| |
Translated by Cora Kennedy Aitken
LEAVE the château behind you, black and strong, | |
| With blood upon its front and all along | |
| The tower eight-sided, where are Gorgon heads | |
| Agape. Pass on, leave tower and town, | |
| Climb the steep hill luxuriantly green, | 5 |
| On whose fresh summit one tall tree alone | |
| Leans, as on shining helmet-top doth lean | |
| A stately plume; a chestnut-tree that spreads | |
| Its arms so far you see it as you come | |
| Dreaming towards it from the antique city’s gloom. | 10 |
| The plain below in a blue mist doth lie; | |
| The town like a vast amphitheatre piled | |
| Climbs to the church; the river many-isled | |
| Moves with the sails whose noiseless white wings fly | |
| On the soft wind, and far beyond, Chambord | 15 |
| Shines with its hundred towers. Before | |
| Your thoughts like birds light on the distant spires | |
| And your keen glance admires, | |
| Close at your feet look down upon | |
| An old stone mansion roofed with slate, that white | 20 |
| And square stands at the green hill’s base alone, | |
| Holding itself aloof from stranger sight, | |
| But mid the orchard’s bloom expanding bright | |
| With joyous freedom. ’T is my father’s roof; | |
| Hither he came after the wars to rest, | 25 |
| And many a time my verse has given proof | |
| To you, dear friend, of how I loved him best, | |
| As you, if you had known him, would have loved! | |
| Think there in precious, thankful ecstasy, | |
| Of all who love you,—mother, sister, proved | 30 |
| And kind; and there for love’s sake say of me: | |
| “For the dear friend I weep, | |
| Who sees no more his father, fallen asleep; | |
| Who has lost the sacred strength that did defend | |
| With sure protection all his days, | 35 |
| The truest friend, | |
| Best loved always! | |
| |
| “No more august old age with glory crowned, | |
| Nor beautiful white hair by sons caressed, | |
| By little children loved. No trumpet sound | 40 |
| Of warlike stories! He doth calmly rest, | |
| And the son mourns, of life’s great pride bereft!” | |
| To the true hearts that loved him naught remains | |
| Of the stern veteran saved from bloody plains, | |
| When war was weary, but an empty tomb | 45 |
| And this the orphaned home, | |
| That white below the hill | |
| Stands emptied of his love, although | |
| It wears a kindly air of welcome still, | |
| As a vase keepeth fast and sweet | 50 |
| The odor of the perfumes gone from it. | |
| |
