One of the most conspicuous3 features of English literature, is that intense love of the sublime and beautiful in Nature, which pervades4, with a living spirit, the works of our poets; gives so peculiar5 a charm to the writings of our naturalists6; possesses great prominence7 in our travellers; is mingled8 with the fervent10 breathings of our religious treatises11; and even finds its way into the volumes of our philosophy. If we look into the literature of the continental13 nations, we find it existing there, more or less, but in a lower tone than in our own; if we look back into that of the ancients, we find it there too, but still fainter, more confined in its scope, and scattered14, as it were, into distant and isolated16 spots. I think nothing[306] can be more striking than the truth of this; and it is a curious matter of observation, that there should be this great distinction, and of inquiry17 whence it has arisen. The love of the beauty and sublimity18 of Nature is an inherent principle in the human soul; but like all other of our finer qualities, it is later in its development than the common ones, and requires, not repression19, but fostering and cultivation20. It is like the love of the fine arts; it slumbers21 in the bosom22 that passes through life in its native rudeness. It lies in the unploughed ground of the human mind,—a seed buried below the influence that alone can call it into activity.
Yes, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea;
Like the man’s thoughts, dark in the infant brain;
Like aught that is, which wraps what is to be;
there it lies, deep in the soil of common events and cares, and untouched by the divine atmosphere of knowledge which a more easy and advanced condition brings with it. In others, it is partially23 vivified, but cannot flourish; it is choked with the cares of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches; but in minds that are fed with substantial knowledge, and have their intellectual power reached, and their affections kindled24 by the blessedness of refined and Christian25 culture,—then it grows with their growth and strengthens with their strength. It daily enlarges its grasp, and its appetite; it expands perpetually the circle of its horizon. The love of the fine arts is but a modification26 of this great passion. Their objects are the same—the sublime and the beautiful; and the same purity and elevation27 of taste accompany them both. This is the original and legitimate28 passion. In our love of the fine arts, our attention is occupied with human imitations of what is beautiful in nature;—in this, we fix our admiration29 at once on the magnificent works of the Great Artist of the Universe.
We might, therefore, reasonably expect to find in the literature of the ancients, what is actually the case, a less refined, less expanded, less penetrating30 and absorbing existence of this affection. Everywhere the love of nature must exist. In all ages and all countries, so is the outward universe framed to influence the inward, that men must be impressed by the grandeur31 of creation, and attracted by its beauty, so far as the human is at all advanced[307] beyond the limits of mere32 animal existence. But in the ancient world education was never popular; it extended only to a few; and of these few a majority were occupied in the pursuits of art, or the speculations33 of philosophy; and poetry, and especially the poetry of nature, had scanty34 followers35. The great poets of all ages, even of those but semi-civilized, must necessarily have minds so sensitive to the influence of all kinds of beauty that they could not help being alive to that of nature; and this was the case with the great poets of Greece. We put out of the present question the dramatic and lyrical ones; for to them the passions and interests of men were the engrossing36 objects; but in Homer, Hesiod, and Theocritus, we may fairly expect to discover the amount of the ancients’ perception of natural beauty, and their love of it. But in these how far is it behind what it is in the moderns. They were often enraptured38 with the pleasantness of nature, but it was seldom with more than its pleasantness. Their Elysian Fields are composed of flowery meads, with pleasant trees and running waters, where the happy spirits led a life of luxurious40 repose41. Their celebrated42 Arcadia is faithfully described in such Idyllia as those of Bion and Moschus;—youths and damsels feeding their flocks amid the charms of a pastoral country, to whose beauties they were alive in proportion as they ministered to luxurious enjoyment45. Beyond this they seldom looked;—seldom describe the sublime aspects and phenomena46 