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The most beloved of kings is always the strongest.
In vain fortune overwhelms him;
in vain a thousand enemies allied with fate
seem to foretell his inevitable ruin:
the love of his subjects, an unshakable pillar,
makes their efforts useless.
The grandson of a king great through his very misfortune,
Philip, without money, without troops, without credit,
driven from Madrid by the English,
believed his diadem lost.
He fled almost alone, weighed down with grief.
Suddenly before his eyes appears an old laborer,
a man frank, simple and upright, loving more than his life
his children and his king, his wife and his homeland,
speaking little of virtue, practicing it much,
rich and yet loved, cited in the Castiles
as the example of families.
His coat, spun by his daughters,
was belted with a wolf’s skin.
Under a broad hat his head quite at ease
revealed lively eyes and sunburned features,
and his mustache from his nose
hung down to his collar.
Twelve sons followed him, all tall, handsome, vigorous.
A mule loaded with gold was in their midst.
This man, in this attire,
before the king stops, and says to him: where are you going?
Has a reverse struck you down?
In vain the archduke has the advantage over you;
it is you who will reign, for it is you whom they cherish.
What does it matter that they have taken Madrid from you?
Our love remains to you, our bodies are your walls;
we will perish for you in the fields of honor.
Chance wins battles;
but virtues are needed to win our heart.
You have them, you will reign. Our money, our life,
everything is yours, take everything. Thanks to forty years
of work and thrift,
I can offer you this gold. Here are my twelve children,
here are twelve soldiers; despite my white hair,
I will be the thirteenth: and, once the war is over,
when your generals, your officers, your nobles,
come to ask you, as the price of their services,
for wealth, honors, ribbons,
we will ask only for rest and justice.
That is all we need. We poor folk
supply the king with blood and riches;
but, far from seeking his largesse,
the less he gives the more we love him.
When you are happy, we will flee your presence,
we will bless you in silence:
you have been conquered, we seek you out.
He says this, falls to his knees. With a fatherly hand
Philip raises him, letting out sobs;
he clasps in his arms this subject so faithful,
wants to speak, and tears interrupt his words.
Soon, according to the prophecy
of the good old man, Philip was victorious,
and, on the throne of Iberia,
he did not forget the laborer.
Florian
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/fable-the-laborer-of-castile-jean-pierre-claris-de-florian/