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The traveler.
Beneath the tall pines that shelter these springs,
Guardian, tell me what this new monument is?
The guardian.
One day it will be the end of your wanderings:
O traveler! it is a tomb.
The traveler.
Who rests in this place?
The guardian.
A being full of charms.
The traveler.
Who was loved?
The guardian.
Who was adored.
The traveler.
Open to me.
The guardian.
If you fear tears,
Do not enter.
The traveler.
I have often wept.
The traveler and the guardian enter.
The traveler.
From Greece or from Italy
This marble was snatched from the pomp of the dead.
What tomb yielded it to enchant these shores?
Is it Antigone or Cornelia?
The guardian.
The beauty whose image stirs your transports
Passed her life among our woods.
The traveler.
Who for her on these walls clad in marble
Has hung these faded wreaths?
The guardian.
The fair children whose virtues she
Here below was crowned with.
The traveler.
Someone comes.
The guardian.
It is a spouse: he bends his steps here
To secretly nourish a mournful memory.
The traveler.
So he has lost everything?
The guardian.
No: a throne remains to him.
The traveler.
A throne does not console.
Berlin, 1821.
Chateaubriand
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-charlottembourg-francois-rene-de-chateaubriand/