Shelley i nGaeilge

Cuid d’aistriú ar dhán le Shelley, “The Cloud”, a foilsíodh sa Chlaidheamh Soluis an 16 Deireadh Fómhair 1909 (Guth na mBárd, lch 7).
[Tugadh an téacs chun nualitrithe, ach amháin sa chás go gcuirfeadh sé isteach ar an dán.]

An Néall

Tá aistriú ar an “Néall” a chum Shelley déanta ag an Dochtúir Mac Uidir agus tá sé foilsithe i “New Ireland Review” na míosa seo. Tá mínithe ag an Dochtúir an fáth ar aistrigh sé é. Deir sé: “In the course of a recent discussion about poetry a friend of mine asserted that the Irish language was incapable of expressing poetic ideas, or picturesque imagery. Shelley’s beautiful poem, “The Cloud,” was instanced by him as an example of perfect word­painting, the reproduction of which in Irish would be an impossibility. With this idea I entirely disagree; and in reply to his challenge I  under­ took not only to  translate  “The  Cloud”  into  Irish, but also to translate it into the modern spoken language, withoul using any unfamiliar or archaic words.”

Ag seo thíos an chéad bhéarsa agus an ceann deiridh de aistriú an Dochtúra:-

Bheirim fearthainn úr-mhín don bhláth atá críon,
Ón sruth ‘s ón mhuir i gcéin;
Bheirim scáth fionnfhuar do shuain an duilliúir
Atá sínte le teas faoi ghréin.
Ó mo sciatháin anuas ‘s ea croitear an drúcht
A dhúisíonn na blátha go léir;
‘S iad bréagtha chun suain ar bhrollach a rúin,
Lena damhsa thart ar an ngréin.
‘S é mo shúiste an grán shneachta bháin
A bhreacann na hachadh-réidh fúm;
Ach glanann mo dheor aríst an fheoir,
‘S í an toirneach mo gháire neamhbhuan.

Ón t-uisce is ón gcré ‘s ea gineadh mé;
‘S í mo bhanaltra caoin an spéar.
Is mé deatach an tsáile, agus allas na trá;
Athraím ach ní théim in éag.
Óir i ndiaidh na scáird’, tá an t-aer go hard,
Os ár gcionn gan néall, gan scáil,
Tagann gaoith agus teas, le chéile go deas,
Is tá an spéarghorm glan gan smál.
Níl orm de ghruama, is gurbh é sin mo thuama;
Ach éirím ón tuile is ón trá,
Mar spiorad nó fuath a d’éireodh ón uaigh
Agus dorchaím í arís le mo scáth.

Leagan Béarla Shelley:

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.