At length, however, a man of a more sober and staid demeanor6, and who had twice passed him with a curious but doubting look, touched him on the shoulder.
'Apaecides!' said he, and he made a rapid sign with his hands: it was the sign of the cross.
'Well, Nazarene,' replied the priest, and his face grew paler; 'what wouldst thou?'
'Nay,' returned the stranger, 'I would not interrupt thy meditations8; but the last time we met, I seemed not to be so unwelcome.'
'You are not unwelcome, Olinthus; but I am sad and weary: nor am I able this evening to discuss with you those themes which are most acceptable to you.'
'O backward of heart!' said Olinthus, with bitter fervor9; and art thou sad and weary, and wilt10 thou turn from the very springs that refresh and heal?'
'O earth!' cried the young priest, striking his breast passionately11, 'from what regions shall my eyes open to the true Olympus, where thy gods really dwell? Am I to believe with this man, that none whom for so many centuries my fathers worshipped have a being or a name? Am I to break down, as something blasphemous13 and profane14, the very altars which I have deemed most sacred? or am I to think with Arbaces—what?' He paused, and strode rapidly away in the impatience15 of a man who strives to get rid of himself. But the Nazarene was one of those hardy16, vigorous, and enthusiastic men, by whom God in all times has worked the revolutions of earth, and those, above all, in the establishment and in the reformation of His own religion—men who were formed to convert, because formed to endure. It is men of this mould whom nothing discourages, nothing dismays; in the fervor of belief they are inspired and they inspire. Their reason first kindles17 their passion, but the passion is the instrument they use; they force themselves into men's hearts, while they appear only to appeal to their judgment18. Nothing is so contagious19 as enthusiasm; it is the real allegory of the tale of Orpheus—it moves stones, it charms brutes20. Enthusiasm is the genius of sincerity21, and truth accomplishes no victories without it.
Olinthus did not then suffer Apaecides thus easily to escape him. He overtook and addressed him thus:
'I do not wonder, Apaecides, that I distress22 you; that I shake all the elements of your mind: that you are lost in doubt; that you drift here and there in the vast ocean of uncertain and benighted23 thought. I wonder not at this, but bear with me a little; watch and pray—the darkness shall vanish, the storm sleep, and God Himself, as He came of yore on the seas of Samaria, shall walk over the lulled24 billows, to the delivery of your soul. Ours is a religion jealous in its demands, but how infinitely25 prodigal26 in its gifts! It troubles you for an hour, it repays you by immortality27.'
'Such promises,' said Apaecides, sullenly28, 'are the tricks by which man is ever gulled29. Oh, glorious were the promises which led me to the shrine30 of Isis!'
'But,' answered the Nazarene, 'ask thy reason, can that religion be sound which outrages31 all morality? You are told to worship your gods. What are those gods, even according to yourselves? What their actions, what their attributes? Are they not all represented to you as the blackest of criminals? yet you are asked to serve them as the holiest of divinities. Jupiter himself is a parricide32 and an adulterer. What are the meaner deities33 but imitators of his vices34? You are told not to murder, but you worship murderers; you are told not to commit adultery, and you make your prayers to an adulterer! Oh! what is this but a mockery of the holiest part of man's nature, which is faith? Turn now to the God, the one, the true God, to whose shrine I would lead you. If He seem to you too sublime35, two shadowy, for those human associations, those touching36 connections between Creator and creature, to which the weak heart clings—contemplate Him in His Son, who put on mortality like ourselves. His mortality is not indeed declared, like that of your fabled37 gods, by the vices of our nature, but by the practice of all its virtues39. In Him are united the austerest morals with the tenderest affections. If He were but a mere40 man, He had been worthy41 to become a god. You honour Socrates—he has his sect42, his disciples43, his schools. But what are the doubtful virtues of the Athenian, to the bright, the undisputed, the active, the unceasing, the devoted44 holiness of Christ? I speak to you now only of His human character. He came in that as the pattern of future ages, to show us the form of virtue38 which Plato thirsted to see embodied45. This was the true sacrifice that He made for man; but the halo that encircled His dying hour not only brightened earth, but opened to us the sight of heaven! You are touched—you are moved. God works in your heart. His Spirit is with you. Come, resist not the holy impulse; come at once—unhesitatingly. A few of us are now assembled to expound46 the word of God. Come, let me guide you to them. You are sad, you are weary. Listen, then, to the words of God: "Come to me", saith He, "all ye that are heavy laden47, and I will give you rest!"'
