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一首非常值得一读的英语经典诗歌：《乡村墓园挽歌》

Elegy

----Written in a Country Churchyard

Thomas Gray (1716-1771)

 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind 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 folds1;

 

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 mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude² 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 horn3,

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.

 

Oft4 did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke5;

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 heraldry6, the pomp of power,

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

Awaits alike th' 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 and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

 

Can storied urn or animated bust7

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honor's voice provoke8 the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry 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;9

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 Hampden10, 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.

 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

 

Their lot forbade11: 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 sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor12 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;

Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

 

For thee13, who mindful of the unhonored dead

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,

If chance14, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

 

Haply some hoary-headed swaim may say,

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dew 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 upon15 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 came16; nor yet beside the rill,

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

 

“The next17 with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the lay18,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thron.”

 

The Epitaph

 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown.

Fair Science19 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 ('twas 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) 20

The bosom of his Father and his God.

 

乡村墓园挽歌

托马斯·格雷

 

晚钟为告别的白昼敲起了丧钟，

咩咩羊群在草地上慢慢盘桓，

农夫疲惫地蹒跚在回家途中，

把整个世界留给我与黑暗。

 

此刻的大地闪着微光慢慢消退，

四周弥漫着一片寂静和庄严，

只听见甲壳虫在空中嗡嗡乱飞，

沉沉铃声为远处的羊圈催眠。

 

只听见那边披着常春藤的塔楼上

有只忧郁的猫头鹰对月抱怨，

怨有人在她秘密的深闺附近游逛，

打扰了她古老而幽静的庭院。

 

老苍的榆树下，紫杉的荫影里，

许多荒冢在烂草堆中隆起，

一个个在小窖里永远躺下躯体，

村里的粗鄙先辈在此安息。

 

芬芳四溢的晨风轻轻的呼唤，

茅草棚上燕子的细语呢喃，

回荡的号角，或公鸡的高声鸣啼

再也不能把他们从床上唤起。

 

熊熊炉火再也不会为他们燃烧，

主妇夜里也不会再为他们操劳，

孩子不再喊着跑去迎接爸爸回家，

不再趴到膝上去抢着亲吻撒娇。

 

昔日，他们用镰刀去夺取丰收，

板结的土块被犁成一条条垄沟；

赶着牲口下地，他们何等欢欣！

有力的砍伐使一根根树木低头！

 

别让“雄心”嘲笑他们有用的辛劳，

家常的欢乐和默默无闻的命运；

也别让“华贵”带着蔑视的冷笑

来倾听穷人简朴短暂的生平。

 

炫耀的门第，显赫的权势，

美和财富赋予的一切事物,

都同样等待着不可避免之时：

光辉的道路终将导致坟墓。

 

傲慢者，你们也别把过错归于他们，

假如“怀念”未在他们墓前立碑，

也没有让那悠扬洪亮的赞美歌声

响彻长廊和雕饰拱顶把他们赞美。

 

铭刻生平的骨灰瓮或栩栩的塑像

岂能把瞬逝的气息唤回到它的宅邸？

“荣誉”之声岂能唤醒沉默的尘灰？

 “谄媚”岂能把死神的冷耳安慰？

 

或许在这个被人疏忽的地方

埋着某颗曾经怀有圣火的心，

或有可能执掌帝国王笏的手一双

或拨响令人心醉神迷的七弦琴。

 

但是“知识”从不在他们眼前展开

充满着时间战利品的丰厚书卷，

“贫寒”压制了他们的高尚情怀，

冻结了从灵俯流出的天才流泉。

 

世上有多少纯净明媚的玉石，

淹没在深不可测的幽幽海底；

有多少花儿显艳吐芳无人得知，

只让清香在沙漠中白白浪费。

 

村里或许有某个无畏的汉普敦，

他曾经抵御过当地的小暴君；

有个弥尔顿在此安息，沉默寡闻，

有个克伦威尔，但无辜于国人。

 

赢得议员们阵阵掌声和喝彩，

无视痛苦和毁灭的各种威逼，

济贫救苦让祖国大地开怀，

在国人眼里读他们的史绩——

 

他们命运不济：不让他们发挥

美德，但也不让他们作恶犯罪；

还禁止他们通过屠杀涉登王位，

然后把仁慈的大门关向人类。

 

命运不让他们为掩饰良知挣扎难过，

不让他们为抑制真情而羞愧难堪,

或在去缪斯的火焰上点燃香火

供奉“奢侈”和“骄傲”的神龛。

 

远离尘嚣中不光彩的争权夺利，

他们清醒的欲望从不迷途；

沿着那与世隔绝的人生谷地，

坚持不声不响地走常规正路。

 

为了保护他们的尸骨不受污辱，

有脆弱的纪念碑在附近竖起，

碑上刻着拙劣的诗文和凌乱雕塑，

恳求过往行人献出一声叹息。

 

没有署名的缪斯为他们提供的

姓名和年龄代替了誄词和挽诗；

她还在四周洒下了许多经文，

教乡里的道德家懂得死的价值。

 

因为，谁愿舍弃这忧喜交织的肉体

成为哑巴“遗忘”口里的牺牲品，

谁愿离开这片时光融融的温暖领地

而不留恋难舍，不回头顾盼频频？

 

离别的心灵依赖某个多情的怀抱，

闭上的眼睛要求几滴虔诚的眼泪；

甚至自然之声也会在坟墓里呼号，

甚至他们的旧火还燃着我们的新灰。

 

至于你，对这些无名逝者有心关注，

在这些拙劣诗行里讲述他们的故事；

假如偶然有孤思冥想为某个人引路，

某个与你同类的人问起你的身世，

 

或许有某个白发乡亲会对你叙述，

“过去常常见他出现在黎明时光，

迈着匆匆的步伐，碰落途中的露珠，

到那高地的草坪上去会见太阳。

 

“就在那棵摇曳的山毛榉下方，

奇形怪状的老树根高高地盘起，

中午时他倦怠的身躯躺在地上，

全神贯注着那潺潺流淌的小溪。

 

“在那附近的林中，他时儿像在嘲笑，

喃喃自言自语，一味胡思乱想；

时儿脸色惨白，垂头丧气像无依无靠，

或忧心忡忡，像恋人失意情场。

 

“一天早上我没见他上他常去的山岗，

也没见他来到他喜欢的树下草地。

又过了一天，也没见他来到小溪旁；

草坪上，树林里都绝了他的踪迹。

 

“第三天，我们看见有人穿着丧服，

抬着他一路唱着哀歌缓缓穿过教堂。

请走近读一读（因为你识字）他的诗行，

就刻在那边古老丛林下的石头上。”

 

墓志名

 

在这大地的冷膝上枕着他的头，

一位青年，命运不济也无名气；

“知识”没对他的寒微皱过眉头，

“忧郁”把他标出，认作知己。

 

他慷慨大方，一颗真心赤诚无伪，

苍天给了他同样慷慨的报酬；

他给了“悲惨”一切所有，一滴泪，

从苍天他得到了所求，一位朋友。

 

无须深入去探明他有什么功绩，

或从他们寓所中寻找他的过错，

（他们都在恐怖的希望中憩息），

天父上帝的怀抱就是他们住所。

 

（何功杰 译）