“There are others toiling2 and straining
‘Neath burdens graver than mine;
They are weary, yet uncomplaining —
I know it, yet I repine:
I know it, how time will ravage3,
How time will level, and yet
I long with a longing4 savage5,
I regret with a fierce regret.”
A. L. GORDON.
‘Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899
Christmas, only distinguished6 from the fifty-two slow Sundays of the year by plum-pudding, roast turkey, and a few bottles of home-made beer, has been once more; New Year, ushered7 in with sweet-scented midsummer wattle and bloom of gum — and box-tree has gone; February has followed, March is doing likewise, and my life is still the same.
What the future holds I know not, and am tonight so Weary that I do not care.
“Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not
The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead;
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.”
Time is thorough in his work, and as that arch-cheat, Hope, gradually becomes a phantom8 of the past, the neck will grow inured9 to its yoke10.
Tonight is one of the times when the littleness — the abject11 littleness — of all things in life comes home to me.
After all, what is there in vain ambition? King or slave, we all must die, and when death knocks at our door, will it matter whether our life has been great or small, fast or slow, so long as it has been true — true with the truth that will bring rest to the soul?
“But the toughest lives are brittle12,
And the bravest and the best
Lightly fall — it matters little;
Now I only long for rest.”
To weary hearts throbbing13 slowly in hopeless breasts the sweetest thing is rest.
And my heart is weary. Oh, how it aches tonight — not with the ache of a young heart passionately14 crying out for battle, but with the slow dead ache of an old heart returning vanquished15 and defeated!
Enough of pessimistic snarling16 and grumbling17! Enough! Enough! Now for a lilt of another theme:
I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty18 bush. I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do. I rejoice I was not born a parasite19, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet20 and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls.
Ah, my sunburnt brothers! — sons of toil1 and of Australia! I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true. I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins21, but those with pathetic streaks22 of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders. I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful.
And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart. Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases23 to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence. Would that I were more worthy24 to be one of you — more a typical Australian peasant — cheerful, honest, brave!
I love you, I love you. Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you: a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia. I see it and know it, but I cannot help you. My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil — I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a — woman!
The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking25 knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land. Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet26, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish27 splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise28, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies! With much love and good wishes to all — Good night! Good-bye!
AMEN
The End
点击收听单词发音
1 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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2 toiling | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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3 ravage | |
vt.使...荒废,破坏...;n.破坏,掠夺,荒废 | |
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4 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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5 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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6 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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7 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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9 inured | |
adj.坚强的,习惯的 | |
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10 yoke | |
n.轭;支配;v.给...上轭,连接,使成配偶 | |
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11 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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12 brittle | |
adj.易碎的;脆弱的;冷淡的;(声音)尖利的 | |
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13 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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14 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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15 vanquished | |
v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 );战胜;克服;抑制 | |
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16 snarling | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的现在分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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17 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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18 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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19 parasite | |
n.寄生虫;寄生菌;食客 | |
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20 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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21 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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22 streaks | |
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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23 oases | |
n.(沙漠中的)绿洲( oasis的名词复数 );(困苦中)令人快慰的地方(或时刻);乐土;乐事 | |
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24 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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25 winking | |
n.瞬眼,目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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26 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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27 garish | |
adj.华丽而俗气的,华而不实的 | |
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28 turquoise | |
n.绿宝石;adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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