'I cannot now,' said Apaecides; 'another time.'
'Now—now!' exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and clasping him by the arm.
But Apaecides, yet unprepared for the renunciation of that faith—that life, for which he had sacrificed so much, and still haunted by the promises of the Egyptian, extricated48 himself forcibly from the grasp; and feeling an effort necessary to conquer the irresolution49 which the eloquence50 of the Christian51 had begun to effect in his heated and feverish52 mind, he gathered up his robes and fled away with a speed that defied pursuit.
Breathless and exhausted53, he arrived at last in a remote and sequestered54 part of the city, and the lone55 house of the Egyptian stood before him. As he paused to recover himself, the moon emerged from a silver cloud, and shone full upon the walls of that mysterious habitation.
No other house was near—the darksome vines clustered far and wide in front of the building and behind it rose a copse of lofty forest trees, sleeping in the melancholy56 moonlight; beyond stretched the dim outline of the distant hills, and amongst them the quiet crest57 of Vesuvius, not then so lofty as the traveler beholds58 it now.
Apaecides passed through the arching vines, and arrived at the broad and spacious59 portico60. Before it, on either side of the steps, reposed61 the image of the Egyptian sphinx, and the moonlight gave an additional and yet more solemn calm to those large, and harmonious62, and passionless features, in which the sculptors63 of that type of wisdom united so much of loveliness with awe64; half way up the extremities65 of the steps darkened the green and massive foliage66 of the aloe, and the shadow of the eastern palm cast its long and unwaving boughs67 partially68 over the marble surface of the stairs.
Something there was in the stillness of the place, and the strange aspect of the sculptured sphinxes, which thrilled the blood of the priest with a nameless and ghostly fear, and he longed even for an echo to his noiseless steps as he ascended69 to the threshold.
He knocked at the door, over which was wrought71 an inscription72 in characters unfamiliar73 to his eyes; it opened without a sound, and a tall Ethiopian slave, without question or salutation, motioned to him to proceed.
The wide hall was lighted by lofty candelabra of elaborate bronze, and round the walls were wrought vast hieroglyphics74, in dark and solemn colors, which contrasted strangely with the bright hues75 and graceful76 shapes with which the inhabitants of Italy decorated their abodes77. At the extremity78 of the hall, a slave, whose countenance79, though not African, was darker by many shades than the usual color of the south, advanced to meet him.
'I seek Arbaces,' said the priest; but his voice trembled even in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in silence, and leading Apaecides to a wing without the hall, conducted him up a narrow staircase, and then traversing several rooms, in which the stern and thoughtful beauty of the sphinx still made the chief and most impressive object of the priest's notice, Apaecides found himself in a dim and half-lighted chamber80, in the presence of the Egyptian.
Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which lay unfolded several scrolls82 of papyrus83, impressed with the same character as that on the threshold of the mansion84. A small tripod stood at a little distance, from the incense85 in which the smoke slowly rose. Near this was a vast globe, depicting86 the signs of heaven; and upon another table lay several instruments, of curious and quaint87 shape, whose uses were unknown to Apaecides. The farther extremity of the room was concealed88 by a curtain, and the oblong window in the roof admitted the rays of the moon, mingling89 sadly with the single lamp which burned in the apartment.
'Seat yourself, Apaecides,' said the Egyptian, without rising.
The young man obeyed.
'You ask me,' resumed Arbaces, after a short pause, in which he seemed absorbed in thought—'You ask me, or would do so, the mightiest90 secrets which the soul of man is fitted to receive; it is the enigma91 of life itself that you desire me to solve. Placed like children in the dark, and but for a little while, in this dim and confined existence, we shape our spectres in the obscurity; our thoughts now sink back into ourselves in terror, now wildly plunge92 themselves into the guideless gloom, guessing what it may contain; stretching our helpless hands here and there, lest, blindly, we stumble upon some hidden danger; not knowing the limits of our boundary, now feeling them suffocate93 us with compression, now seeing them extend far away till they vanish into eternity94. In this state all wisdom consists necessarily in the solution of two questions: "What are we to believe? and What are we to reject?" These questions you desire me to decide.'