of the universe. Homer, indeed, is the greatest exception,—his soul was cast in a mighty47 mould. His beautiful description of a moonlight night is known to all readers. He speaks, too, of the splendour of the starry48 heavens; and he describes tempests with great majesty49; but this rather as they are terrible in their effects on men, than as sublime in themselves. Minds even of the noblest class had not arrived at that full comprehension of nature which sees sublimity in the gloom and terror of tempests, independent of their effects; the grandeur of beauty in desolation itself; in splintered mountains, wild wildernesses51, and the awfulness of solitude53. They had not become tremblingly alive to all the lesser54 traces and shades of beauty in the face of nature, for they had not reached either of the extremities55 of perception—the vast on one hand—minute perfection on the other. They did not pursue the forms of beauty into leaf and flower; into the[308] cheerful culture of the field, or the brown tinges56 of the desert. They did not watch the growing or fading lights of the sky, and the colours, as they lived or died on the distant mountain tops;—the passing of light and shadow over earth and ocean. Their acquaintance with the subtle spirit of the universe had not become so intimate. They abode57 most in the general; they admired in the mass; for they had not arrived at the refinement58 of very delicate, or extensive analysis; and they did not go out to admire as the moderns; their admiration of nature was not advanced, as with us, into an art and a passion. Beauty rather fell upon their senses than was inquired after. They were pleased, and did not always seek out the operative causes of their sensations. Their mention of their delight was, therefore, generally incidental. They were in the condition and state of mind of the old man in Wordsworth’s ballad59, who says—
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
That Homer had an eye for the sublime features of earth, the nobler forms of animal life, and phenomena of nature,—his bold and beautiful similes61, scattered all through the Iliad, of storms, of overflowing62 rivers, of forests on flame, of the lion, the horse, and others, sufficiently63 testify; that he had a most exquisite64 sense of the picturesque65, is shewn in almost every page of the Odyssey66; in the cave of Polypheme; in good old king Laertes occupied in his farm; and in the whole episode of Ulysses at the lodge67 of Eumeus, the goatherd. But yet it is, after all, only in contemplating68 some scene of delicious rural beauty, something akin60 to Arcadian sweetness, that he breaks out into anything like a rapture39. The abode of Calypso, as seen by Hermes on his approach to it, is an exact instance.
He took the path that winded to the cave.
Large was the grot in which the nymph he found,
The fair-haired nymph, with every beauty crowned.
The cave was brightened with the rising blaze;
While she with work and song the time divides,[309]
On whose high branches, waving with the storm,
The chough, the sea-mew, and loquacious83 crow,
And scream aloft, and skim the deeps below.
With purple clusters blushing through the green.
And every fountain forms a separate rill,
Where bloomy meads with vivid greens were crowned,
And glowing violets threw odours round—
A scene, where if a god should cast his sight,
A god might gaze and wander with delight!
Joy touched the messenger of heaven; he stayed
Entranced, and all the blissful haunt surveyed.
Odyssey, B. v.
In Hesiod, the perception of even the delights of the summer field were far fainter. Though he fed his flock at the foot of Mount Helicon, he has little to say in praise of its aspect; and though he gives you great insight into the state of agriculture, and the simple mode of life of the country people, a very few verses furnish almost all the praise of nature which he had to bestow90. His mind seemed occupied in tracing the genealogy91 of the gods, and framing grave maxims92 for the regulation of human conduct.
Of all the Greek writers, Theocritus is the one that luxuriates most in natural beauty. His sense of the picturesque is keen, and his penciling of such subjects is most vigorous and graphic93. His two fishermen remind us of Crabbe; nothing can be more exquisite.
Two ancient fishers in a straw-thatched shed—
Leaves were their walls, and sea-weed was their bed,
Reclined their weary limbs; hard by were laid
Baskets and all their implements94 of trade;
Mats were their pillow, wove of osiers dank;
This was their wealth, their labour and their trade.
No pot to boil, no watch-dog to defend,
None visited their shed, save, every tide,
Idyl. xxi.
