第一本书(节选)啊!谁能说出攀登那巍峨的峭壁是多么的艰难呢?啊!谁能说得清有多少高尚的灵魂曾受到恶星的影响，与命运打了一场永恒的战争!被骄傲的讥笑，被嫉妒的皱眉，被贫穷不可征服的拦阻，在生命的低洼中被孤独地钉住，然后，无人怜惜，无人知晓地跌入坟墓!然而，不光彩日子的倦怠对每个人来说都是不一样的压抑。从不听赞美之声的人，忽视的沉默也不会使他感到震惊。有些人，对疯狂的野心的呼唤充耳不闻，只听名声的喧嚷;如果他们能得到健康、能力与和平，那就太有福了。他也没有更高的目标，他那朴实无华的诗句所讲述的故事。 This sapient age disclaims all classic lore; Else I should here in cunning phrase display, How forth The Minstrel far'd in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His waving locks and beard all hoary grey: And, from his bending shoulder, decent hung His harp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. Fret not yourselves, ye silken sons of pride, That a poor Wanderer should inspire my strain. The Muses Fortune's fickle smile deride, Nor ever bow the knee in Mammon's fane; For their delights are with the village-train, Whom Nature's laws engage, and Nature's charms: They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain; The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of wealth alarms. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, While warbling larks on russet pinions float; Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, Where the grey linnets carol from the hill. O let them ne'er with artificial note, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will. Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Nor was perfection made for man below. Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd, Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow, If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. Then grieve not, thou to whom th' indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire; Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse Th' imperial banquet, and the rich attire. Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refin'd? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd; Ambition's groveling crew for ever left behind. ... But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling plowman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aereal tower. O Nature, how in every charm supreme! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! O for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due! Blest be the day I scap'd the wrangling crew, From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty; And held high converse with the godlike few, Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! hence! lest the Muse should deign, (Though loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme), With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth! Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay, Amus'd my childhood, and info