'Man must have some belief,' continued the Egyptian, in a tone of sadness. 'He must fasten his hope to something: is our common nature that you inherit when, aghast and terrified to see that in which you have been taught to place your faith swept away, you float over a dreary96 and shoreless sea of incertitude97, you cry for help, you ask for some plank98 to cling to, some land, however dim and distant, to attain99. Well, then, have not forgotten our conversation of to-day?'
'Forgotten!'
'I confessed to you that those deities for whom smoke so many altars were but inventions. I confessed to you that our rites100 and ceremonies were but mummeries, to delude101 and lure102 the herd103 to their proper good. I explained to you that from those delusions105 came the bonds of society, the harmony of the world, the power of the wise; that power is in the obedience106 of the vulgar. Continue we then these salutary delusions—if man must have some belief, continue to him that which his fathers have made dear to him, and which custom sanctifies and strengthens. In seeking a subtler faith for us, whose senses are too spiritual for the gross one, let us leave others that support which crumbles107 from ourselves. This is wise—it is benevolent108.'
'Proceed.'
'This being settled,' resumed the Egyptian, 'the old landmarks109 being left uninjured for those whom we are about to desert, we gird up our loins and depart to new climes of faith. Dismiss at once from your recollection, from your thought, all that you have believed before. Suppose the mind a blank, an unwritten scroll81, fit to receive impressions for the first time. Look round the world—observe its order—its regularity—its design. Something must have created it—the design speaks a designer: in that certainty we first touch land. But what is that something?—A god, you cry. Stay—no confused and confusing names. Of that which created the world, we know, we can know, nothing, save these attributes—power and unvarying regularity—stern, crushing, relentless110 regularity—heeding no individual cases—rolling—sweeping—burning on; no matter what scattered111 hearts, severed112 from the general mass, fall ground and scorched113 beneath its wheels. The mixture of evil with good—the existence of suffering and of crime—in all times have perplexed114 the wise. They created a god—they supposed him benevolent. How then came this evil? why did he permit it—nay, why invent, why perpetuate115 it? To account for this, the Persian creates a second spirit, whose nature is evil, and supposes a continual war between that and the god of good. In our own shadowy and tremendous Typhon, the Egyptians image a similar demon116. Perplexing blunder that yet more bewilders us!—folly that arose from the vain delusion104 that makes a palpable, a corporeal117, a human being, of this unknown power—that clothes the Invisible with attributes and a nature similar to the Seen. No: to this designer let us give a name that does not command our bewildering associations, and the mystery becomes more clear—that name is NECESSITY. Necessity, say the Greeks, compels the gods. Then why the gods?—their agency becomes unnecessary—dismiss them at once. Necessity is the ruler of all we see—power, regularity—these two qualities make its nature. Would you ask more?—you can learn nothing: whether it be eternal—whether it compel us, its creatures, to new careers after that darkness which we call death—we cannot tell. There leave we this ancient, unseen, unfathomable power, and come to that which, to our eyes, is the great minister of its functions. This we can task more, from this we can learn more: its evidence is around us—its name is NATURE. The error of the sages118 has been to direct their researches to the attributes of necessity, where all is gloom and blindness. Had they confined their researches to Nature—what of knowledge might we not already have achieved? Here patience, examination, are never directed in vain. We see what we explore; our minds ascend70 a palpable ladder of causes and effects. Nature is the great agent of the external universe, and Necessity imposes upon it the laws by which it acts, and imparts to us the powers by which we examine; those powers are curiosity and memory—their union is reason, their perfection is wisdom. Well, then, I examine by the help of these powers this inexhaustible Nature. I examine the earth, the air, the ocean, the heaven: I find that all have a mystic sympathy with each other—that the moon sways the tides—that the air maintains the earth, and is the medium of the life and sense of things—that by the knowledge of the stars we measure the limits of the earth—that we portion out the epochs of time—that by their pale light we are guided into the abyss of the past—that in their solemn lore119 we discern the destinies of the future. And thus, while we know not that which Necessity is, we learn, at least, her decrees. And now, what morality do we glean120 from this religion?