Then again, nothing can be more picturesque, nothing more boldly graphic and solemnly poetical104, than the situation in which he makes Castor and Pollux find Anycus, the king of Bebrycia; nothing more striking than the image of that chief.
Far from the shore, and sought the cooling shade.
Hard by, a hill with waving forests crowned,
Their eyes attracted; in the dale they found
Sparkled like silver, and as silver clear.
Above, tall pines and poplars quivering played,
And planes and cypress in dark greens arrayed;
There sate a chief, tremendous to the eye,
The gauntlet’s strokes his cheeks and ears around,
Had marked his face with many a desperate wound.
Round as a globe, and prominent his chest,
Broad was his back, but broader was his breast;
Id. xxii.
His description of an ancient drinking-cup appears to me to have no rival in all the round of literature, ancient or modern, except Keats’ description of an antique vase. It is life and beauty itself. The figures stand out in bold relief, cut with an energy and precision most wonderful, and with a grace that makes itself felt to the very depths of the spirit.
A deep, two-handled cup, whose brim is crowned
Small tendrils with close-clasping arms uphold
The fruit rich speckled with the seeds of gold.
Within, a woman’s well-wrought image shines,
A vest her limbs, her locks a cawl confines;
Smiling, by turns she views the rival pair;
Hard by, a fisherman, advanced in years,
On the rough margin of a rock appears;
Intent he stands to enclose the fish below,
Lifts a large net, and labours with the throw;
Such strong expression rises on the sight,
You’d swear the man exerted all his might;
A vineyard next with intersected lines,—
And red, ripe clusters load the bending vines.
To guard the fruit a boy sits idly by,
This, plots the branches of ripe grapes to strip,
And send the youngster dinnerless away;
In framing traps for grashoppers and flies;
And earnest only on his own designs,
Id. i.
But in Theocritus, as in Homer, they are Arcadian amenities130 that engross37 almost all his passion for nature. They are flowery fields, running waters, summer shades, and the hum of bees; all the elements of voluptuous131 dreaming and indolent entrancement; the most delicious of all idleness, lying abroad with the blue sky above you, and the mossy turf beneath you, and the bubble of running waters, and the whisper of forest branches near, to lull132 you to repose. Is it not so? When is it that he invites you to out-of-door enjoyment?
Id. vii.
[312]
And whither would he lead you at this sultry, blazing hour? Ah! hear him!
Here rest we: lo! cyperus decks the ground,
Their honeyed hives; here, two cool fountains spring;
Here merrily the birds on branches sing;
Here pines in clusters more umbrageous141 grow,
Id. v.
Ah! cunning Sicilian! well didst thou know where life shed its most delicious dreams. Anacreon at his wine, and Tibullus in the rapture of one of his sweetest love-visions, was a novice143 in true enjoyment to thee. Hark! to the very sounds which he conjures144 up! There is nothing startling—nothing exciting.—No! there is enough of excitement already in the climate, in the summer heat, in the very scenes and persons from whose city revels145 he has just withdrawn146. The true secret now is, to summon up only images of luxurious rest; of calm beauty; of refreshing147 coolness; that the blood, already running riot, may flow in the veins like the nectar of the gods, and send up to the brain images and trains of images of the very poetry of Elysium. Hark to the sounds about you!
But I will give one more extract from him, which seems to combine all the fascinations153 he loved to paint as existing in the summer woodlands.
Of lentesch and young branches of the vine;
Lent a cool shade, and waved the breezy head.
Below, a stream, from the nymphs’ sacred cave,
While honey-bees, for ever on the wing,
The rich, ripe season gratified the sense
With summer’s sweets and autumn’s redolence.
And the plum’s loaded branches kissed the ground.
Id. vii.
