Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate1 the inward grief,
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms2 have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast3 the morn —
True honor’s dearth4, affection’s death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have water’d since the world was born.
The world! — it is a wilderness5,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me!
Come let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds, where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot6 the eye,
And make heaven black with misery7.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats,
Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more
With her sad melody.
Why shines the Sun, except that he
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,
And pensive8 shades for Melancholy9,
When all the earth is bright beside?
Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave,
Mirth shall not win us back again,
Whilst man is made of his own grave,
And fairest clouds but gilded10 rain!
I saw my mother in her shroud11,
Her cheek was cold and very pale;
And ever since I’ve look’d on all
As creatures doom12’d to fail!
Why do buds ope except to die?
Ay, let us watch the roses wither13,
And think of our loves’ cheeks;
And oh! how quickly time doth fly
To bring death’s winter hither!
Minutes, hours, days, and weeks,
Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought14;
An age past is but a thought!
Ay, let us think of Him awhile
That, with a coffin15 for a boat,
Rows daily o’er the Stygian moat,
And for our table choose a tomb:
There’s dark enough in any skull16
To charge with black a raven17 plume18;
And for the saddest funeral thoughts
A winding-sheet hath ample room,
Where Death, with his keen-pointed style,
Hath writ19 the common doom.
How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom,
And o’er the dead lets fall its dew,
As if in tears it wept for them,
The many human families
That sleep around its stem!
How cold the dead have made these stones,
With natural drops kept ever wet!
Lo! here the best — the worst — the world
Doth now remember or forget,
Are in one common ruin hurl’d,
And love and hate are calmly met;
The loveliest eyes that ever shone,
The fairest hands, and locks of jet.
Is’t not enough to vex20 our souls,
And fill our eyes, that we have set
Our love upon a rose’s leaf,
Our hearts upon a violet?
Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer21 yet;
And sometimes at their swift decay
Beforehand we must fret22.
The roses bud and bloom, again;
But Love may haunt the grave of Love,
And watch the mould in vain.
O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine,
And do not take my tears amiss;
For tears must flow to wash away
A thought that shows so stern as this:
Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
In woe23 to come, the present bliss24;
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis,
Ev’n so the dark and bright will kiss.
The sunniest things throw sternest shade,
And there is ev’n a happiness
That makes the heart afraid!
Now let us with a spell invoke25
The full-orb’d moon to grieve our eyes;
Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud
Lapp’d all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest
The ghost of the late-buried sun
Had crept into the skies.
The Moon! she is the source of sighs,
The very face to make us sad;
If but to think in other times
The same calm quiet look she had,
As if the world held nothing base,
Of vile26 and mean, of fierce and bad;
The same fair light that shone in streams,
The fairy lamp that charmed the lad;
For so it is, with spent delights
She taunts27 men’s brains, and makes them mad.
All things are touch’d with Melancholy,
Born of the secret soul’s mistrust,
To feel her fair ethereal wings
Weigh’d down with vile degraded dust;
Even the bright extremes of joy
Bring on conclusions of disgust,
Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance28 ends in must.
O give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy;
There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely29;
There’s not a string attuned30 to mirth,
But has its chord in Melancholy.
点击收听单词发音
1 aggravate | |
vt.加重(剧),使恶化;激怒,使恼火 | |
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2 bosoms | |
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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3 outlast | |
v.较…耐久 | |
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4 dearth | |
n.缺乏,粮食不足,饥谨 | |
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5 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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6 blot | |
vt.弄脏(用吸墨纸)吸干;n.污点,污渍 | |
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7 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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8 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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9 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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10 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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11 shroud | |
n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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12 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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13 wither | |
vt.使凋谢,使衰退,(用眼神气势等)使畏缩;vi.枯萎,衰退,消亡 | |
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14 nought | |
n./adj.无,零 | |
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15 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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16 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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17 raven | |
n.渡鸟,乌鸦;adj.乌亮的 | |
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18 plume | |
n.羽毛;v.整理羽毛,骚首弄姿,用羽毛装饰 | |
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19 writ | |
n.命令状,书面命令 | |
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20 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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21 frailer | |
脆弱的( frail的比较级 ); 易损的; 易碎的 | |
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22 fret | |
v.(使)烦恼;(使)焦急;(使)腐蚀,(使)磨损 | |
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23 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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24 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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25 invoke | |
v.求助于(神、法律);恳求,乞求 | |
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26 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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27 taunts | |
嘲弄的言语,嘲笑,奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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28 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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29 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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30 attuned | |
v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 );调音 | |
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