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On the shores of your enchanted lake,
Far from the foolish prejudices that error deifies,
Covered by the shield of your philosophy,
Time carries away nothing of your happiness;
Your morning was brilliant; and my youth envies
The calm and serene azure of the beautiful evening of your life!
What we call our fine days
Is but a brilliant flash in a stormy night,
And nothing, except our loves,
Deserves a wise man’s regret there;
But what am I saying? one loves at every age:
This lasting and gentle fire, shut up in the soul,
Gives more warmth by casting less flame;
It is the divine breath of which all man is formed,
It goes out only with his soul.
To expand one’s mind, to restrain one’s desires,
That is the great secret unknown to the vulgar:
You know it, friend; this happy corner of earth
Holds your loves, your tastes and your pleasures;
Your wishes do not pass beyond your rural domain,
But your vaster mind extends its horizon,
And, embracing the scene of the world,
The torch of study lights your reason.
You see that on the banks of the Tiber, and of the Nile and of the Ganges,
In all places, in all times, under various masks,
Man is everywhere man, and that in this universe,
In an eternal order all passes and nothing changes;
You see nations eclipsing one another in turn
Like the stars in space,
The scepter passes from hand to hand,
Each people has its century, and each man has his day;
Subject to this supreme law,
Empire, glory, liberty,
Everything is carried away by time,
Time carried away even the gods
Of credulous antiquity,
And what mortals in their extreme pride
Dared to name the truth.
In the midst of this great cloud,
Answer me: what will the wise man do,
Always fought between doubt and error?
Content with the few days he seizes in passing,
He hastens to make use of them
For happiness and virtue.
I have seen this happy wise man; in his beautiful dwellings
I have tasted hospitality,
In the shade of the garden his hands have planted,
To the sweet sounds of his lyre he put the hours to sleep
While singing his happiness.
Be moved, great God, by his gratitude.
He does not weary you with a useless vow;
Only keep for him his rustic opulence,
Give everything to him who asks little of you.
May the sweet objects of his tenderness,
Around his always surrounded laughing hearth,
His wife and his children crown his old age,
As a tree is crowned with its ripe fruits.
May his hills grow yellow under the gold of the ears of grain;
May his lake at the foot of his rock be always pure;
May the shadows of his beautiful jasmines grow thick;
May his sun be gentle, may his sky be azure,
And may his wines always ripen for the stranger.
As for me, far from this port of happiness,
Alas! carried away by youth and hope,
I shall still attempt both the waves and the storm;
But, tossed by the wave and wearied by the wind,
At the foot of your wild rock,
Friend, I shall often return
To tie, toward evening, my boat to your shore.
Alphonse de Lamartine
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-the-retreat-alphonse-de-lamartine/