Well, we must pass over from the Greeks to the Romans, and I have found it so difficult to escape from Theocritus, that we must make short work of it here. Of Cicero, Seneca, the Plinys,—I will say nothing. We all know how they delighted in their country villas166 and gardens. We all know how Cicero, in his Treatise12 on Old Age, has declared his fondness for farming; and how, between his pleadings in the Forum167, he used to seek the refreshment168 of a walk in a grove78 of plane-trees. We know how, during the best ages of the Commonwealth169, their generals and dictators were brought from the plough and their country retreats—a fine feature in the Roman character, and one which may, in part, account for their so long retaining the simplicity170 of their tastes, and that high tone of virtue171 which generally accompanies a daily intercourse172 with the spirit of nature. All this we know; but what is still more remarkable173 is, that Horace and Virgil, two of the most courtly poets that ever existed, yet were both passionately175 fond of the country, and perpetually declare in their writings that there is nothing in the splendour and fascinations of city life, to compare with the serene176 felicity of a rural one. Horace is perpetually rejoicing over his Sabine farm; and Virgil has, in his Georgics, described all the rural economy of the age with a gusto that is felt in every line. His details fill us with admiration at the great resemblance of the science of these matters at that time, and at this. With scarcely an exception, in all modes of rural management, in all kinds of farming stock—sheep, cattle, and horses, he would be now pronounced a consummate177 judge; and his rules for the culture of fields and gardens, would serve for studies here, notwithstanding the difference of the Italian and English climates. But it is only in that celebrated passage beginning—
O fortunatos nimiùm, sua si bona n?rint,
Agricolas!
in his second Georgic, so often quoted, that he seems to get into a[314] rapture when contemplating the charms of a country life. We may take this as a sufficient example, and as very delightful178 in itself.
Oh happy, if he knew his happy state,
The swain who free from business and debate,
Receives his easy food from Nature’s hand,
And just returns of cultivated land.
No palace with a lofty gate he wants,
To admit the tide of early visitants,
No statues threaten from high pedestals,
With antic vests, which, through their shadowy fold,
He boasts no wool where native white is dyed
With purple poison of Assyrian pride.
But easy quiet, a secure retreat,
A harmless life that knows not how to cheat,
With home-bred plenty the rich owner bless,
And rural pleasures crown his happiness.
Unvexed with quarrels, undisturbed by noise,
The country king his peaceful realm enjoys.
****
My soul is ravished, and my brain inspired—
Whose priest I am, whose holy fillets wear—
Would you your poet’s first petition hear;
Give me the way of wandering stars to know,
The depths of heaven above, and earth below.
****
But if my heavy blood restrain the flight
Of nature, and unclouded fields of light—
My next desire is, void of care and strife,
To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life—
A country cottage near a crystal flood,
A winding valley, and a lofty wood.
Some god conduct me to the sacred shades
Or lift me high to Hemus’ hilly crown,
Or in the plains of Tempe lay me down,
And cover my retreat from human race.
[315]
Turn now to the modern world of literature; and what a blaze of light, what a warmth, what a spirit, what a passion bursts upon us! We step, indeed, into a new world. All here is glowing, clear in view, tender in feeling; full of a new, profound, popular, and yet domestic sentiment—a sentiment befitting “the large utterance190 of the early gods,” and yet hallowing and making more brotherly the bosoms191 of men. We are, in fact, as far advanced beyond the ancients in our knowledge of nature, as we are in that of “the life and immortality193 brought to light by the gospel.” With all the admiration of the ancients for the loveliness of nature, with all their enjoyment of its amenities, what is there in them like the hungering and thirsting, the yearning194 after her, of such hearts as those of Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and a thousand other lights of modern literature? The mighty difference is, indeed, most strikingly manifested by comparing Longinus and Burke. The Palmyrian secretary, amongst his five sources of the sublime, does not even include the influence of natural objects. His treatise is, indeed, more truly a treatise on writing strongly and elegantly, than on the sublime. Like the poets, he perceives the amenities of the country; but there is only one passage in his whole work in which he speaks out plainly of the sublimity of external nature. “The impulse of nature inclines to admire not a little transparent195 rivulet196 that ministers to our necessities; but the Nile, the Ister, the Rhine, or still more, the Ocean. We are never surprised at the sight of a small fire that burns clearly, and blazes out on our private hearth; but view with amaze the celestial197 fires, though they are often obscured by vapours and eclipses. Nor do we reckon anything in nature more wonderful than the boiling furnaces of Etna, which cast out stones, and sometimes whole rocks from their labouring abyss, and pour out whole rivers of liquid and unmingled flame.”
