晚钟响起来一阵阵给白昼报丧，
牛群在草原上迂回，吼声起落，
耕地人累了，回家走，脚步踉跄，
把整个世界留给了黄昏与我。
苍茫的景色逐渐从眼前消退，
一片肃穆的寂静盖遍了尘寰，
只听见嗡嗡的甲虫转圈子纷飞，
昏沉的铃声催眠着远处的羊栏。
只听见常春藤披裹的塔顶底下
一只阴郁的柢枭向月亮诉苦，
怪人家无端走进它秘密的住家，
搅扰它这个悠久而僻静的领土。
峥嵘的榆树底下，扁柏的荫里，
草皮鼓起了许多零落的荒堆，
各自在洞窟里永远放下了身体，
小村里粗鄙的父老在那里安睡。
香气四溢的晨风轻松的呼召，
燕子从茅草棚子里吐出的呢喃，
公鸡的尖喇叭，使山鸣谷应的猎号
再不能唤醒他们在地下的长眠。
在他们，熊熊的炉火不再会燃烧，
忙碌的管家妇不再会赶她的夜活；
孩子们不再会“牙牙”的报父亲来到，
为一个亲吻爬倒他膝上去争夺。
往常是：他们一开镰就所向披靡，
顽梗的泥板让他们犁出了垄沟；
他们多么欢欣地赶牲口下地！
他们一猛砍，树木就一棵棵低头！
“雄心”别嘲讽他们实用的操劳，
家常的欢乐，默默无闻的命运；
“豪华”也不用带着轻蔑的冷笑
来听讲穷人的又短有简的生平。
门第的炫耀，有权有势的煊赫，
凡是美和财富所能赋予的好处，
前头都等待着不可避免的时刻：
光荣的道路无非是引导到坟墓。
骄傲人，你也不要怪这些人不行，
“怀念”没有给这些人建立纪念堂，
没有让悠长的廊道、雕花的拱顶
洋溢着洪亮的赞美歌，进行颂扬。
栩栩的半身像，铭刻了事略的瓮碑，
难道能恢复断气，促使还魂？
“荣誉”的声音能激发沉默的死灰？
“献媚”能叫死神听软了耳根？
也许这一块地方，尽管荒芜，
就埋着曾经充满过灵焰的一颗心；
一双手，本可以执掌到帝国的王芴
或者出神入化地拨响了七弦琴。
可是“知识”从不曾对他们展开
它世代积累而琳琅满目的书卷；
“贫寒”压制了他们高贵的襟怀，
冻结了他们从灵府涌出的流泉。
世界上多少晶莹皎洁的珠宝
埋在幽暗而深不可测的海底；
世界上多少花吐艳而无人知晓，
把芳香白白地散发给荒凉的空气。
也许有乡村汉普顿在这里埋身，
反抗过当地的小霸王，胆大，坚决；
也许有缄口的米尔顿，从没有名声；
有一位克伦威尔，并不曾害国家流血。
要博得满场的元老雷动的鼓掌，
无视威胁，全不顾存亡生死，
把富庶，丰饶遍播到四处八方，
打从全国的笑眼里读自己的历史——
他们的命运可不许：既不许罪过
有所放纵，也不许发挥德行；
不许从杀戮中间涉登宝座
从此对人类关上仁慈的大门；
不许掩饰天良在内心的发作，
隐瞒天真的羞愧，恬不红脸；
不许用诗神的金焰点燃了香火
锦上添花去塞满“骄”“奢”的神龛。
远离了纷纭人世的勾心斗角，
他们有清醒愿望，从不学糊涂，
顺着生活的清凉僻静的山坳，
他们坚持了不声不响的正路。
可是叫这些尸骨免受到糟踏，
还是有脆弱的碑牌树立在近边，
点缀了拙劣的韵语、凌乱的刻划，
请求过往人就便献一声婉叹。
无闻的野诗神注上了姓名、年份，
另外再加上地址和一篇悼词；
她在周围撒播了一些经文，
教训乡土道德家怎样去死。
要知道谁甘愿舍身哑口的“遗忘”，
坦然撇下了忧喜交织的此生，
谁离开风和日暖的明媚现场
而能不依依地回头来顾盼一阵？
辞世的灵魂还依傍钟情的怀抱，
临闭的眼睛需要尽哀的珠泪，
即使坟冢里也有“自然”的呼号
他们的旧火还点燃我们的新灰。
至于你，我关心这些默默的陈死人，
用这些诗句讲他们质朴的故事，
假如在幽思的引导下，偶然有缘分，
一位同道来问起你的身世——
也许会有白头的乡下人对他说，
“我们常常看见他，天还刚亮，
就用匆忙的脚步把露水碰落，
上那边高处的草地去会晤朝阳；
“那边有一棵婆娑的山毛榉老树，
树底下隆起的老根盘错在一起，
他常常在那里懒躺过一个中午，
悉心看旁边一道涓涓的小溪。
“他转游到林边，有时候笑里带嘲，
念念有词，发他的奇谈怪议，
有时候垂头丧气，像无依无靠，
像忧心忡忡或者像情场失意。
“有一天早上，在他惯去的山头，
灌木丛，他那棵爱树下，我不见他出现；
第二天早上，尽管我走下溪流，
上草地，穿过树林，他还是不见。
“第三天我们见到了送葬的行列，
唱着挽歌，抬着他向坟场走去——
请上前看那丛老荆棘底下的碑碣，
（你是识字的）请念念这些诗句”：
墓 铭
这里边，高枕地膝，是一位青年，
生平从不曾受知于“富贵”和“名声”；
“知识”可没轻视他出身的微贱，
“清愁”把他标出来认作宠幸。
他生性真挚，最乐于慷慨施惠，
上苍也给了他同样慷慨的报酬：
他给了“坎坷”全部的所有，一滴泪；
从上苍全得了所求，一位朋友。
别再想法子表彰他的功绩，
也别再把他的弱点翻出了暗窖
（他们同样在颤抖的希望中休息）。
那就是他的天父和上帝的怀抱。
AN
ELEGY, &c.
The Curfeu tolls the Knell of parting Day,
The lowing Herd winds slowly o'er the Lea,
The Plow-man 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 Tow'r
The mopeing Owl does to the Moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her sacred Bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary Reign.
Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew-Tree's Shade,
Where heaves the Turf in many a mould'ring Heap,
Each in his narrow Cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep.
The breezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn,
The Swallow twitt'ring from the Straw-built Shed,
The Cock's shrill Clarion, or the ecchoing Horn,
No more shall wake them from their lowly Bed.
For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn,
Or busy Houswife 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 they drive their Team afield!
How bow'd 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 Pow'r,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable Hour.
