On the Death of Margaret Parker, Cousin to the Author 悼玛格丽特表姐

晚风沉寂了，暮色悄然无声，
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
林间不曾有一缕微飔吹度；
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
我归来祭扫玛格丽特的坟茔，
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
把鲜花撒向我所挚爱的尘土。
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
这狭小墓穴里偃卧着她的身躯，
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
想当年芳华乍吐，闪射光焰；
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
如今可怖的死神已将她攫去，
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
美德和丽质也未能赎返天年。
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
哦！只要死神懂一点仁慈，
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
只要上苍能撤销命运的裁决！
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate!
吊客就无需来这儿诉他的悲思，
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
诗人也无需来这儿赞她的莹洁。
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.
为何要悲恸？她无匹的灵魂高翔，
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
凌越于红日赫赫流辉的碧落；
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
垂泪的天使领她到天国闺房，
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
那儿，善行换来了无尽的欢乐。
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.
可容许放肆的凡夫问罪上苍，
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
如痴似狂地斥责神圣的天意？
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
不！这愚妄意图已离我远飏，——
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—
我岂能拒不顺从我们的上帝！
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
但对她美德的怀想是这样亲切，
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
但对她娇容的记忆是这样新鲜；
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
它们依旧汲引我深情的泪液，
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
依旧盘桓在它们惯住的心田。
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

晚风沉寂了，暮色悄然无声，
林间不曾有一缕微飔吹度；
我归来祭扫玛格丽特的坟茔，
把鲜花撒向我所挚爱的尘土。
这狭小墓穴里偃卧着她的身躯，
想当年芳华乍吐，闪射光焰；
如今可怖的死神已将她攫去，
美德和丽质也未能赎返天年。
哦！只要死神懂一点仁慈，
只要上苍能撤销命运的裁决！
吊客就无需来这儿诉他的悲思，
诗人也无需来这儿赞她的莹洁。
为何要悲恸？她无匹的灵魂高翔，
凌越于红日赫赫流辉的碧落；
垂泪的天使领她到天国闺房，
那儿，善行换来了无尽的欢乐。
可容许放肆的凡夫问罪上苍，
如痴似狂地斥责神圣的天意？
不！这愚妄意图已离我远飏，——
我岂能拒不顺从我们的上帝！
但对她美德的怀想是这样亲切，
但对她娇容的记忆是这样新鲜；
它们依旧汲引我深情的泪液，
依旧盘桓在它们惯住的心田。

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate!
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.