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Translated by Louisa Stuart Costello
FROM Pouldregat to Plouaret, | |
| All the land that lies between, | |
| Knight and squire in brave array | |
| Spurring for the field are seen, | |
| Summoned by the duchess’ son | 5 |
| To the Saxon war begun. | |
| From all Bretagne trooping fast | |
| O’er the foaming seas they haste. | |
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| “My Silvestre too must go,— | |
| I have begged his stay in vain; | 10 |
| But one child I had—and, lo! | |
| He has followed in their train. | |
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| “Sleepless as I lingered long, | |
| Kerlaz’ maids began their song, | |
| In my ear their accents rung, | 15 |
| Of my absent son they sung: | |
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| “‘Heaven protect thy wanderings now! | |
| Ah, Silvestre! where art thou? | |
| Art thou on the foaming deep | |
| Many hundred leagues away, | 20 |
| Dost thou midst the surges sleep, | |
| To the ravening fish a prey! | |
| Hadst thou been content to stay, | |
| Lead the life thy father led, | |
| Thou wert happy as the day | 25 |
| Thou hadst been betrothed and wed, | |
| Wed to Manna, fairest maid, | |
| She to whom thy vows were paid: | |
| Then thou wouldst have lived to see | |
| Children climbing round thy knee, | 30 |
| Children with their merry din | |
| Letting joy and pleasure in.’ | |
| |
| “Near my door, within a cell | |
| Of the rock, there loves to dwell, | |
| Close concealed, a pigeon white, | 35 |
| Him I ’ll from his nest invite; | |
| On his neck of ivory | |
| Will a letter safely lie, | |
| With my bridal ribbon bound | |
| All his silver feathers round: | 40 |
| That shall call my son once more, | |
| And my Silvestre shall restore. | |
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| “Go, my dove,—ah! swiftly go, | |
| Rise upon thy wings of snow, | |
| Fly far o’er the stormy sea, | 45 |
| Bid my son return to me. | |
| Fly where battle’s thunders sound, | |
| Gaze with piercing eye around, | |
| Go,—midst carnage fierce and wild, | |
| Bring me tidings of my child!” | 50 |
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| “’T is my mother’s dove I see | |
| Wont amidst the wood to be; | |
| Now he skims the waters nigh, | |
| Now he seeks the mast so high!” | |
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| “Hail, Silvestre,—list to me,— | 55 |
| Letters I have brought to thee.” | |
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| “Bid my mother dry the tear, | |
| Bid my father be of cheer, | |
| For three years and but a day | |
| Keeps me from their arms away.” | 60 |
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| Three long years were past and o’er, | |
| But Silvestre came no more! | |
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| “Fare thee well, beloved one! | |
| Now my latest hopes are gone, | |
| Never shall we meet again! | 65 |
| If the loud and stormy main | |
| Cast thy bones upon the strand, | |
| I will watch them float to land, | |
| Gather them,—how tenderly! | |
| Kiss them, cherish them,—and die!” | 70 |
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| Scarce she spoke,—a bark appeared, | |
| And a Breton flag it bore, | |
| Soon the rocky bay it neared | |
| And a wreck it reached the shore. | |
| Helm and oars and rudder lost, | 75 |
| Mast and sails all split and torn, | |
| Beaten on that rugged coast, | |
| On the surging breakers borne. | |
| |
| Full of dead,—that pallid lay,— | |
| Whence it comes no tongue can say, | 80 |
| Nor how long that fated bark | |
| Had been tossed by tempests dark; | |
| And Silvestre there reposed,— | |
| But no friend his eyes had closed, | |
| No fond mother’s tender voice | 85 |
| Bade him at the last rejoice, | |
| No kind father’s soothing care,— | |
| He was lying lifeless—there! | |
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