大家好！今天让小编来大家介绍下关于格雷墓地哀歌的问题，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、墓畔哀歌的介绍
《墓畔哀歌》Thomas Gray的诗歌；Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard，文/托马斯·格雷，Thomas Gray（1716-1771）译/卞之琳。《墓畔哀歌》石评梅的图书，作者石评梅。出版社： 江苏文艺出版社，出版于2009年10月，开本为大32开。《墓畔哀歌》石评梅的散文集，作者：石评梅。
二、求格雷《墓地哀歌》全诗 钱钟书版
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。——格雷(Gray)《墓地哀歌》就这几句的意境
三、谁能找到 格雷 的《墓地哀歌》全诗？
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).
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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