See how Burke has expanded and worked out this glimpse of the true view. He is full of the mighty influence of Nature’s sublime features. Her heights and depths, her horrors and glooms, the demonstrations198 of her power and grandeur in storms, earthquakes, and volcanoes. Infinity199 and Eternity200 are all before him in their awful majesty, and furnish him with some of his deepest sources and most splendid illustrations of the sublime.
But the fact must be evident to every one. A single glance[316] from the ancients to the moderns, and what a contrast! Throughout all the writings of the most enthusiastic ancients, where are the burning, passionate174 longings201 after nature that are transfused203 through all our modern literature? Nature is not with us a thing incidentally alluded204 to,—a thing to be voluptuously205 enjoyed when we find ourselves in the flowery lap of May; ours is a living, permeating206, perpetual affection. We seek after communion with her as one of the highest enjoyments207 of our existence; we seek it to soothe208 the ruffling209 of our spirits; to calm our world-vexed hearts; to fill us with the divine presence and overshadowing of beauty. The love of her is with us a daily attraction; the knowledge of her a daily pursuit; we have advanced her cognizance and admiration into a science. Our naturalists feel the breathings of a celestial spirit come from her secret shrines210, even while they are seeking after and arranging her lesser forms and productions. Our romance writers dip their pens in her hues211 to cast a fascination152 upon their narratives212; and our travellers climb every mountain, traverse every sea, explore every distant region, to catch fresh glimpses of her beauty. True, many of these may not, and do not, feel all the attachment213 they profess—there are thousands who do but affect it, as they do any other fashion; but their very imitation, and their very number, do homage214 to the great worship of the age.
But it is through our poetry that the admiration of nature is diffused215 as one great soul. From Chaucer to the most recent poet, it is the universal spirit. It would seem a contradiction now, to say that a man is a poet, but that he has no ardent216 feeling for nature. In fact, a new language, a new kind of inspiration, distinguish the modern poets from the ancients altogether. Great as each may respectively be, their object, their vision, and their tone in this particular, are widely opposed. When do we find one of the classical writers, speaking thus of his youth?
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then,
To me was all in all—I cannot paint[317]
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms were then to me
An appetite, a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed of the eye.
Wordsworth.
We should be startled to hear an ancient exclaim, like Shelley:
Magnificent!
How glorious art thou earth! And if thou be
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still,
Though evil stain its work, and it should be,
Like its creation, weak yet beautiful,
I could fall down and worship that and thee.
Even now my heart adoreth. Wonderful!
What would be our astonishment220, if we were to stumble in an ancient poet, upon stanzas221 like these?
I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture; I can see
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
And thus I am absorbed, and this is life!
I look upon the peopled desert past,
As on a place of agony and strife
Where for some sin, to sorrow I was cast.
To act and suffer, but remount at last
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing
And when, at length, the mind shall all be free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,—[318]
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is what it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought, the spirit of each spot,
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering rather than forego
Such feelings, for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?
