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Like a sentry motionless at shoulder arms,
Within these walls where one believes one hears prolonged
The grave, distant echo of an alarm’s challenge,
Quebec seems still to muse upon her glories.
The humble pastoral peace has folded its wing
Over the rugged land where lies the dark camp of the dead:
From the bloody bugle, the solemn plain
No longer hears the tragic chords resound.
On the flank of the redoubt, at the open posterns,
At the battlements of the tower, at the breaches of the ramparts,
The moss whose green fringes April has tinted
Suspends its green banners and its green standards.
No longer will caravels come to anchor in the port.
What matters? Against all hope, we wait.
We wait for news to be sent to us
From the towns whence came the pure French of old.
Haunted by the memory that keeps it in sadness,
From beyond the seas, from the distance, from over there,
The ancient dwelling charmed by an immortal hostess,
From day to day awaits someone who does not come.
Often at night, as in the days of great sieges,
Strange sounds of horns and drums vibrate:
And often one has thought to see pompous processions
File by, radiant, beneath the shadow of the suburbs.
A phantom guard, a macabre round,
Passes, marching with resounding and regular step,
And one hears the clinking of sabers
On the wooden steps of the Gothic staircase.
O Quebec, remain proud, remain high on the rampart
That the past gilds. To lift our hearts,
To proudly brandish the colors of your staff,
May you always stand, may you always be victorious!
As long as the gentle rivals of the divine Crémazie,
Bowed beneath the flight of an ideal lyricism,
Invoking holy poetry on their knees,
Shall sing with full heart the national hymn:
As long as the pure accent of an immortal language
Shall vibrate in the old pure speech of our home;
As long as a ray of love shall shine in the eye
Of the Canadian woman with bright, pretty, gentle eyes!
In full sky, on the roofs, in the public squares,
The winters succeeding winters will snow.
Never shall perish the reliquaries in which France has set her relics
Beneath their rust of glory.
Today the heart opens, and all revives. On the wave
Dance the golden rays of the clear Easter sun.
The rock opens. Who goes there?… One must answer,
Without fear, aloud: Frontenac and Laval.
Charles-Nérée Beauchemin
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-quebec-charles-neree-beauchemin/