—for religion it is. I believe in two deities—Nature and Necessity; I worship the last by reverence121, the first by investigation122. What is the morality my religion teaches? This—all things are subject but to general rules; the sun shines for the joy of the many—it may bring sorrow to the few; the night sheds sleep on the multitude—but it harbors murder as well as rest; the forests adorn123 the earth—but shelter the serpent and the lion; the ocean supports a thousand barks—but it engulfs124 the one. It is only thus for the general, and not for the universal benefit, that Nature acts, and Necessity speeds on her awful course. This is the morality of the dread125 agents of the world—it is mine, who am their creature. I would preserve the delusions of priestcraft, for they are serviceable to the multitude; I would impart to man the arts I discover, the sciences I perfect; I would speed the vast career of civilizing126 lore: in this I serve the mass, I fulfill127 the general law, I execute the great moral that Nature preaches. For myself I claim the individual exception; I claim it for the wise—satisfied that my individual actions are nothing in the great balance of good and evil; satisfied that the product of my knowledge can give greater blessings128 to the mass than my desires can operate evil on the few (for the first can extend to remotest regions and humanize nations yet unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to myself freedom. I enlighten the lives of others, and I enjoy my own. Yes; our wisdom is eternal, but our life is short: make the most of it while it lasts. Surrender thy youth to pleasure, and thy senses to delight. Soon comes the hour when the wine-cup is shattered, and the garlands shall cease to bloom. Enjoy while you may. Be still, O Apaecides, my pupil and my follower129! I will teach thee the mechanism130 of Nature, her darkest and her wildest secrets—the lore which fools call magic—and the mighty131 mysteries of the stars. By this shalt thou discharge thy duty to the mass; by this shalt thou enlighten thy race. But I will lead thee also to pleasures of which the vulgar do not dream; and the day which thou givest to men shall be followed by the sweet night which thou surrenderest to thyself.'
As the Egyptian ceased there rose about, around, beneath, the softest music that Lydia ever taught, or Iona ever perfected. It came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses unawares; enervating132, subduing133 with delight. It seemed the melodies of invisible spirits, such as the shepherd might have heard in the golden age, floating through the vales of Thessaly, or in the noontide glades134 of Paphos. The words which had rushed to the lip of Apaecides, in answer to the sophistries136 of the Egyptian, died tremblingly away. He felt it as a profanation137 to break upon that enchanted138 strain—the susceptibility of his excited nature, the Greek softness and ardour of his secret soul, were swayed and captured by surprise. He sank on the seat with parted lips and thirsting ear; while in a chorus of voices, bland139 and melting as those which waked Psyche140 in the halls of love, rose the following song:
By the cool banks where soft Cephisus flows,
A voice sail'd trembling down the waves of air;
The leaves blushed brighter in the Teian's rose,
While from their hands the purple flowerets fell,
The laughing Hours stood listening in the sky;—
From Pan's green cave to AEgle's haunted cell,
Heaved the charm'd earth in one delicious sigh.
Love, sons of earth! I am the Power of Love!
My smile sheds light along the courts above,
Mine are the stars—there, ever as ye gaze,
Ye meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes;
Mine is the moon—and, mournful if her rays,
'Tis that she lingers where her Carian lies.
The flowers are mine—the blushes of the rose,
Mine the quick light that in the Maybeam glows,
Love, sons of earth—for love is earth's soft lore,
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore,
And the winds nestling on the heaving sea.
'All teaches love!'—The sweet voice, like a dream,
Melted in light; yet still the airs above,
The waving sedges, and the whispering stream,
As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand of Apaecides, and
led him, wandering, intoxicated148, yet half-reluctant, across the chamber
towards the curtain at the far end; and now, from behind that curtain,
there seemed to burst a thousand sparkling stars; the veil itself,
hitherto dark, was now lighted by these fires behind into the tenderest
blue of heaven. It represented heaven itself—such a heaven, as in the
nights of June might have shone down over the streams of Castaly. Here
limner's art, faces of divinest beauty, and on which reposed the shapes
of which Phidias and Apelles dreamed. And the stars which studded the
'Oh! what miracle is this, Arbaces,' said Apaecides in faltering154 accents. 'After having denied the gods, art thou about to reveal to me...'
