser里去。
鳳凰英文版：
The Phoenix Bird
IN the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant’s cradle, he stands on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant’s head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England’s coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakspeare’s shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin’s raven, and whispered in the poet’s ear “Immortality!” and at the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”
In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.
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