The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.
Forgive, ye Proud, th' involuntary Fault,
If Memory to these no Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn Isle 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 Honour's Voice provoke the silent Dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold Ear of Death!
Perhaps in this neglected Spot is laid
Some Heart once pregnant with celestial Fire,
Hands that the Reins of Empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to Extacy the living Lyre.
But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page
Rich with the Spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble Rage,
And froze the genial Current of the Soul.
Full many a Gem of purest Ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd Caves of Ocean bear:
Full many a Flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its Sweetness on the desart 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.
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 forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin'd;
Forbad 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 learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd Vale of Life
They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way.
Yet ev'n these Bones from Insult to protect
Some frail Memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth Rhimes and shapeless Sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing Tribute of a Sigh.
Their Name, their Years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,
The Place of Fame and Elegy supply:
And many a holy Text around she strews,
That teach the rustic Moralist to dye.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a Prey,
This pleasing anxious Being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring 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
Awake, and faithful to her wonted Fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some hidden 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 Steps 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 wou'd he stretch,
'And pore upon the Brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon Wood, now frowning as in Scorn,
'Mutt'ring his wayward Fancies he wou'd rove,
'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
'Or craz'd with Care, or cross'd in hopeless Love.
'One Morn I miss'd him on the custom'd Hill,
'Along the Heath, and near his fav'rite 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 thro' the Church-way Path we saw him born.
'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the Lay,
'Grav'd 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 frown'd not on his humble Birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his Bounty, and his Soul sincere,
Heav'n did a Recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a Tear:
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) 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.
FINIS.