Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray The grassland is circuitous, the roar rises and falls, the cultivators are tired, go home, staggering, leaving the whole world to dusk and me. The vast scenery gradually faded away from the eyes, and a solemn silence filled the world. Only buzzing beetles could be heard flying in circles, and the dull ringing of bells hypnotized the sheep pens in the distance. Under the ivy-wrapped tower, a gloomy owl could be heard complaining to the moon about the unprovoked intrusion into its secret home and disturbing its ancient and secluded territory. Under the majestic elm trees and in the shade of the cypresses, many scattered heaps of grass bulged out. Each of them laid down his body forever in the cave, where the vulgar elders of the small village slept peacefully. The relaxed call of the fragrant morning breeze, the whisper of swallows from the thatched hut, the shrill trumpet of the rooster, the hunting horn that makes the mountains ring and the valleys echo, can no longer wake them from their eternal sleep underground. In them, the blazing fire will no longer burn, the busy housewife will no longer rush her night chores; the children will no longer "teeth" to report their father's arrival, crawling onto his lap to fight for a kiss. As usual: they were invincible as soon as they opened the sickle, and the stubborn clay tablets allowed them to plow furrows; how happily they drove their animals to the fields! As soon as they chopped down, the trees bowed their heads one by one! "Ambition" should not mock their practical hard work, homely joys, and unknown destiny; "luxury" should not use a contemptuous sneer to listen to the short and concise lives of the poor. The ostentation of family, the splendor of power, all the benefits that beauty and wealth can bestow, await the inevitable moment: the road to glory leads only to the grave. Proud people, don't blame these people. "Memory" did not build a memorial hall for these people, and did not let the long corridors and carved vaults be filled with sonorous hymns to praise them. Can the bust of Xuxu and the urn tablet with the story inscribed on it restore the dead breath and promote the resurrection of the soul? Can the voice of "honor" inspire the silence of death? Can "flattery" make the God of Death soften his ears? Perhaps this place, despite its desolation, buries a heart that was once filled with spiritual flames; with a pair of hands, Wang Gui could have taken control of the empire or played the lyre superbly. But "knowledge" never opened to them, its dazzling collection of books accumulated over generations; "poverty" suppressed their noble minds and froze their springs flowing from the spiritual mansion. How many crystal-clear jewels in the world are buried in the dark and unfathomable depths of the sea; how many flowers in the world are blooming but no one knows about them, distributing their fragrance in vain into the desolate air. Maybe there is a rural Hampton (the leader of the opposition to King Charles I, mucho's note) buried here, who resisted the local bully, bold and determined; maybe there is the silent Milton (the famous British poet, mucho's note), from There is no reputation; there is a Cromwell who did not cause the country to bleed. To win the thundering applause of the elders in the audience, to ignore threats, to disregard life and death, to spread wealth and abundance everywhere, to read their own history through the smiling eyes of the whole country - their destiny is not allowed: neither sin nor guilt is allowed. You are not allowed to display your virtues wherever you indulge; You are not allowed to step into the throne from the midst of killing and close the door of kindness to mankind; You are not allowed to hide the outbreak of conscience in your heart, hide the innocent shame, and be calm; you are not allowed to light the incense with the golden flame of the god of poetry. The icing on the cake is to fill the shrine of "arrogance" and "luxury". Away from the intrigues of the chaotic world, they have clear desires and never learn to be ignorant. Following the cool and secluded mountains of life, they adhere to the right path of silence. But to prevent these corpses from being trampled, there are still fragile tablets erected nearby, decorated with clumsy rhymes and messy carvings, asking passers-by to sigh. The unknown wild poetry god added the name and year, plus the address and a eulogy; she spread some scriptures around, teaching the country moralists how to die. You want to know who is willing to sacrifice his life and mutely "forget", and calmly leave behind the mixed joys and sorrows of this life. Who can leave the bright scene of wind and warm sun and look back for a while without attachment? The departed soul still clings to the embrace of love, the closing eyes need all the tears of mourning, even in the graves there are cries of "nature", their old fires still ignite our new ashes. As for you, I care about these silent dead people, and use these verses to tell their simple stories. If, under the guidance of your thoughts, by chance, a comrade comes to ask about your life experience - maybe there will be some old country people who are interested in you. He said, "We often see him, when the sky is still young, knocking off the dew with his hasty steps, and going up to the high grass over there to meet the rising sun; "There is an old beech tree over there, with a bulge under the tree. The old roots were intertwined together, and he often lay there for a whole afternoon, carefully watching the trickling stream next to him. "He wandered around to the edge of the forest, sometimes laughing with a hint of ridicule, mumbling his strange stories, sometimes dejected, as if he was helpless, worried or frustrated in love.
"One morning, I did not see him in his usual haunts on the hills, in the bushes, under his beloved tree; and the next morning, although I walked down the stream, up the meadow, and through the woods, he was still missing." On the third day we saw the funeral procession, singing dirges and carrying him to the cemetery - Please come forward and look at the tablet under the old thorn bushes, (you are literate) please recite these verses": Tomb Inscribed here, with his head resting on his knees, is a young man who has never been exposed to "wealth" and "fame" in his life; "knowledge" does not despise his humble background, and "purity" marks him out as a favor. He is sincere by nature and most willing to give generously. God also gave him the same generous reward: He gave "Bumpy" everything he had, a tear; he got everything he asked for from God, a friend. Don't think of any way to praise him. of his deeds, and never again bring out his weaknesses (which rest in trembling hope) in the arms of his heavenly Father and God.