'Their pleasures!' interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so different from its usual cold and tranquil155 harmony that Apaecides started, and thought the Egyptian himself transformed; and now, as they neared the curtain, a wild—a loud—an exulting156 melody burst from behind its concealment157. With that sound the veil was rent in twain—it parted—it seemed to vanish into air: and a scene, which no Sybarite ever more than rivalled, broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youthful priest. A vast banquet-room stretched beyond, blazing with countless158 lights, which filled the warm air with the scents159 of frankincense, of jasmine, of violets, of myrrh; all that the most odorous flowers, all that the most costly161 spices could distil162, seemed gathered into one ineffable163 and ambrosial164 essence: from the light columns that sprang upwards165 to the airy roof, hung draperies of white, studded with golden stars. At the extremities of the room two fountains cast up a spray, which, catching166 the rays of the roseate light, glittered like countless diamonds. In the centre of the room as they entered there rose slowly from the floor, to the sound of unseen minstrelsy, a table spread with all the viands167 which sense ever devoted to fancy, and vases of that lost Myrrhine fabric168, so glowing in its colors, so transparent in its material, were crowned with the exotics of the East. The couches, to which this table was the centre, were covered with tapestries169 of azure and gold; and from invisible tubes the vaulted170 roof descended171 showers of fragrant172 waters, that cooled the delicious air, and contended with the lamps, as if the spirits of wave and fire disputed which element could furnish forth173 the most delicious odorous. And now, from behind the snowy draperies, trooped such forms as Adonis beheld174 when he lay on the lap of Venus. They came, some with garlands, others with lyres; they surrounded the youth, they led his steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets round him in rosy chains. The earth—the thought of earth, vanished from his soul. He imagined himself in a dream, and suppressed his breath lest he should wake too soon; the senses, to which he had never yielded as yet, beat in his burning pulse, and confused his dizzy and reeling sight. And while thus amazed and lost, once again, but in brisk and Bacchic measures, rose the magic strain:
ANACREONTIC
But oh! in the bowl of Youth there glows
A Lesbian, more divine!
Bright, bright,
As the liquid light,
Its waves through thine eyelids shine!
Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim,
The juice of the young Lyaeus;
The grape is the key that we owe to him
Drink, drink!
What need to shrink,
When the lambs alone can see us?
The wine of a softer tree;
Give the smiles to the god of the grape—thy sighs,
Beloved one, give to me.
Turn, turn,
My glances burn,
And thirst for a look from thee!
starred flowers, and who, while they imitated, might have shamed the
dance: such as the Nereids wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands of
the AEgean wave—such as Cytherea taught her handmaids in the
marriage-feast of Psyche and her son.
Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his head; now kneeling, the youngest of the three proffered182 him the bowl, from which the wine of Lesbos foamed183 and sparkled. The youth resisted no more, he grasped the intoxicating184 cup, the blood mantled185 fiercely through his veins. He sank upon the breast of the nymph who sat beside him, and turning with swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom he had lost in the whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated beneath a canopy186 at the upper end of the table, and gazing upon him with a smile that encouraged him to pleasure. He beheld him, but not as he had hitherto seen, with dark and sable187 garments, with a brooding and solemn brow: a robe that dazzled the sight, so studded was its whitest surface with gold and gems188, blazed upon his majestic189 form; white roses, alternated with the emerald and the ruby190, and shaped tiara-like, crowned his raven191 locks. He appeared, like Ulysses, to have gained the glory of a second youth—his features seemed to have exchanged thought for beauty, and he towered amidst the loveliness that surrounded him, in all the beaming and relaxing benignity193 of the Olympian god.
'Drink, feast, love, my pupil!' said he, 'blush not that thou art passionate12 and young. That which thou art, thou feelest in thy veins: that which thou shalt be, survey!'
