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Is it true, great Monarch, and may I boast
That you take pleasure in reviving me;
That after forty years Cinna, Pompée, Horace
Return to fashion and find their place again,
And that the happy brilliance of my young rivals
Does not take old luster from my early works?
Finish it. The latest have nothing degenerate.
Nothing to make them seem children of another father;
They are unfortunates, stifled in the cradle,
Whom a single glance of yours would draw from the tomb.
We see Sertorius, Oedipus, and Rodogune,
Restored by your choice in all their fortune:
And that choice would show that Othon and Suréna
Are not cadets unworthy of Cinna.
Sophonisbe in turn, Attila, Pulchérie,
Would take up a second life to please you;
Agésilas in droves would have spectators,
And Bérénice finally would find actors.
The people, I admit, and the court degrade them;
I weaken, or at least they persuade themselves so:
To write well still I have too long written,
And the wrinkles of the brow pass to the mind;
But against this abuse that I would have of suffrages
If you gave yours to my last works!
How much of so much goodness the imperious law
Would soon bring people and court back to me!
“” Such Sophocles at a hundred years still charmed Athens,
Such still boiled his old blood in his veins, They would say in rivalry, when Oedipus at bay
From his judges for him won all the votes. “”
I will not go so far, and, if my fifteen lustres
Still cause some trouble to the illustrious Moderns,
If there are some so vexed as to be grieved by it,
I will not have long to importune them.
Whatever I promise myself, they have nothing to fear;
It is the last flash of a fire about to go out:
On the point of expiring, it tries to dazzle,
And strikes the eyes only to vanish.
Suffer, whatever it be, that my delighted soul
Consecrates to you the little that remains of my life:
The offer is not very great, and the least moment
Can dispense my vows from fulfillment.
Prevent this hard moment by propitious orders;
Count my good desires as so many services.
I have served for twelve years, but it is by other arms
That I shed blood for you in our battles:
I still weep for a son, and will tremble for the other
As long as Mars troubles your rest and ours;
My fears will cease at last through this peace
That makes of so many States the most ardent wishes.
However, if it is true that my service pleases,
Sire, a good word, I pray, to Father de La Chaise.
Pierre Corneille
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-to-the-king-pierre-corneille/