黄茂雄Westminster Abbey带译文

2021年1月19日发(作者：institution)
Westminster Abbey
肖波译

西敏大寺



ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter part of autumn when the shadows
of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I
passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the
season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile, and as I passed its threshold it seemed like
stepping back into the regions of antiquity and losing myself among the shades of former ages.
I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage that
had an almost subterranean look, b
eing dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the
massive walls.
Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an
old verger in his black gown moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from
one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains

prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet
and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps and crumbling with age; a
coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the
death's heads and other funeral emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich
tracery
of
the
arches;
the
roses
which
adorned
the
keystones
have
lost
their
leafy
beauty;
everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and
pleasing in its very decay.
The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon a
scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of
dusky splendor.
From between the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky
or a passing
cloud, and beheld the sun- gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven.
As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this
mingled picture of glory and decay, and
sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones which formed the pavement
beneath
my
feet,
my
eye
was
attracted
to
three
figures
rudely
carved
in
relief,
but
nearly
worn
away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; the
epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later
times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176).
I
remained
some
little
while,
musing
over
these
casual
relics
of
antiquity
thus
left
like
wrecks
upon
this distant
shore
of
time,
telling
no
tale
but
that such
beings
had
been
and
had
perished,
teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes and to
live
in
an
inscription.
A
little
longer,
and
even
these
faint
records
will
be
obliterated
and
the
monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon the gravestones I was
roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress and echoing among
the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs
and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I
pursued
my
walk
to
an
arched
door
opening
to
the
interior
of
the
abbey.
On
entering
here
the
magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters.
The
eyes
gaze
with
wonder
at
clustered
columns
of
gigantic
dimensions,
with
arches
springing
from
them
to
such
an
amazing
height,
and
man
wandering
about
their
bases,
shrunk
into
insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast
edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful
of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb, while every footfall whispers along the walls and
chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted.

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul and hushes the beholder
into
noiseless
reverence.
We
feel
that
we
are
surrounded
by
the
congregated bones
of
the
great
men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds and the earth with their renown.


And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition to see how they are crowded
together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy
corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy, and how
many shapes and forms and artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and
save from forgetfulness for a few short years a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the
world's thought and admiration.

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles
of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford no striking
themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories, but the
greater
part
have
busts,
medallions,
and
sometimes
mere
inscriptions.
Notwithstanding
the
simplicity
of
these
memorials,
I
have
always
observed
that
the
visitors
to
the
abbey
remained
longest
about
them.
A
kinder
and
fonder
feeling
takes
place
of
that
cold
curiosity
or
vague
admiration
with
which
they
gaze
on
the
splendid
monuments
of
the
great
and
the
heroic.
They
linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions, for indeed there is something of
companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through
the
medium
of
history,
which
is
continually
growing
faint
and
obscure;
but
the
intercourse
between the author and his fellowmen is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them
more
than
for
himself;
he
has
sacrificed
surrounding
enjoyments,
and
shut
himself
up
from
the
delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant
ages. Well may the world cherish his renown, for it has been purchased not by deeds of violence
and
blood,
but
by
the
diligent
dispensation
of
pleasure.
Well
may
posterity
be
grateful
to
his
memory,
for
he
has
left
it
an
inheritance
not
of
empty
names
and
sounding
actions,
but
whole
treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language.
和珠玑的文字。


From
Poet's
Corner
I
continued
my
stroll
towards
that
part
of
the
abbey
which
contains
the
sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied
by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name or the
cognizance
of
some
powerful
house
renowned
in
history.
As
the
eye
darts
into
these
dusky
chambers of death it catches glimpses of quaint effigies--some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion;
others
stretched
upon
the
tombs,
with
hands
piously
pressed
together;
warriors
in
armor,
as
if
reposing after battle; prelates, with crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as
it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still
and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city where every being
had been suddenly transmuted into stone.

