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Translated by Charles Timothy Brooks
FAREWELL, ye mountains, ye beloved pastures, | |
| And peaceful, friendly valleys; fare ye well. | |
| Joan no more along your paths may wander; | |
| She bids you now a fond, a last farewell; | |
| Meadows that I have watered, trees I planted, | 5 |
| Long may your smiling green my kindness tell; | |
| Farewell, ye cooling grottos, murmuring fountains, | |
| And thou, soft Echo, voice of the lone dell, | |
| That oft mad’st answer to my jocund strain;— | |
| Joan may never visit you again! | 10 |
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| Ye scenes where all my quiet joys were found, | |
| I leave you here behind forevermore; | |
| Ye lambkins sporting on the flowery ground, | |
| Soon, a lost flock, ye ’ll roam the mountains o’er; | |
| I go to lead another flock, mid sound | 15 |
| Of drum and trumpet, on a field of gore. | |
| A spirit’s voice hath summoned me,—I yield,— | |
| No earth-born passion spurs me to the field. | |
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| He who of old on Horeb’s height came down, | |
| And from the burning bush to Moses spake; | 20 |
| Who bade him stand and brave stern Pharaoh’s frown; | |
| Who bade the shepherd-son of Jesse take | |
| A warrior’s spear and wear a kingly crown; | |
| Who still loves shepherds for his mercy’s sake,— | |
| To me hath spoken from yon whispering tree,— | 25 |
| “Go forth; thou shalt on earth my witness be! | |
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| “Go, and henceforth the brazen armor prove; | |
| Bind the steel breastplate to thy tender breast; | |
| Let not man’s love have power thy heart to move, | |
| Nor wild, unholy fires thy soul molest; | 30 |
| No bridal wreath shall bloom thy brow above, | |
| No smiling infant on thy bosom rest;— | |
| Yet shall the hero’s lasting fame be thine; | |
| Above earth’s noblest daughters thou shalt shine. | |
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| “When in the shock of fight the mightiest reel, | 35 |
| When the last hour of France is drawing nigh, | |
| Then shalt thou wave my oriflamb on high, | |
| Like corn before the reaping maiden’s steel, | |
| Low in the dust shalt see the tyrant lie, | |
| Roll back his proud, triumphant chariot wheel, | 40 |
| To the brave sons of France salvation bring, | |
| Deliver Rheims, and crown thy rightful king.” | |
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| The Lord of Hosts hath promised me a sign, | |
| And now he sends this helmet,—’t is from him! | |
| Its iron touch nerves me with power divine; | 45 |
| I feel the glory of the cherubim; | |
| I must away to join the bristling line,— | |
| A tempest whirls me onward; earth grows dim; | |
| The din of battle summons me away; | |
| The war-steed prances, and the trumpets bray. | 50 |
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