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To L. De V***.
The divine fire that consumes us
Resembles those indiscreet flames
That a careless shepherd kindles
At the edge of deep forests;
As long as no breath awakens it,
The humble hearth smolders and sleeps;
But if it breathes the north wind,
Suddenly the numbed flame
Swells, overflows; and the conflagration
Sets an immense horizon ablaze!
O my soul, from what shores
Will this unexpected breath come?
Could it be a child of storms?
A sigh barely heard?
Will it come, like a gentle zephyr,
Softly caressing my lyre,
As it caresses a flower?
Or beneath its quivering wings,
Break its moaning strings
With the piercing cry of sorrow?
Come from the west or from the dawn!
Gentle or terrible as fate wills,
The generous breast that implores you
Braves suffering or death!
To hearts thirsting for harmony
What matters the price of genius?
If it is death, we must die!…
They say that the mouth of Orpheus,
Stifled by the waves of the Hebrus,
Gave forth an immortal sigh!
But whether a mortal lives or dies,
Always rebellious to our wishes,
The spirit breathes only in its hour,
And never rests!
Let us prepare for it pure lips,
A chaste eye, a brow without stain,
As, at the approach of the holy place,
Children, veiled virgins,
Strew with leafless roses
The road where a God will pass!
Fleeing the shores that saw him born,
Jethro, the ancient shepherd,
One day saw appear before him
A mysterious stranger;
In the shadow, his large eyes
Cast pale sparks,
His steps shook the valley;
Wrath swelled his chest,
And the breath of his nostrils
Resounded like the north wind!
In a formidable silence
They measure each other for a moment;
Suddenly one upon the other leaps,
Seized by the same fury:
Their threatening arms entwine,
Their brows struggle, their limbs cry out,
Their flanks press their pressed flanks;
Like an oak being uprooted
Their trunks sway and bend
Over their intertwined knees!
Both slip in the struggle,
And Jacob, finally thrown down,
Staggers, falls, and in his fall
Drags down the overturned angel:
Palpitating with fear and rage,
Suddenly the shepherd frees himself
From the arms of the heavenly combatant,
Strikes him down, presses him, overcomes him,
And on his breast swollen with shame
Places a victorious knee!
But, on the wrestler he dominates,
Jacob, still unsteadily,
Feels in turn on his chest
The weight of the celestial enemy!…
At last, since the dark hours
When evening struggles with the shadows,
Now conquered, now conqueror,
Against this rival he does not know
He fought until dawn…
And it was the spirit of the Lord!
Thus in the shadows of doubt
Man, alas! often led astray,
Traces for himself his own route,
And wants to sail against the wind;
But in this senseless struggle,
Soon our wing, struck down
By the breath that fights it,
Falls breathless on the ground
Like the deflated sail
That falls and sleeps along the mast.
Let us await the supreme breath;
In a silent repose;
We are nothing of ourselves
But a melodious instrument!
When the finger from above withdraws,
Let us remain mute like the lyre
That gathers its holy transports
Until the powerful hand
Touches the quivering string
Where the divine accords sleep!
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-the-spirit-of-god-alphonse-de-lamartine/