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large
buckler was on one arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast; the face
was almost covered by the morion; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been
engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader, of one of those military enthusiasts who so
strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact
and fiction, between the history and the fairytale. There is something extremely picturesque in the
tombs
of
these
adventurers,
decorated
as
they
are
with
rude
armorial
bearings
and
Gothic
sculpture.
They
comport
with
the
antiquated
chapels
in
which
they
are
generally
found;
and
in
considering
them
the
imagination
is
apt
to
kindle
with
the
legendary
associations,
the
romantic
fiction,
the
chivalrous
pomp
and
pageantry
which
poetry
has
spread
over
the
wars
for
the
sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone by, of beings passed from recollection,
of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange
and distant land of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are
vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic
tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an
effect
infinitely
more
impressive
on
my
feelings
than
the
fanciful
attitudes,
the
over
wrought
conceits,
the allegorical
groups
which abound
on
modern
monuments.
I
have
been
struck,
also,
with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way in former
times of saying things simply, and
yet saying them proudly; and
I do not know an epitaph that
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage than one which affirms of a
noble house that
In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among the most renowned
achievements of modern art, but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb
of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open
its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless
frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who
strives with vain and frantic effort to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and
spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of
the spectre. But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread
horrors
round
the
tomb
of
those
we
love?
The
grave
should
be
surrounded
by
everything
that
might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead, or that might win the living to virtue. It is the
place not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation.
While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the
sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear--the rumbling of the passing
equipage,
the
murmur
of
the
multitude,
or
perhaps
the
light
laugh
of
pleasure.
The
contrast
is
striking with the deathlike repose around; and it has a strange effect upon the feelings thus to hear
the surges of active life hurrying along and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre.

I
continued
in
this
way
to
move
from
tomb
to
tomb
and
from
chapel
to
chapel.
The
day
was
gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent;
the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers
in
their
white
surplices
crossing
the
aisle
and
entering
the
choir.
I
stood
before
the
entrance
to
Henry
the
Seventh's
chapel.
A
flight
of
steps
leads
up
to
it
through
a
deep
and
gloomy
but
magnificent
arch.
Great
gates
of
brass,
richly
and
delicately
wrought,
turn
heavily
upon
their
hinges,
as
if
proudly
reluctant
to
admit
the
feet
of
common
mortals
into
this
most
gorgeous
of
sepulchres.
On
entering
the
eye
is
astonished
by
the
pomp
of
architecture
and
the
elaborate
beauty
of
sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament encrusted with tracery, and
scooped into niches crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as if by magic,
and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak,
though
with
the
grotesque
decorations
of Gothic
architecture. On
the
pinnacles
of
the
stalls
are
affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords, and above them are
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold
and
purple
and
crimson
with
the
cold
gray
fretwork
of
the
roof.
In
the
midst
of
this
grand
mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder --his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a
sumptuous tomb--and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing.
There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence, this strange mixture of tombs and trophies, these
emblems
of
living
and
aspiring
ambition,
close
beside
mementos
which
show
the
dust
and
oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper
feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On
looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but
gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when
this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land, glittering with the splendor of jewelled
rank and military array, alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude.
All had passed away; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the
casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel and built their nests among its
friezes and pendants--sure signs of solitariness and desertion.


When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide
about the world--some tossing upon distant seas: some under arms in distant lands; some mingling
in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets,--all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this
mansion of shadowy honors--the melancholy reward of a monument.
Two
small
aisles
on
each
side
of
this
chapel
present
a
touching
instance
of
the
equality
of
the
grave, which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed and mingles the dust of the
bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of
her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is
uttered
over
the
fate
of
the
latter,
mingled
with
indignation
at
her
oppressor.
The
walls
of
Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.
A
peculiar
melancholy
reigns
over
the
aisle
where
Mary
lies
buried.
The
light
struggles
dimly
through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls
are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb,
round
which
is
an
iron
railing,
much
corroded,
bearing
her
national
emblem--the
thistle.
I
was
weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the
chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary.
The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey.
I could only hear, now and then, the
distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service and the faint responses of the choir; these
paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion, and obscurity that were gradally
prevailing around gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place;





For in the silent grave no conversation,





No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,





No careful father's counsel--nothing's heard,





For nothing is, but all oblivion,





Dust, and an endless darkness.





