大家好!今天让小编来大家介绍下关于墓地哀歌的问题,以下是小编对此问题的归纳整理,让我们一起来看看吧。
文章目录列表:
一、求 《墓地哀歌》 格雷的全文。
墓地哀歌 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。 卞之琳译
二、求格雷《墓地哀歌》全诗 钱钟书版
苍生,梦回。自己也只是寂静。 复杂的我对着复杂的汝璧,也对着她的歌。正如墓畔哀歌里响起的,让人心碎的铃声。没有人相信有情人终成眷属,只有人相信死后合葬。同样让人噤若寒蝉。如果可以,即使成为旁人,为她的墓前献花。只有写在文字上的声音会让她的思念可以继续打在读者的心上。一我由冬的残梦里惊醒,春正吻着我的睡靥低吟!晨曦照上了窗纱,望见往日令我醺醉的朝霞,我想让丹彩的云流,再认认我当年的颜色。披上那件绣着蛱蝶的衣裳,姗姗地走到尘网封锁的妆台旁。呵!明镜里照见我憔悴的枯颜,像一朵颤动在风雨中苍白凋零的梨花。我爱,我原想追回那美丽的皎容,祭献在你碧草如茵的墓旁,谁知道青春的残蕾已和你一同殉葬。二假如我的眼泪真凝成一粒一粒珍珠,到如今我已替你缀织成绕你玉颈的围巾。假如我的相思真化作一颗一颗的红豆,到如今我已替你堆集永久勿忘的爱心。哀愁深埋在我心头。我愿燃烧我的肉身化成灰烬,我愿放浪我的热情怒涛汹涌,天呵!这蛇似的蜿蜒,蚕似的缠绵,就这样悄悄地偷去了我生命的青焰。我爱,我吻遍了你墓头青草在日落黄昏;我祷告,就是空幻的梦吧,也让我再见见你的英魂。三明知道人生的尽头便是死的故乡,我将来也是一座孤冢,衰草斜阳。有一天呵!我离开繁华的人寰,悄悄入葬,这悲艳的爱情一样是烟消云散,昙花一现,梦醒后飞落在心头的都是些残泪点点。然而我不能把记忆毁灭,把埋我心墟上的残骸抛却,只求我能永久徘徊在这垒垒荒冢之间,为了看守你的墓茔,祭献那茉莉花环。我爱,你知否我无言的忧衷,怀想着往日轻盈之梦。梦中我低低唤着你小名,醒来只是深夜长空有孤雁哀鸣!四黯淡的天幕下,没有明月也无星光这宇宙像数千年的古墓;皑皑白骨上,飞动闪映着惨绿的磷花。我匍匐哀泣于此残锈的铁栏之旁,愿烘我愤怒的心火,烧毁这黑暗丑恶的地狱之网。命运的魔鬼有意捉弄我弱小的灵魂,罚我在冰雪寒天中,寻觅那雕零了的碎梦。求上帝饶恕我,不要再惨害我这仅有的生命,剩得此残躯在,容我杀死那狞恶的敌人!我爱,纵然宇宙变成烬余的战场,野烟都腥:在你给我的甜梦里,我心长系驻于虹桥之中,赞美永生!五我镇天踟蹰于垒垒荒冢,看遍了春花秋月不同的风景,抛弃了一切名利虚荣,来到此无人烟的旷野,哀吟缓行。我登了高岭,向云天苍茫的西方招魂,在绚烂的彩霞里,望见了我沉落的希望之陨星。远处是烟雾冲天的古城,火星似金箭向四方飞游!隐约的听见刀枪搏击之声,那狂热的欢呼令人震惊!在碧草萋萋的墓头,我举起了胜利的金觥,饮吧我爱,我奠祭你静寂无言的孤冢!星月满天时,我把你遗我的宝剑纤手轻擎,宣誓向长空:愿此生永埋了英雄儿女的热情。六假如人生只是虚幻的梦影,那我这些可爱的映影,便是你赠与我的全生命。我常觉你在我身后的树林里,骑着马轻轻地走过去。常觉你停息在我的窗前,徘徊着等我的影消灯熄。常觉你随着我唤你的声音悄悄走近了我,又含泪退到了墙角。常觉你站在我低垂的雪帐外,哀哀地对月光而叹息!在人海尘途中,偶然逢见个像你的人,我停步凝视后,这颗心呵!便如秋风横扫落叶般冷森凄零!我默思我已经得到爱的之心,如今只是荒草夕阳下,一座静寂无语的孤冢。我的心是深夜梦里,寒光闪灼的残月,我的情是青碧冷静,永不再流的湖水。残月照着你的墓碑,湖水环绕着你的坟,我爱,这是我的梦,也是你的梦,安息吧,敬爱的灵魂!七我自从混迹到尘世间,便忘却了我自己;在你的灵魂我才知是谁?记得也是这样夜里。我们在河堤的柳丝中走过来,走过去。我们无语,心海的波浪也只有月儿能领会。你倚在树上望明月沉思,我枕在你胸前听你的呼吸。抬头看见黑翼飞来掩遮住月儿的清光,你抖颤着问我:假如这苍黑的翼是我们的命运时,应该怎样?我认识了欢乐,也随来了悲哀,接受了你的热情,同时也随来了冷酷的秋风。往日,我怕恶魔的眼睛凶,白牙如利刃;我总是藏伏在你的腋下趑趄不敢进,你一手执宝剑,一手扶着我践踏着荆棘的途径,投奔那如花的前程!如今,这道上还留着你斑斑血痕,恶魔的眼睛和牙齿再是那样凶狠。但是我爱,你不要怕我孤零,我愿用这一纤细的弱玉腕,建设那如意的梦境。八春来了,催开桃蕾又飘到柳梢,这般温柔慵懒的天气真使人恼!她似乎躲在我眼底有意缭绕,一阵阵风翼,吹起了我灵海深处的波涛。这世界已换上了装束,如少女般那样娇娆,她披拖着浅绿的轻纱,蹁跹在她那(姹)紫嫣红中舞蹈。伫立于白杨下,我心如捣,强睁开模糊的泪眼,细认你墓头,萋萋芳草。满腔辛酸与谁道?愿此恨吐向青空将天地包。它纠结围绕着我的心,像一堆枯黄的蔓草,我爱,我待你用宝剑来挥扫,我待你用火花来焚烧。九垒垒荒冢上,火光熊熊,纸灰缭绕,清明到了。这是碧草绿水的春郊。墓畔有白发老翁,有红颜年少,向这一杯黄土致不尽的怀忆和哀悼,云天苍茫处我将魂招;白杨萧条,暮鸦声声,怕孤魂归路迢迢。逝去了,欢乐的好梦,不能随墓草而复生,明朝此日,谁知天涯何处寄此身?叹漂泊我已如落花浮萍,且高歌,且痛饮,拼一醉烧熄此心头余情。我爱,这一杯苦酒细细斟,邀残月与孤星和泪共饮,不管黄昏,不论夜深,醉卧在你墓碑傍,任霜露侵凌吧!我再不醒。 她写于十六年清明陶然亭畔无语的观看“高石之恋”,转载一片凄美,复制我一片冰心。最凄美的结合夺走我已消失了很长岁月里的眼泪,泪中还有我未尽的灰。我已情不自禁于凭吊一次这陶然亭旁的坟墓了。 坟墓,只是一个纸盒。我想。 纸盒里放着一片有字的红叶,一对象牙戒指。我小心翼翼的将纸盒展开,铺在我湿润的心田里。在伤心回忆上,那一字字流出血的散文。 从梦回到梦呓,又再次回到梦醒。我转头,看到镜中还在阴霾里的自己,被自己那深陷的凹进入枯骨里的自己惊吓的退了又退。虽然也只是一面镜子。但镜子却照到了坟茔的土里。也只是坟墓。 久长的沉寂后,沉默里的感奋倾泄而出。所有的景仰早早化为了低头,沉重的垂到地面。一声泪,又一滴血。当镜子的破碎声打破了死寂。我的脚下,平静的放着看见了龟裂的伤痕。镜子碎了,又小心翼翼的拼接用泪粘上。唉,镜子里面更加模糊了的自己。又用血写下了重生的名字:“石评梅”。梅,象牙般的冰雪,红叶般的血红。化为石头般的沉没。 她比烟花还要寂寞,还要冷清。肃立,自己突然不认识自己了,哀伤的我已难以辨认。坟墓旁人疏人散,只剩下我一人。我只留下足印,然后轻轻走过。在轻轻擦拭我的足迹.........
三、求英国诗人格雷《墓地哀歌》钱钟书版本,其他翻译版本的滚粗~谢谢
晚钟送终了这一天牛羊咻咻然徐度原野农夫倦步长道回家,仅余我与暮色平分此世界;此为钱钟书《谈中国诗》中自译的一部分
四、求格雷《墓地哀歌》全诗 钱钟书版
ELEGY WRITTEN INA COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o er the lea,The ploughman 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 towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf 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 for ever 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 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 smileThe 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,Awaits alike th inevitable hour:-The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour s voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway d,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 repress d their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom d 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 breastThe 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 history in a nation s eyes,Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;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 PrideWith 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 lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet e en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck d,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th unletter d 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 resign d,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 th unhonour d 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 dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat 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 cross d in hopeless love. One morn I miss d him on the custom d hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. The EpitaphHere rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melacholy 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 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.By Thomas Gray (1716-71). 自己翻译吧
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