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malbone- an oldport romance[1].(马尔布恩)-第47部分

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happiness were sadness。           If; as I doubt not; there be another sphere; then 

that which is unfulfilled in this must yet find completion; nothing omitted; 

nothing   denied。   And   though   a   thousand   oracles   should   pronounce   this 

thought an idle dream; neither Hope nor I would believe them。 

     It was a radiant morning of last February when I walked across the low 

hills to the scene of the wreck。         Leaving the road before reaching the Fort; 

I struck across the wild moss…country; full of boulders and footpaths and 

stunted   cedars   and sullen ponds。  I   crossed   the height of   land;  where   the 

ruined   lookout   stands   like   the   remains   of   a   Druidical   temple;   and   then 

went down toward the ocean。 Banks and ridges of snow lay here and there 

among   the   fields;   and   the   white   lines   of   distant   capes   seemed   but   drifts 

running seaward。 The ocean was gloriously alive;the blackest blue; with 

white   caps   on   every   wave;   the   shore   was   all   snowy;   and   the   gulls   were 

flying back and forth in crowds; you could not tell whether they were the 

white     waves    coming     ashore;    or  bits  of   snow    going    to  sea。  A   single 

fragment      of  ship…timber;     black   with   time    and   weeds;    and   crusty   with 

barnacles; heaved to and fro in the edge of the surf; and two fishermen's 

children;     a  boy   and    girl;  tilted  upon    it  as  it  moved;    clung    with   the 

semblance of terror to each other; and played at shipwreck。 

     The rocks were dark with moisture; steaming in the sun。 Great sheets 

of ice; white masks of departing winter; clung to every projecting cliff; or 

slid   with   crash   and   shiver into   the   surge。  Icicles dropped   their   slow  and 

reverberating tears upon the rock where Emilia once lay breathless; and it 

seemed      as   if  their  cold;  chaste    drops    were   sent   to  cleanse    from    her 

memory each scarlet stain; and leave it virginal and pure。 



                                                137 

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