—。


Suddenly
the
notes
of
the
deep-laboring
organ
burst
upon
the
ear,
falling
with
doubled
and
redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and
grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults,
and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal!
And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes and
piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet
gushes of melody; they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty
vaults
like
the
pure
airs
of
heaven.
Again
the
pealing
organ
heaves
its
thrilling
thunders,
compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What
solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful; it fills the vast pile and
seems to jar the very walls --the ear is stunned--the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding
up in full jubilee--it is rising from the earth to heaven; the very soul seems rapt away and floated
upwards on this swelling tide of harmony!
。


I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire:
the shadows of evening were gradually thickening round me; the monuments began to cast deeper
and deeper gloom; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day.
I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body
of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I
ascended the
small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs.
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various
kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to
the
chapels
and
chambers
below,
crowded
with
tombs,
where
warriors,
prelates,
courtiers,
and
statesmen
lie
mouldering
in
their

of
darkness.
Close
by
me
stood
the
great
chair
of
coronation,
rudely
carved
of
oak
in
the
barbarous
taste
of
a
remote
and
Gothic
age.
The
scene
seemed almost as if contrived with theatrical artifice to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here
was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step
from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been
gathered together as a lesson to living greatness?--to show it, even in the moment of its proudest
exaltation,
the
neglect
and
dishonor
to
which
it
must
soon
arrive--how
soon
that
crown
which
encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and
be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is
here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures which leads them to sport
with
awful
and
hallowed
things,
and
there
are
base
minds
which
delight
to
revenge
on
the
illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin
of
Edward
the
Confessor
has
been
broken
open,
and
his
remains
despoiled
of
their
funereal
ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth; and the effigy of
Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive
is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered, some mutilated, some covered with ribaldry and
insult,--all more or less outraged and dishonored.

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults
above
me;
the
lower
parts
of
the
abbey
were
already
wrapped
in
the
obscurity
of
twilight.
The
chapels
and
aisles
grew
darker
and
darker.
The
effigies
of
the
kings
faded
into
shadows;
the
marble
figures
of
the
monuments
assumed
strange
shapes
in
the
uncertain
light;
the
evening
breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a
verger,
traversing
the
Poet's
Corner,
had
something
strange
and
dreary
in
its
sound.
I
slowly
retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with
a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes.

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but
found they were already falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies,
had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the
threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation--a
huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion? It is,
indeed, the empire of death; his great shadowy palace where he sits in state mocking at the relics
of human glory and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a
boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are
too much engrossed by the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave
interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of
to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and will in turn be supplanted by his
successor
of
tomorrow.

fathers,
says
Sir
Thomas
Browne,

their
graves
in
our
short
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors.
becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue
falls
from
the
pedestal.
Columns,
arches,
pyramids,
what
are
they
but
heaps
of
sand,
and
their
epitaphs but characters written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb or the perpetuity of an
embalmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty
sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum.
or
time
hath
spared,
avarice
now
consumeth;
Mizraim
cures
wounds,
and
Pharaoh
is
sold
for
balsams.

What
then
is
to
ensure
this pile
which
now
towers
above
me
from
sharing
the
fate
of
mightier
mausoleums? The time must come when its gilded vaults which now spring so loftily, shall lie in
rubbish beneath the feet; when instead of the sound of melody and praise the wind shall whistle
through the broken arches and the owl hoot from the shattered tower; when the garish sunbeam
shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and
the fox- glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man
passes away; his name passes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and
his very monument becomes a ruin.
。




①

艾迪生
(Joseph Addison 1672-1719)
，英国诗人、散文家、政治家。



②

亨利七世
(Henry
Ⅶ，
1457
－1509)
，英国国王
(1485
—
1509)
。



③

巴斯骑士——英国国王乔治一世于
1725
年设立的一种勋位。



④

玛丽（
Mary Stuart
，
1542 -1587
）
，苏格兰女王（
1542
－
1567
）
，扶旧教而抑新教。因
苏格兰革命，逃亡英国，投奔伊丽莎白，被囚二十余年，终为伊丽莎白处死。< br>


⑤

原文诗句引自英国剧作家博蒙特
(Francis
Beaumont,1584
—
1616)
和弗莱彻
(John < br>Fletcher,1579
—
1625)
两人合著的戏剧
Thier ry and Theodoret
第四幕第一场。



