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(Excerpt)
Translated by Charles Timothy Brooks
THE DIN of arms, the storm of strife, is o’er, | |
| And bloody battles yield to dance and song; | |
| Through every street the gay processions pour, | |
| To church and altar with glad music throng; | |
| They pass through many a green, triumphal door, | 5 |
| Through aisles of rustling leaves they sweep along; | |
| Rheims scarce can hold the crowds that roll, this day, | |
| Like ocean’s billows, through each echoing way. | |
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| And now one gleam of joy lights every eye, | |
| One proud emotion throbs in every breast; | 10 |
| Where, late, the bloody waves of strife ran high, | |
| Now all is lulled to harmony and rest. | |
| The name of France makes Frenchmen’s pulses fly; | |
| To own that name is to be richly blessed; | |
| The lustre of the old crown comes back again, | 15 |
| And France prepares to hail her rightful sovereign’s reign. | |
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| But I, who ushered in this glorious day,— | |
| I have no heart to feel the joy I see! | |
| My sinking spirit flies from scenes so gay; | |
| The voice of earth-born passion whispers me; | 20 |
| To Britain’s distant camp my longings stray; | |
| Ay, to my country’s foes I yearn to flee, | |
| And from these scenes of gladness needs must steal, | |
| My bosom’s deep pollution to conceal. * * * * * | |
| Peaceful crook I that I should ever | 25 |
| Change thee for the battle-sword! | |
| Holy oak! O, had I never | |
| Thy mysterious whisperings heard! | |
| Would that thou, High Queen of Heaven, | |
| Never hadst to earth come down! | 30 |
| O, take back what thou hast given,— | |
| Take again this heavy crown! | |
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| Ah, Heaven’s gates rose bright before me, | |
| And the mansions of the blessed: | |
| Clouds and darkness now hang o’er me; | 35 |
| All my hopes on earth must rest! | |
| Why, ah, why was that sad burden | |
| On my feeble spirit laid? | |
| Could I thus this bosom harden,— | |
| I—a timid, trembling maid? | 40 |
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| If thou wilt reveal thy glory, | |
| Choose the pure ones, who before thee | |
| Stand in unapproachéd light, | |
| Spirits spotless in thy sight! | |
| Let them work thy will, who sleep not | 45 |
| Night and day, who feel not, weep not, | |
| But, O, choose not tender maiden, | |
| Herdsmaid’s heart with frailties laden! | |
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| What had I to do with empires, | |
| Fate of kings and bloody fight? | 50 |
| Harmless I my lambs had tended | |
| On the silent mountain’s height; | |
| But thy summons sternly tore me | |
| From a happy, peaceful home, | |
| To the scenes of splendor bore me, | 55 |
| There in sin’s dark paths to roam! | |
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