LESSON 17

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

墓地挽歌

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 all 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.

【中文阅读】

晚钟为即将分手的白昼报丧，

牛群在草原上缓缓游荡，

农夫累了，步履蹒跚往家转，

把整个世界留给了黄昏与我。

此时，苍茫的景色渐渐退去，

天地一片肃穆的寂静，

但闻嗡嗡的甲虫飞旋，

沉闷的铃声令远处的羊群昏昏欲睡。

裹着常春藤的尖塔下，

一只阴郁的猫头鹰在向月亮诉苦，

嫌异类在它秘密的避凉处闲逛

骚扰它悠久而僻静的王国。

在嶙峋的榆树下，紫杉荫重蔽日，

起伏的草地上荒堆稀落，

每个都在狭窄的洞里永远地栖身，

小村庄里粗鄙的先人就在那里安眠。

香气弥漫的晨风轻轻地召唤，

燕子从茅草棚子里叽喳鸣叫，

公鸡的尖号，或者空谷回音的号角

再不能唤醒长眠于地下的他们。

对他们而言，熊炽的炉火不再会燃烧，

忙碌的主妇不再会夜里还忙碌，

没有孩子再对父亲回转呀呀呓语，

为分享一个亲吻再爬到他膝上。

往昔他们挥舞镰刀，

板结的土地就犁出了垄沟，

他们赶牲口下地，那么欢欣！

猛挥镰刀，树一棵棵低下头！

不要让抱负嘲讽他们的劳作，

普通人的欢乐、籍籍无名的命运，

奢华也不必抱以轻蔑的冷笑

倾听穷苦人短暂平朴的记录。

门第的炫耀，权势的煊赫，

所有美，所有财富能给予的好处，

都同样等待着不可避免的时刻到来

光荣的道路最后归于坟墓。

骄傲的人啊，你不要怪这些人，

铭记并没有给这些坟墓留下纪念，

在那里，长长的通道和雕饰的拱顶

洪亮的赞美歌在传扬。

栩栩如生的半身座像和刻下事迹的瓮，

难道能让断气复吸，魂归华厦？

荣誉的声音能激扬沉寂的尘灰？

谄谀能叫死神僵硬的耳根软化？

也许在这块荒芜之地，

埋着曾经天火腾焰的心，

那双手，想必能执掌风雨飘摇的帝国权杖，

抑或入迷地拨出七弦琴的天籁之音。

可是，知识从没有在他们眼前他们展开

满是岁月尘埃亦从不曾合上的书卷，

. 贫寒压制了他们高贵的胸怀，

他们从灵魂深处涌出的温暖的甘泉也冻住了。

世上那么多稀世珠宝

埋在幽暗而深不可测的海底：

世界上多少含苞待放的花无人见识，

芳香就白白散向旷野的空气。

有像汉普敦那样的村庄，无畏的胸襟，

反抗过当地的小暴君，

有缄默的弥尔顿，籍籍无名，

有一位克伦威尔，没有罪过地致自己国家流血。

欲赢得伸耳谛听的元老们的掌声，

痛苦和存亡的威胁全然不顾，

把富庶洒向风景明媚的大地，

从全国上下的眼里读自己的历史，

他们的命运可不允许：不会划定

他们德行增益的界限，但限制了罪恶昭彰

亦不许踩着杀戮晋登宝座，

对人类关上仁慈的大门，

掩盖良知在内心的发作，

扑灭天真的羞愧，亦不红脸，

用诗神缪斯的灵焰点燃香火

填满奢华和虚荣的神龛。

远离了疯狂的俗世钩心斗角，

他们有清醒的愿望绝不学误入歧途，

沿着生活的清凉僻静的山谷，

他们坚持走无喧嚣的正路。

然则让这些尸骨免受到糟蹋，

竟有脆弱的碑牌在近旁树立，

上面缀有粗鄙的诗韵、刻得杂乱无章，

希求过路人鞠一声叹息。

无识的假缪斯胡乱拼写姓名和年代，

还有名声的出处和一篇挽歌，

她在周围撒满经文，

教乡野道德家如何赴死。

有谁冒死让遗忘的一切失声

撇弃亦忧亦喜的此生，

离开令人愉悦的温暖的地方，

甚至都不回头张望？

就要离世的灵魂尚不舍钟情的怀抱，

就要合上的双眼需要的是衷心的泪珠，

甚至从坟墓里也传出自然的呼号

他们过往的烈火点燃了我们浴火重生的生命。

至于你，在意芸芸逝者的你，

用这些诗句娓道他们无华的旧事，

若是在冥思的引领下真有前缘，

一位同灵叩问你的身世—

也许有皓首乡野之人对他说，

“借着薄雾微明，我们常常看见他，

步履匆匆，露珠随落，

到那边高处的草地去迎接朝阳，

“那边，一株摇曳的山毛榉下，

蜿蜒的老树根盘得老高，

他常常正午时分在那里躺着，尽情徜徉，

凝神细览身旁那条涓涓小溪。

“他悠游林间，微微含笑不失嘲意，

喃喃自语，说的都是他的游思奇谭，

不时垂头丧气，就像失怙的孤儿，

忧心忡忡，抑或凭吊无望之爱。

“一天早上，在他常去的小山丘，

石楠地还有那棵心仪的树下，我未觅到他的身影；

第二天早上，不论溪旁

还是草地上和林间，他的身影还是难觅。

“第三天早上，我们见到送葬的行列，

挽歌阵阵，抬着他走向坟场：

荆棘重生的下面躺着的那块石碑，

（你识得的）请上前来念念哀婉的诗句。”

墓志铭

这里头枕大地长眠的是一位青年，

富贵和名声无人知晓：

良知没有鄙夷他微贱的出身，

忧愁为他打上了她的烙印。

他慷慨好施，内心真诚，

上天同样给了他慷慨的报偿：

他给了悲惨（倾其所有），一滴泪，

从上天那里得到了（这正是他的期望），一位朋友。

不必勉力颂扬他的功绩，

莫再从他们可怕的藏身地翻检出他的弱点，

（他们同样在颤抖的希望中休憩），

那里就是他的天父和上帝的怀抱。