⑥

忏悔者爱德华
(Edward
the
Confessor
,1003-1066),
英格兰国王，与诺曼第公爵威廉作< br>战，兵败身死。他于
1045
年拆除原来的旧寺，重建规模宏伟的西敏大寺。



⑦

亨利五世
(Henry
ⅴ

1387
—
1422)
，英国国王，以文武兼资著称。



⑧

冈比西斯
(Cambyses
，公元前
52 2
年卒
)
，波斯帝国国王，曾征服埃及。米兹腊伊姆，
乃古代希伯莱人对埃及 之称谓，此处似借用来指古埃及贵族之遗骸或木乃伊。



⑨

原注：这段引语出自英国作家、医师布朗
(Thomas Browne,1605
—
1682)
。指当时埃
及的木乃伊曾被冒充药材售卖。

Westminster Abbey
by Washington Irving
西敏大寺

夏济安

译



ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter part of autumn when the shadows
of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I
passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the
season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile, and as I passed its threshold it seemed like
stepping back into the regions of antiquity and losing myself among the shades of former ages.
时方晚秋，气象肃穆，略带忧郁，早晨的阴影和黄昏的阴影，几乎连接在一 起，不可分别，
岁云将暮，终日昏暗，我就在这么一天，到西敏大寺去信步走了几个钟头。古寺巍巍，森 森
然似有鬼气，和阴沉沉的季候正好相符；
我跨进大门，觉得自己好像已经置身远古世界，忘< br>形于昔日的憧憧鬼影之中了。


I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage that
had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the
massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an
old verger in his black gown moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from
one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains
prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet
and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps and crumbling with age; a
coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the
death's heads and other funeral emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich
tracery
of
the
arches;
the
roses
which
adorned
the
keystones
have
lost
their
leafy
beauty;
everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and
pleasing in its very decay.
我 是从西敏学校的内庭走进去的，先走过一条弧顶的矮矮的长廊，墙壁很厚，墙上有圆孔，
略有光线透入， 廊中幽暗，幽幽然似在地下行走。黑廊尽头，我远远的看见大寺里的回廊，
一个老年香火道人，
身穿黑袍，
正沿着拱廊阴影里踽踽走去，
看起来就像从附近的古坟里爬
出来的鬼魂。< br>我从当年僧院遗址那条路进入古寺，
景象分外凄凉，
我心也更适宜于往凄凉方
面 冥想了。
回廊一带依然保留有几分当年的幽静出世之慨。
灰色的墙壁为霉气所蒸，
显得 斑
斑驳驳，年代己久，颓坏之象，也很明显。墙上长了一层白苍苍的苔薛，非但上面的碑文不
可 读，
连骷髅像和别的丧用标志都模糊不清。
弧顶布满雕刻花纹，
可是斧钻的痕迹，也已 模
糊；拱心石上面雕有玫瑰花，可是当年枝叶茂美之状，已经不可复见。
每样东西都可以看出< br>年久衰败之象，可是即使处在颓朽之中，依然不乏赏心悦目之处。


The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon a
scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of
dusky splendor.
From between the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky
or a passing
cloud, and beheld the sun- gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven.
一道带有秋意的黄色阳光，
正从回廊环绕的广场上空倾泻下来；
照耀着场中央一块稀疏的草
坪，
同时把上有拱顶的过道一角抹上一层阴郁的光辉。从拱廊之间向上望去，
可以瞥见一抹
蓝天，或一朵游云，还有那镀着阳光，伸向碧空的寺顶 尖塔，也巍然在目。


