Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
Geneviève de Rustéfan
By AnonymousHe little thought a priest to be,
But gayly rose, and sweetly slept,
Nor e’er of priest or monk dreamed he.
Light was his heart, as oft he sung,
“The maid I love is fair and young!”
“This life will fit my son no more;
Leave there the sheep, to Quimper come,
And learn, at length, some better lore.
For you must study well and long,
That I a priest my son may view,
Forget at once each idle song,—
Say to the fair young maids adieu.”
Of beauty and of grace the flower,
Who raised their heads the brightest there,
Were daughters to the Lord of Naour.
As shines the moon the stars above,
They shone all majesty and love!
Whose hoofs resounded on the way,
When they the Pardon yearly sought,
And at Pontaven came to pray.
With gold chains glittered as they moved,—
None with the youngest might compare,
And she, they said, young Iann loved.
And each was forced the vows to take,
But Iannik Flécher is my love,
And I am dying for his sake!”
As Iann passed his vows to pay,
Embroidering lace the damsel sate,
With glittering threads of silver gay,
(The kerchief that she works so neat
Were covering for a chalice meet!)
Take not vows that fit thee not.
Is the past ’twixt me and thee
And all promises forgot?
All the tender words we said,
All the faithful vows we made?”
Dare not think upon the past,
For the Church has claimed my vow,
And the fatal lot is cast!”
Given thee in the dance of yore?”
“No: the pledge I prized the most
God has ta’en, ’t is mine no more!”
Take all the wealth I call my own,
I ’ll follow thee through toil and pain,
I ’ll love, I ’ll live for thee alone!
The coarsest clothes for thee I ’ll wear,
For thee all hardships learn to bear,
But say not I must lose thy love!
Or, if I fail thy heart to move,
Come thou, a priest, beside my bed,
And read the office for the dead.”
Has twined its fetters round my heart,
O Geneviève! our tears are vain,
I am a priest and we must part!”
And as he passed the Manor hall,
He said, while sorrow swelled his breast,
“Hail! Lord of Rustéfan,—hail all!
Much joy on each may Heaven bestow,
(More than my heart can ever know!)
’T is my first mass this morn, I say;
Will any come to grace the day?”
The first who offers shall be me:
The plate shall twenty crowns receive,
Ten more thy god-mother shall give,
In honor of our pious priest
Who follows thus the Lord’s behest.”
For I the mass was fain to hear,
I saw the people in dismay,
Come trooping fast with looks of fear;
“Aged mother, wilt thou say
If the mass is done to-day?”
But it is not ended yet,
For his tears so fast they fell
That his books of prayer were wet.
Vainly tried to end the hymn,
For his heart was torn with love,
And his eyes with tears were dim.
He would yet the words repeat,
At the altar where he stood
Geneviève is at his feet!
‘For the love of God, forbear!
Iann! every hope is gone,
And I perish in despair!
Iann! thou hast caused my death,
Take, O, take my dying breath!’”
Iann Flécher since that time
Is the rector of the town:
I who made this mournful rhyme
Oft have wandered up and down,
By the church and by the vale
Where I heard the fatal tale,
And have seen the young priest grieve
O’er the grave of Geneviève:
Years past on,—I went and came,
But his tears flowed on the same!