Hail to the Isle of Ischia

Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine Collection New Poetic MeditationsPeriod 19th century

It is sweet to breathe in, as one reaches the shore,
The perfume that the breeze brings to the stranger,
And to feel the flowers that its breath lifts
Raining down upon your brow from the orange tree.

It is sweet to place on the motionless sand
A heavy foot, weary of the movement of the waves;
To see the blond children and the women of an island
Hold out golden fruits to you beneath their blooming trellises.

It is sweet to lend a delighted ear
To the language of heaven, which nothing can tarnish;
Which carries you back in dream to the dawn of life,
And whose every syllable is a dear memory.

It is sweet, on the beach where the monarch arrives,
To hear from the flanks of the forts the salvos of cannon;
To make the shore resound with the echo of his steps,
And to send rolling up to the sky the salutes to his name.

But of all these accents with which the shore greets you,
None is as sweet on earth or on the seas
As the caressing sound of an unknown voice,
Reciting to the poet a refrain of his verses.

That voice goes further to awaken his rapture
Than the brass of war or the organ of the altar.
But when the heart of a century has become his lyre,
The echo is called glory, and becomes immortal.

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-hail-to-the-isle-of-ischia-alphonse-de-lamartine/