阮郎归初夏
Westminster Abbey腊肉怎么做才好吃
亭下湖肖波译
电视耳机西敏大寺
监理工作总结ON one of tho 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 pasd veral hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the ason in the mournful magnificence of the old pile, and as I pasd its threshold it emed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity and losing mylf 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, 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 vaul
ts, and eming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through the gloomy monastic remains
prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and clusion 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 chil are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the ros 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.老人微信名字
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.
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cad2007下载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 the 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 the faint records will be obliterated and the monument will cea to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon the gravestones I was roud 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 lap of the hour, which, like a b
illow, 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 bas, 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 pulchres, making us more nsible of the quiet we have interrupted.
It ems as if the awful nature of the place press down upon the soul and hushes the beholder into noiless 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 e how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is obrved in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to tho whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy, and how many shapes and forms and artifices are devid to catch the casual notice of the pasnger, 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 pasd some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the tranpts 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 the memorials, I have always obrved 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 the as about the tombs of friends and companions, for indeed there is something of companionship betwe
en 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 intercour between the author and his fellowmen is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himlf; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himlf 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 purchad 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 pulchres 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 ill
ustrious name or the cognizance of some powerful hou renowned in history. As the eye darts into the dusky chambers of death it catches glimps of quaint effigies--some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously presd 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 ems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone.