To quote all that bears evidence of this wonderful revolution in the very heart of literature would be, not to quote indeed, but to take the whole mass of modern poetry. Powerfully as the spirit of the ancients was attracted by the sublimity of mortal passion and mortal fortunes; by the strife of families and nations, by the strife of emotions in the soul, and the out-bursting of a blasting or a beneficent sublimity in the deeds of men; and magnificent as are the monuments of tragic226 or heroic grandeur they have erected227 on this foundation,—so powerfully is the spirit of the moderns drawn, excited, and inflamed228 by the sublimity of nature, and beautiful and endearing are the strains it has elicited229. And whence is this mighty change? Ay, that is the question. Whence is it that the love of Nature has, in the latter ages, become so much more passionate, intense, engrossing, refined, elevated, etherealized? Is it because we see Nature with different eyes? Is it that we see something in it that the classics did not? It is! It is to that omnipotent230 principle that has so utterly231 changed the whole system of human philosophy, morals, politics, literature, and social life—the hopes, the fortunes, the reasonings of men, that we owe it. It is to Christianity! The veil which was rent asunder232 in the hour that its Divine Founder233 consummated234 his mission, was plucked away not only from the heart of man, not only from the immortality of his being, but from the face of Nature. A mystery and a doubt which had hung athwart the sky like a vast and gloomy cloud, was withdrawn, and man beheld235 Creation as the assured work of God:[319] saw a parental236 hand guiding, sustaining, and embellishing237 it: and immediately felt himself brought into a near kinship with it, and into an everlasting238 sympathy with all that was beautiful around him,—not simply for the beauty itself, but because it was the work of the one Great Father—the one Great Fountain of all life and blessing239.
The very introduction to the Hebrew literature in the Old Testament240, must have produced a deep and delightful change in human feeling. The contrast between the sentiment and the very language of nature, as addressed to man in the literature of the Greeks and that of the Hebrews, was startling, warming and wonderful beyond measure. The beauty of natural objects was no longer a thing apart;—a thing to be admired on its own account; it was allied241 to a deep sentiment, it became linked to the life of our inner nature. Waters were beheld as the bountiful blessing of Him “who giveth rain upon the earth, and sendeth waters upon the field.” They became the emblem242 of that inward purity of which the noblest pagan could form no adequate conception, but which the God of the Hebrews required. They symbolized243 many of the evils, as well as the refreshments244 of life. Now they typified, “brethren that deal deceitfully as a brook245, and as the stream of brooks246 that pass away; which are brackish247 by reason of the ice, and wherein the snow is hid:” now, they were as the billows of affliction,—scenes of trouble—“all thy billows have gone over me:” and now they were as the refreshment of a thirsty soul. The greenness of the grass and of the branch pointed248 to the beauty, the fleeting249 beauty of life; and now to the insecure prosperity of the unjust:—“He is green before the sun, and his branch shooteth forth in his garden; his roots are wrapped about the heap, and he seeth the place of stones. If he destroy him from his place, then it shall deny him, saying I have not seen him. Behold250 this is the joy of his way, and out of the earth shall others grow.”
Every thing in nature, the flower—the wind—the spider’s web—darkness and light—calm and tempest—drought and flood—the shadow and the noon-day heat—a great rock in a weary land—every thing about us, and above us, acquired in this splendid and inimitable literature, a new and touching251 meaning; a meaning[320] bound up with our lives; a worth coeval252 with our highest hopes, or most fervent desires. Every thing became a moral and a warning. They were made to illustrate253 not only the operations of providence254, but to cast a new light upon our intellectual being. They did not, indeed, speak out as to the exact value stamped upon man by the Deity255, but they gave intimations more profound and startling than anything in the whole round of pagan philosophy. And then, there was an undertone of sorrow, a voice of plaintive regret over man—a delicacy256 and tenderness of phrase that wonderfully attracted and endeared. What ineffable257 melancholy258 is there in these following sentiments! What an intense longing202 after life, and yet, what a longing for death! What a vivid feeling of the grinding evils of mortal being; and what images of the fulness of peace in the grave!—“Why died I not from the womb? For now should I have lain still, and been quiet; I should have slept: then had I been at rest. With kings and counsellors of the earth, which had built desolate259 places for themselves; or with princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver; or, as a hidden, untimely birth, I had not been; as infants which never saw the light. There the wicked cease from troubling; and there the weary are at rest. There the prisoners rest together, they hear not the voice of the oppressor. The small and the great is there; and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery260; and life unto the bitter in soul? Which long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures? Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad when they can find the grave?” Job iii. 11-22.