As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this
mingled picture of glory and decay, and
sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones which formed the pavement
beneath
my
feet,
my
eye
was
attracted
to
three
figures
rudely
carved
in
relief,
but
nearly
worn
away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; the
epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later
times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176).
I
remained
some
little
while,
musing
over
these
casual
relics
of
antiquity
thus
left
like
wrecks
upon
this distant
shore
of
time,
telling
no
tale
but
that such
beings
had
been
and
had
perished,
teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes and to
live
in
an
inscription.
A
little
longer,
and
even
these
faint
records
will
be
obliterated
and
the
monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon the gravestones I was
roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress and echoing among
the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs
and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I
pursued
my
walk
to
an
arched
door
opening
to
the
interior
of
the
abbey.
On
entering
here
the
magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters.
The
eyes
gaze
with
wonder
at
clustered
columns
of
gigantic
dimensions,
with
arches
springing
from
them
to
such
an
amazing
height,
and
man
wandering
about
their
bases,
shrunk
into
insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast
edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful
of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb, while every footfall whispers along the walls and
chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted.
我踯躅于回廊之间，
时而凝视着这幅辉煌和颓败交融的景象，时而竭力辨认那些刻在墓石上
的碑文。我脚下的铺道都是墓石砌成，墓石上有三个浮雕像吸引我的注 意，
雕工很租陋，经
过好几代人的践踏，
差不多已磨损殆尽。
这是早先三位寺 院住持的遗像，
他们的墓志铭都已
磨光，
只剩下三个名字，
这三个名字也无疑 是后来重刻的：
维塔里斯住持，
死于一零八二年；
吉斯尔勃脱斯·克利斯宾纳斯住持， 死于一一一四年；劳伦蒂乌斯住持，死于一一七六年。
我停留了一会儿，
对着古人的这些碰巧残 留的遗迹，
不禁黯然沉思起来。
它们就像几艘沉船
的遗骸，
被抛弃在遥远的时 间的岸边：
它们并不告诉你什么故事，
只表示这几个人曾经活过，
而且已经死去。假如 它们含有什么道德方面的教训，那只讽示那种希望死后还能受人尊敬，
还能借着墓志铭而永垂不朽的痴心 妄想，
徒劳无益。
再过些时候，
连这些残存的记录都会消
失，
纪念碑 也将不成其为一件纪念物了。
我正俯视着这几块墓石，
耳旁突然传来大寺的悠扬
钟声，
回荡于一垛垛扶壁之间，
于是整个拱廊响彻了回声。坟墓间回荡着的钟声，
听来令人< br>悚然惊惧，
它警告你又一个钟头业已过去，而时光的消逝，就像一个大浪，
在不停地把我 们
卷向坟墓。
我继续走去，
来到一扇通往大寺正殿的拱门前面。
我跨步进入，
在拱廊的衬托之
下，映人眼帘的正殿益显其宏伟，给人深刻的印象。游客抬头一望，只见巨柱森 列，柱顶上
架着凌空飞跨的高拱，令人心惊。这些建筑也是人类建造，但是人在廊柱下面漫步，不由得< br>感到自己好保缩小得微不足道。
这座大寺空旷幽暗，
使人产生深沉而神秘的敬畏之念。< br>我们
小心翼翼地放轻脚步，
似乎生怕打扰了墓地的肃静。
然而每行一步墙壁间传 来了轻轻一声足
音，坟墓间也起了低微的回声，使我们更体会到被打断了寂静。


It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul and hushes the beholder
into
noiseless
reverence.
We
feel
that
we
are
surrounded
by
the
congregated bones
of
the
great
men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds and the earth with their renown.
寺里庄严气氛仿佛压制了游客的心灵，
大家都有肃然起敬之感。
我们觉得在我们的四周，
聚
集着古代伟人的骨骸，
他们的名声和业绩彪炳史册 ，
传遍了全球，
可是如今他们一个个只剩
一堆黄土。


And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition to see how they are crowded
together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy
corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy, and how
many shapes and forms and artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and
save from forgetfulness for a few short years a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the
world's thought and admiration.
现在这些伟人横七竖八地挤在泥土之中；
他们在世之时，
多 少王国的疆域都不足以供他们纵
马驰骋，
如今为了遵照经济的原则，
他们只分得那么小 小的一块土地，
那么贫瘠而黑暗的一
个角落。
他们曾企图使自己的英名占有世世代代人 的思想，
获得人人的钦羡，
如今他们的坟
墓上，
却千方百计地雕出种种图案和 装饰，
只为了吸引游客偶然的一顾，
免得在短短的几年
之中，就把他们的名字忘怀。看 了这些，想到人生的虚空，我又几乎忍不住要惨然一笑了。


I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles
of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford no striking
themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories, but the
greater
part
have
busts,
medallions,
and
sometimes
mere
inscriptions.
Notwithstanding
the
simplicity
of
these
memorials,
I
have
always
observed
that
the
visitors
to
the
abbey
remained