墓畔哀歌
墓畔哀歌牛群在草原上迂回，吼聲起落，
耕地人纍了，回傢走，腳步踉蹌，
把整個世界留給了黃昏與我。
蒼茫的景色逐漸從眼前消退，
一片肅穆的寂靜蓋遍了塵寰，
衹聽見嗡嗡的甲蟲轉圈子紛飛，
昏沉的鈴聲催眠着遠處的羊欄。
衹聽見常春藤披裹的塔頂底下
一隻陰鬱的柢梟嚮月亮訴苦，
怪人傢無端走進它秘密的住傢，
攪擾它這個悠久而僻靜的領土。
崢嶸的榆樹底下，扁柏的蔭裏，
草皮鼓起了許多零落的荒堆，
各自在洞窟裏永遠放下了身體，
小村裏粗鄙的父老在那裏安睡。
香氣四溢的晨風輕鬆的呼召，
燕子從茅草棚子裏吐出的呢喃，
公雞的尖喇叭，使山鳴𠔌應的獵號
再不能喚醒他們在地下的長眠。
在他們，熊熊的爐火不再會燃燒，
忙碌的管傢婦不再會趕她的夜活；
孩子們不再會“牙牙”的報父親來到，
為一個親吻爬倒他膝上去爭奪。
往常是：他們一開鐮就所嚮披靡，
頑梗的泥板讓他們犁出了壟溝；
他們多麽歡欣地趕牲口下地！
他們一猛砍，樹木就一棵棵低頭！
“雄心”別嘲諷他們實用的操勞，
傢常的歡樂，默默無聞的命運；
“豪華”也不用帶着輕衊的冷笑
來聽講窮人的又短有簡的生平。
門第的炫耀，有權有勢的煊赫，
凡是美和財富所能賦予的好處，
前頭都等待着不可避免的時刻：
光榮的道路無非是引導到墳墓。
驕傲人，你也不要怪這些人不行，
“懷念”沒有給這些人建立紀念堂，
沒有讓悠長的廊道、雕花的拱頂
洋溢着洪亮的贊美歌，進行頌揚。
栩栩的半身像，銘刻了事略的甕碑，
難道能恢復斷氣，促使還魂？
“榮譽”的聲音能激發沉默的死灰？
“獻媚”能叫死神聽軟了耳根？
也許這一塊地方，儘管荒蕪，
就埋着曾經充滿過靈焰的一顆心；
一雙手，本可以執掌到帝國的王芴
或者出神入化地撥響了七弦琴。
可是“知識”從不曾對他們展開
它世代積纍而琳琅滿目的書捲；
“貧寒”壓製了他們高貴的襟懷，
凍結了他們從靈府涌出的流泉。
世界上多少晶瑩皎潔的珠寶
埋在幽暗而深不可測的海底；
世界上多少花吐豔而無人知曉，
把芳香白白地散發給荒涼的空氣。
也許有鄉村漢普頓在這裏埋身，
反抗過當地的小霸王，膽大，堅决；
也許有緘口的米爾頓，從沒有名聲；
有一位剋倫威爾，並不曾害國傢流血。
要博得滿場的元老雷動的鼓掌，
無視威脅，全不顧存亡生死，
把富庶，豐饒遍播到四處八方，
打從全國的笑眼裏讀自己的歷史——
他們的命運可不許：既不許罪過
有所放縱，也不許發揮德行；
不許從殺戮中間涉登寶座
從此對人類關上仁慈的大門；
不許掩飾天良在內心的發作，
隱瞞天真的羞愧，恬不紅臉；
不許用詩神的金焰點燃了香火
錦上添花去塞滿“驕”“奢”的神龕。
遠離了紛紜人世的勾心鬥角，
他們有清醒願望，從不學糊塗，
順着生活的清涼僻靜的山坳，
他們堅持了不聲不響的正路。
可是叫這些屍骨免受到糟踏，
還是有脆弱的碑牌樹立在近邊，
點綴了拙劣的韻語、凌亂的刻劃，
請求過往人就便獻一聲婉嘆。
無聞的野詩神註上了姓名、年份，
另外再加上地址和一篇悼詞；
她在周圍撒播了一些經文，
教訓鄉土道德傢怎樣去死。
要知道誰甘願捨身啞口的“遺忘”，
坦然撇下了憂喜交織的此生，
誰離開風和日暖的明媚現場
而能不依依地回頭來顧盼一陣？
辭世的靈魂還依傍鐘情的懷抱，
臨閉的眼睛需要盡哀的珠淚，
即使墳塚裏也有“自然”的呼號
他們的舊火還點燃我們的新灰。
至於你，我關心這些默默的陳死人，
用這些詩句講他們質樸的故事，
假如在幽思的引導下，偶然有緣分，
一位同道來問起你的身世——
也許會有白頭的鄉下人對他說，
“我們常常看見他，天還剛亮，
就用匆忙的腳步把露水碰落，
上那邊高處的草地去會晤朝陽；
“那邊有一棵婆娑的山毛櫸老樹，
樹底下隆起的老根盤錯在一起，
他常常在那裏懶躺過一個中午，
悉心看旁邊一道涓涓的小溪。
“他轉遊到林邊，有時候笑裏帶嘲，
念念有詞，發他的奇談怪議，
有時候垂頭喪氣，像無依無靠，
像憂心忡忡或者像情場失意。
“有一天早上，在他慣去的山頭，
灌木叢，他那棵愛樹下，我不見他出現；
第二天早上，儘管我走下溪流，
上草地，穿過樹林，他還是不見。
“第三天我們見到了送葬的行列，
唱着輓歌，擡着他嚮墳場走去——
請上前看那叢老荊棘底下的碑碣，
（你是識字的）請念念這些詩句”：
墓 銘
這裏邊，高枕地膝，是一位青年，
生平從不曾受知於“富貴”和“名聲”；
“知識”可沒輕視他出身的微賤，
“清愁”把他標出來認作寵幸。
他生性真摯，最樂於慷慨施惠，
上蒼也給了他同樣慷慨的報酬：
他給了“坎坷”全部的所有，一滴淚；
從上蒼全得了所求，一位朋友。
別再想法子表彰他的功績，
也別再把他的弱點翻出了暗窖
（他們同樣在顫抖的希望中休息）。
那就是他的天父和上帝的懷抱。
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.