But this new alliance with nature; this new and spiritual beauty cast upon every thing, was not all. The magnificence of Creation and its phenomena were made tenfold conspicuous; and still beyond this, men were no longer left to suppose, or even to contend that the world was the workmanship of Deity. They were no longer left to bewilder themselves amongst a host of imaginary gods,—the universe in its majesty, and God—the one sublime and eternal founder and preserver of it, were flashed upon the spiritual vision in the broadest and brightest light. Here was seen the clear and continuous history of Creation:—God, the sole and immortal, sate upon the circle of the world, and its inhabitants[321] were as grashoppers before him. The sun, moon, and stars were of his ordaining261 and appointing; night and day, times and seasons, revolved262 before him; his were the cattle on a thousand hills; his all the swarming263 tribes of humanity. The prophetic writings proclaimed his deity, his power and attributes, in language unparalleled in splendour, and with imagery which embraced all that is glorious, resplendent, beautiful and soothing264, or dark, desolate and withering265, in nature.
Such was the effect of the Old Testament;—and then came the New!—then came Christ! The Old shewed us the Deity in unspeakable majesty;—his creation as beautiful and sublime;—Christ proclaimed him the Father of Men; and in those words poured on earth a new light. The words which guaranteed the eternity of our spirits, chased a dimness from the sky which had hung there from the days of Adam: they rent down the curtains of death and oblivion, and let fall upon earth such a tide of sunshine as never warmed it till then. The atmosphere of heaven gushed down to earth. From that hour a new and inextinguishable interest was given us in nature. It was the work of our Father: it was the birthplace of millions of everlasting souls. Its hills and valleys then smiled in an ethereal beauty, for they were then to our eyes spread out by a mighty and tender parent for our happy abodes266. The waters ran with a voice of gladness; the clouds sailed over us with a new aspect of delight; the wind blew, and the leaves fluttered in it, and whispered everywhere of life—eternal consciousness—eternal enjoyment of intellect and of love. Through all things we felt a portion of the divine, paternal267 Spirit diffused, and “the wilderness52 and the solitary place” thenceforth had a language for our hearts full of the holy peace and the revelations of eternity. Then the musing268 poet felt, what it has been reserved for one in our day only fully43 to express:—
A presence that disturbed him with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,[322]
And rolls through all things. Therefore is he still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth: of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of his purest thoughts; the nurse,
Of all his moral being.
Thus, then, is dissipated the mystery of the more intense love of Nature evinced by the moderns than the ancients. It is but part of that gift of divine revelation which has endowed us with so many other advantages over those grand old philosophers of antiquity272, who in the depths of their hearts, darkened and abused by many an hereditary273 superstition274, yet found some of the unquenched embers of that fire of love and knowledge originally kindled there by the Creator, and cherished and fanned them into a noble flame. Had they heard from heaven these living words pronounced—God is Love!—had they seen the great ladder of revelation reared from earth to heaven, and been permitted to trace every radiant step by which man is allowed to ascend69 from these lower regions into the blaze of God’s own paradise, their spirits would have kindled into as intense a glow as ours, and their vision have become as conscious of surrounding glories. God is Love! These are words of miraculous275 power. Once assured that the very principle and source of all life is love, and that it is destined276 to cast its beams on our heads through eternal ages, we become filled with a felicity beyond the power of earthly evil. All those intimations that creation itself had given us, are confirmed. We feel the influence of the great principle of beneficence in the joy of our own being; in the cheerfulness of surrounding humanity; in the voices and songs of happy creatures; in the face of earth, and the lights of heaven. Seas, mountains, and forests, all become imbued277 with beauty as they are contemplated278 in love; and their aspects and their sounds fill us with sensations of happiness. When we read in the Ph?don of Plato, the few and feeble grounds, as they now appear to us, on which that good old Socrates raised his arguments for the immortality of the soul; when we hear his[323] exultation279 on discovering in Anaxagoras the principle laid down, that “the divine intellect was the cause of all beings,” we feel with what deep transport he would have witnessed the gates of eternity set wide by the Divine hand; and in what hues of heaven the very circumstance would have invested all about him. Yes! the only difference between modern literature and that of the ancients, lies in our grand advantage over them in this particular. It is from the literature of the Bible, and the heirship280 of immortality laid open to us in it, that we owe our enlarged conceptions of natural beauty, and our quickened affections towards the handiworks of God. We walk about the world as its true heirs, and heirs of far more than it has to give. We walk about in confidence, in love, and in peaceful hope; for we know that we are the rightful sons of the house; and that neither death nor distance can interrupt our progress towards the home-paradise of the Divine Father.