With this he pointed194 to a recess195, and the eyes of Apaecides, following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed between the statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a skeleton.
'Start not,' resumed the Egyptian; 'that friendly guest admonishes196 us but of the shortness of life. From its jaws197 I hear a voice that summons us to ENJOY.'
As he spoke198, a group of nymphs surrounded the statue; they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were emptied and refilled at that glowing board, they sang the following strain:
I
Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host,
Thou that didst drink and love:
By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost,
But thy thought is ours above!
If memory yet can fly,
Back to the golden sky,
And mourn the pleasures lost!
By the ruin'd hall these flowers we lay,
Where thy soul once held its palace;
And the cithara's voice
Could bid thy heart rejoice
When night eclipsed the day.
Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music into a quicker and more joyous strain.
II
Death, death is the gloomy shore
Where we all sail—
Chain with bright wreaths the Hours;
Victims if all
Victims should fall!
Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the silver-footed music:
Since Life's so short, we'll live to laugh,
Ah! wherefore waste a minute!
If youth's the cup we yet can quaff,
Be love the pearl within it!
A third band now approached with brimming cups, which they poured in libation upon that strange altar; and once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody:
III
Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom,
From the far and fearful sea!
When the last rose sheds its bloom,
Our board shall be spread with thee!
All hail, dark Guest!
Who hath so fair a plea
Our welcome Guest to be,
As thou, whose solemn hall
At last shall feast us all
Long yet be we the Host!
And thou, Dead Shadow, thou,
All joyless though thy brow,
Thou—but our passing GUEST!
At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenly took up the song:
IV
The earth and the sun are ours!
And far from the dreary tomb
Speed the wings of the rosy Hours—
Sweet is for thee the bowl,
Sweet are thy looks, my love;
I fly to thy tender soul,
As bird to its mated dove!
Take me, ah, take!
Soft let me sink to rest:
But wake me—ah, wake!
And tell me with words and sighs,
But more with thy melting eyes,
That my sun is not set—
That we love, and we breathe, and burn,
Tell me—thou lov'st me yet!
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收听单词发音
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1
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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2
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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3
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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4
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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6
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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7
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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8
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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9
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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10
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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11
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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12
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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13
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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14
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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15
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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16
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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17
kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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18
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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19
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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23
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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24
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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25
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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26
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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27
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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28
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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29
gulled
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| v.欺骗某人( gull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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31
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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33
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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34
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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35
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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36
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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37
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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38
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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39
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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40
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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41
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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42
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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43
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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44
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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45
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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46
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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47
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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48
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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50
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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51
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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52
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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53
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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54
sequestered
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|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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55
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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56
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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57
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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58
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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59
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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60
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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61
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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63
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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64
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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65
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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66
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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67
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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68
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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69
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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71
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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72
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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73
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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74
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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75
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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76
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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77
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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78
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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79
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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80
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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81
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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82
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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83
papyrus
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| n.古以纸草制成之纸 | |
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84
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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85
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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86
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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87
quaint
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|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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88
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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89
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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90
mightiest
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|
| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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91
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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92
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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93
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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94
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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95
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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96
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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97
incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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98
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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99
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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100
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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101
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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102
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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103
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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104
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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105
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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106
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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107
crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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108
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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109
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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110
relentless
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|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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111
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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112
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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113
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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114
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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115
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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116
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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117
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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118
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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119
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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120
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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121
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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122
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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123
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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124
engulfs
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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126
civilizing
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| v.使文明，使开化( civilize的现在分词 ) | |
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127
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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128
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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129
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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130
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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131
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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132
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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133
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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134
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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135
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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136
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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137
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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138
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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139
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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140
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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141
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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142
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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143
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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144
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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145
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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146
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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147
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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148
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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149
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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159
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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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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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176
foams
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| n.泡沫，泡沫材料( foam的名词复数 ) | |
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mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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admonishes
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| n.劝告( admonish的名词复数 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责v.劝告( admonish的第三人称单数 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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197
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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198
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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199
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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200
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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201
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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202
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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203
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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204
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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205
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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