第19章 Elegy in a Country Churchyard 墓园挽歌

Thomas Gray, 1716-1771, is often spoken of as "the author of the Elegy, "—this simple yet highly finished and beautiful poem being by far the best known of an his writings. It was finished in 1749, —seven years from the time it was commenced. Probably no short poem in the language ever deserved or received more praise. Gray was born in London; his father possessed property, but was indolent and selfish; his mother was a successful woman of business, and supported her son in college from her own earnings. The poet was educated at Eton and Cambridge; at the latter place, he resided for several years after his return from a continental tour, begun in 1739. He was small and delicate in person, refined and precise in dress and manners, and shy and retiring in disposition. He was an accomplished scholar in many fields of learning, but left comparatively little finished work in any department. He declined the honor of poet laureate; but, in 1769, was appointed Professor of History at Cambridge.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the

sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's

shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a moldering

heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built

shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly

bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall

burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has

broke:

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy

stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike, the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise;

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and

fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of

praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of

Death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have

swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er

unroll;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless

breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell,

guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor, circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues,

but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne.

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones, from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still, erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture

decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered

Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, —

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn:

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would

rove;

Now, drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless

love.

"One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree:

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw

him borne:—

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,

A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear;

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he

wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode

(There they alike in trembling hope repose),

The bosom of his Father, and his God.

托马斯·格雷（1716～1771年），又被称为“挽歌的作者”——这首简洁、优美且完整度极高的诗歌是格雷迄今为止最好的作品。这首诗歌是在1749年完成的，这首诗歌从开始创作到完成花了7年时间。在文学界，还没有任何一个人的短篇诗歌能获得比格雷还要多的赞美。格雷出生于伦敦，他的父亲掌管着家里所有的财产，但是他父亲个性极为懒惰自私。他的母亲是一位成功的女商人，她用挣得的钱资助儿子上了大学。格雷曾就读于伊顿公学和剑桥大学，1739年，他开始环欧洲之旅，回国后在伦敦居住了数年。他瘦小但很干练，穿着优雅，举止得体，但他的性格却很内向。他是一位多才多艺的学者，在许多领域都有很深的造诣。他在政府部门工作很努力。他曾拒绝被授予“桂冠诗人”的称号，但是在1769年，格雷成为剑桥大学历史学教授。

