The Cradle, Poem by Charles-Nérée Beauchemin

The countryside, as in times past,
With the sideboard, and the chest,
And the glass-fronted cupboard, offers us
The wooden cradle with pegs.

In the heart of a red wild cherry tree,
The ancestor carved the pieces;
And the curve of the long cradles
Illustrates the naive gouge.

Whether the mother lays a boy there,
Or a little girl breathes there,
Pride sees in it only the smile
And the vigor of the infant.

On the straw of this rough bed,
The little ones will have a sleep
That, like pure air and sunlight,
Makes them more beautiful, fresher, more robust.

In the corners of the closed parlor,
The dusty furniture withers,
But in the country alcove,
The old cradle has not been idle.

What it rocks with such joy,
Rocks and rocks, good year, bad year,
In its all-wobbling frame,
Is the being that heaven sends.

It is the child of the humble house,
Nourished by the fertile earth
Where every good seed abounds,
And everything fructifies in abundance.

Near the funeral bed where the ancestor,
With Christ’s fingers, was laid out,
In the heart of the last baptized,
The old French heart will be reborn.

And the natal roof, every day,
Blesses the triumphant race
Whose immortal line gives birth
To virtue, strength, love.

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-the-cradle-charles-neree-beauchemin/