Thomas gray wrote an elegy written in the courtyard of a country church/translated by thomas gray (1716-1771). thomas gray/Bian's night bell rang in waves to mourn this day. Cattle circled the grassland and roared one after another. The farmers were tired and went home. The vast scenery gradually disappeared from my eyes, and a solemn silence enveloped the whole world. I only heard the buzzing beetles hovering and dancing, and the sleepy bell hypnotized the sheepfold in the distance. I only heard a gloomy owl complaining to the moon at the bottom of the ivy-covered tower, accusing others of entering its secret home for no reason and disturbing its long and hidden territory. Under the majestic elm trees and the shade of cypress trees, the turf swelled up with a lot of scattered waste piles, and each of them put down his body forever in the cave, where the vulgar elders in the small village slept peacefully. The fragrant morning breeze comes easily, swallows spit out from the thatched shed, and the cock's sharp horn makes the hunting horn in Ming Valley unable to wake them up underground. In them, the blazing fire will no longer burn, and the busy housekeeper will no longer catch her night work; Children will no longer "yi tooth" to report their father's arrival, and will no longer climb down and kiss on their father's knees. As usual, they were invincible as soon as they opened the sickle, and the stubborn clay board let them plow out of the furrow; How happy they are to drive the cows to the fields! As soon as they cut it, the trees bowed their heads one by one! "Ambition" does not ridicule their actual hard work, daily happiness and unknown fate; "Luxury" does not need to listen to the short and simple life of the poor with a contemptuous sneer. The pomp and circumstance of the family, the mystery of the powerful, all the benefits that beauty and wealth can give are waiting for the inevitable moment ahead: the glorious road is nothing more than the grave. Proud people, don't blame these people for not doing it. "Miss" did not build a memorial hall for these people, nor did she fill the long corridors and carved vaults with loud hymns to celebrate. The lifelike bust, engraved with the urn tablet, can restore the dead and promote resurrection? Can the sound of "honor" inspire the ashes of silence? Can "flattery" soften the heart of death? Perhaps this place, though barren, is buried with a heart that was once full of spiritual flame; With a pair of hands, you can be in charge of the royal fluorene king, or play the lyre selflessly. However, "knowledge" has never spread to them the colorful books it has accumulated for generations; "Poverty" suppressed their noble hearts and frozen their clear spring flowing out of the spiritual building. How many sparkling jewels are buried in the dark and unfathomable seabed in the world; No one knows how many flowers are blooming in the world, sending out fragrance to the desolate air in vain. Perhaps there is a rural Hampton (leader against King Charles I, Muqiao's note) buried here, and resisted the local bully, bravely and resolutely; Perhaps there is Milton (famous English poet, mucho note) who has never been famous; There was a Cromwell who didn't let the country bleed. Win the applause of the presidents, ignore the threat, regardless of life and death, spread wealth everywhere, and read their own history from the eyes of the people of the whole country-their fate is not allowed: they are not allowed to indulge their sins and play their virtues; Don't climb to the throne from the middle of killing, and then close the door of humanity; Don't hide your inner attack on your conscience, don't hide your naive shame, shame; It is not allowed to fill the shrines of "arrogance" and "luxury" with the poet's golden flame. Away from the intrigue of different worlds, they have clear desires and never learn to be confused. Along the cool and quiet valley of life, they stick to the straight road of silence. But in order to prevent these bones from being trampled, there are still fragile memorial tablets standing nearby, dotted with poor rhymes and messy descriptions, and those who ask for them will give a sigh. The unknown wild poet wrote down the name and year, plus the address and eulogy; She spread some scriptures around and taught local moralists how to die. You should know who is willing to give up the silent "forgetting" and leave the mixed life. Who can leave the beautiful scene of sunny weather and look back for a while? The dead soul still holds the arm of love, and the eyes that are about to close need to shed tears. Even in the grave, there is a cry of "nature", and their old fire still ignites our new ashes. As for you, I care about these people who died silently, and tell their simple stories with these poems. If, under the guidance of meditation, a traveling companion occasionally asks about your life-perhaps a white-haired countryman will say to him, "We often see him. Just before dawn, we will knock off the dew with our hurried steps and go to the tall grass there to meet the morning sun;" There is a spinning old beech tree over there. The old roots are intertwined under the tree. He often lies there for a noon, watching a trickle nearby carefully. "He swam to the edge of the forest, sometimes laughing and laughing, mumbling, saying his strange words, sometimes depressed, like helplessness, like worrying or frustrated in love." One morning, I didn't see him in the hills, bushes and his love tree where he often went; The next morning, although I walked along the stream, along the grass and through the Woods, he still didn't see me. "On the third day, we saw the funeral procession, singing elegies and carrying him to the cemetery-please come forward and look at the monument under the old thorns, and (you are literate) please read these poems": The epitaph is here, kneeling on the ground, a young man who has never known "wealth" and "fame" all his life; "Zhi" did not despise his humble origin, and "Qing Chou" marked him as a favorite. He is sincere by nature and is most willing to give generously. God also gave him the same generous return: he gave everything a "bump", a tear; I got everything I wanted from God, a friend. Don't try to praise his strengths, and don't turn his weaknesses out of the dark cellar (they also rest in trembling hope). It was the embrace of his heavenly father and God. & lt/SPAN>。 & lt/p & gt；