晚钟为即将逝去的白天敲响，

牛群在草地上缓慢移动，

农夫疲惫不堪地向家的方向走去，

把这个世界留给了黑夜和我。

现在，眼前闪着光亮的美景正在

退去，

天地突然变得庄重宁静，

小甲虫嗡嗡嗡地飞着，

沉闷的铃声令远方的羊群昏然欲睡。

在被常春藤包围的灯塔下，

一只阴郁的猫头鹰对着月光抱怨，

嫌别人在她的秘密住所附近溜达，

骚扰她悠久而僻静的王国。

在嶙峋的榆树下，紫杉树荫遍布，

起伏的草地上满是枯枝败叶和沟壑，

每个都静静地躺在窄小的洞里，

小村粗鄙的先人就在那里长眠。

清晨，香气扑鼻的微风在召唤，

鸟巢里传来叽叽喳喳的燕子声，

即使是公鸡的尖叫，或者在空中回荡的

号角

也不能把他们从睡梦中唤醒。

对他们来说，熊熊烈火已经熄灭，

繁忙的家庭主妇在夜晚也不再劳动；

孩子们也不会对归来的父亲展露喜悦，

或者为了获得一个亲吻而爬上他的膝盖。

回首过去，他们拿着镰刀，

在贫瘠的土地上开垦荒地，

他们欢快地驱赶牧群，

在他们猛烈的挥舞下，树都不敢抬头！

不要让野心耻笑他们的干劲，

平凡人的欢声笑语，庸庸碌碌的命运，

华美也不必用鄙视的冷笑

倾听穷人短暂朴实的一生。

名门望族的炫耀，权利的强大，

所有的美貌，所有的荣华富贵，

都在等待着不可避免的日子的到来：

光荣的道路所指引的尽头是坟墓。

无知的人啊！你不用怪罪他们，

时光的记忆并没给他们留下什么纪念；

穿过那悠长的通道和带有图案的拱顶，

嘹亮的颂歌在空中回荡。

铭刻生平的墓碑、栩栩如生的半身像，

能否让逝者重生，再回故地？

荣誉的声音能否激起寂静的尘土？

谄媚能否让死神冰冷无情的耳朵软化？

或许，在这片蛮荒之地，

埋葬着天际之火的内心；

那双手，本可以执掌帝国的权杖，

或者拨响七弦琴的天外之音。

不过，知识从来没有在他们眼前展开，

沾满了往昔的尘埃却并未合上的书籍；

冰冷的贫穷压制了他们高贵的胸怀，

冻住了他们灵魂深处的善意之泉。

尘世数不尽的金银财宝，

埋在黑暗而深不可测的海底，

尘世多少未被人见过的鲜花在绽放，

香气在了无人烟的空中飘逸。

汉普顿那样的村庄，拥有无畏的气魄，

与当地的小暴君抗争，

也有缄默的弥尔顿，无人知晓，

有一位克伦威尔，

他身上流淌着祖国的鲜血。

为博得侧耳倾听的元老们的掌声，

完全不理会痛苦和毁灭的威胁，

把富足散播在生机勃勃的大地，

在公民的注视下，朗读他们的历史，

他们明令禁止：禁止划定

他们道德观念的界限，

但却限制犯下罪行；

也不许为了权力和权威而杀戮，

对人类关上仁慈的大门，

掩盖内心的良知苦苦挣扎，

浇熄朴实的羞耻，却不脸红，

或用缪斯的火焰点燃圣火，

填补奢华和虚荣的神龛。

远离尘世间丑陋的争斗，

他们时刻保持清醒的头脑，

以免走上弯路；

沿着清爽幽静的小路，

他们坚持正确的人生道路。

为避免这些尸骨遭受摧残，

人们在周围建起脆弱的墓碑，

碑上刻有字迹丑陋的诗歌，

以示对死者的叹息和哀悼。

无知的假神胡乱写出他们的名字和

年代，

还有名声的出处和一首颂歌，

她在周围洒下神圣的经文，

为乡间道德家如何寻死指点迷津。

谁会为了遗忘而变成哑巴，

摒弃这喜忧参半的人生，

抛弃带给人温暖和快乐的日子，

甚至不回头张望？

就要离世的灵魂还不舍钟情的怀抱，

正在闭合的双眼需要虔诚的眼泪；

甚至从坟墓里传来自然的呼号，

他们过往的烈焰点燃了我们的新灰。至于你，时刻关切无名死者的你，

用这些诗来讲述无人熟知的故事，

假如在幽思的引领下，偶然有缘，

一位神灵来叩问你的身世——

白发苍苍的乡村野老或许会说，

在破晓的映照下，我们看到了他，

步伐很快，露珠随风飘落，

到那高处的草坪迎接朝阳，

那边！那株随风摇曳的毛榉下，

树底的老根盘根错节，

在月光下，他尽情地伸展四肢，

聚精会神地凝视着流淌的小溪。

在树林里畅快地游玩，笑容中带有

讽刺，

嘴里嘟囔着他放荡不拘的奇谈怪论；

一脸的沮丧，就像是被抛弃的孤儿，

忧心忡忡，又或者像情场失意。

一天早上，他经常去的山丘，

灌木丛、他那心爱的树下，都不见他出现；

第二天，仍不见他的踪影，

无论是小溪旁，还是草地和树林里。

第三天清晨，

我们见到了唱挽歌的队伍，

他们缓慢地穿过通往教堂的路，

请上前看那老荆棘底下的石碑，

（因为你认识）请念念这些诗句。

墓志铭

一位青年就埋葬在这片净土之下，

他的富贵和名声无人知晓，

良知没有嘲笑他卑微的出身，

深深的忧虑写在他的脸上。

他心地善良，为人厚道，

上天同样给了他最大的补偿，

他给了坎坷（尽其所有）一滴泪，

从上帝那里得到（他一直想要的）

一位朋友。

不必再勉力颂扬他的优点，

也莫再找出他的致命缺点，

（他们都在战栗的希望中休憩），

那就是他的天父和上帝的怀抱。