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1
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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3
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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6
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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8
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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9
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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13
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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14
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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15
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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18
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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19
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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20
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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21
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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30
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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31
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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34
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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36
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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38
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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40
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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41
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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42
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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43
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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45
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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46
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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47
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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48
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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49
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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50
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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51
wildernesses
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| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
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52
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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53
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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54
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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55
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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56
tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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57
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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58
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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59
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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60
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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61
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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62
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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63
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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64
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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65
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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66
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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67
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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68
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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69
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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70
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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71
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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72
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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73
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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74
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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75
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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76
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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77
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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78
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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79
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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80
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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81
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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82
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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83
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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84
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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85
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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86
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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87
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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88
distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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89
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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90
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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91
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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92
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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93
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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94
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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96
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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98
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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100
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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101
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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102
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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103
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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104
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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105
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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106
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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107
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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108
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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109
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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110
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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111
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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112
ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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113
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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114
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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115
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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116
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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117
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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118
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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119
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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120
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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121
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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122
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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124
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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125
meditates
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的第三人称单数 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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126
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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127
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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128
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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129
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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130
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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131
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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132
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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133
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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134
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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135
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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136
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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137
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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138
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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139
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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140
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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141
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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142
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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143
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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144
conjures
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的第三人称单数 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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145
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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146
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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147
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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148
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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149
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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150
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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151
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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152
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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153
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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154
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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155
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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156
meanders
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| 曲径( meander的名词复数 )； 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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157
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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158
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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159
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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160
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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161
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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162
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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163
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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164
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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166
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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167
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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168
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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169
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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170
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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171
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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172
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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173
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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174
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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175
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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176
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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177
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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178
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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179
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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180
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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181
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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182
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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183
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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184
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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185
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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186
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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187
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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188
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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189
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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190
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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191
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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192
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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193
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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194
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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195
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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196
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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197
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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198
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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199
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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200
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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201
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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202
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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203
transfused
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| v.输（血或别的液体）( transfuse的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；使…被灌输或传达 | |
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204
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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206
permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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207
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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208
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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209
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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210
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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211
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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212
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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213
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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214
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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215
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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216
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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217
roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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218
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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219
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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220
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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221
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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222
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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223
pinion
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| v.束缚；n.小齿轮 | |
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224
spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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225
contemn
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| v.蔑视 | |
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226
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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227
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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228
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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229
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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231
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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232
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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233
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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234
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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235
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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236
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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237
embellishing
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| v.美化( embellish的现在分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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238
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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239
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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240
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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241
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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242
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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249
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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250
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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251
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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252
coeval
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| adj.同时代的；n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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253
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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254
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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256
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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258
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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ordaining
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的现在分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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264
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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266
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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275
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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276
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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277
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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278
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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279
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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280
heirship
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| n.继承权 | |
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