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L'Isolment
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L’isolement
Souvent, sur la montagne, à l’ombre du vieux chêne,
Au coucher du soleil, tristement je m’assieds ;
Je promène au hazard mes regards sur la plaine,
Dont le tableau changeant se déroule à mes pieds.
Ici gronde le fleuve aux vagues écumantes ;
Il serpente et s’enfonce en un lointain obscur ;
Là, le lac immobile étend ses eaux dormantes
Où l’étoile du soir se lève dans l’azur.
Au sommet de ces monts coronnés de bois sombres,
Le crépuscule encor jette un dernier rayon ;
Et le char vaporeux de la reine des ombres
Monte, et blanchit déjà les bords de l’horizon.
Cependant, s’élançant de la flèche gothique,
Un son religieux se répand dans les airs !
Le voyageur s’arrête, et la cloche rustique
Aux derniers bruits du jour mêle de saints concerts.
Mais à ces doux tableaux mon âme indifférente
N’éprouve devant eux ni charme ni transports ;
Je contemple la terre ainsi qu’une ombre errante :
Le soleil des vivants n’échauffe plus les morts.
De colline en colline en vain portant ma vue,
Du sud à l’aquilon, de l’aurore au couchant,
Je parcours tous les points de l’immense étendue
Et je dis : “Nulle part le bonheur ne m’attend.”
Que me font ces vallons, ces palais, ces chaumières,
Vains objects dont pour moi le charme est envolé ?
Fleuves, rochers, forêts, solitude si chères,
Un seul être vous manque, et tout est dépeuplé !
Que le tour du soleil ou commence ou s’achève,
D’un oeil indifférent je le suis dans son cours ;
En un ciel sombre ou pur qu’il se couche ou se lève,
Qu’importe le soleil ? je n’attends rien des jours.
Quand je pourrais le suivre en sa vaste carrière,
Mes yeux verraient partout le vide et les déserts ;
Je ne désire rien de tout ce qu’il éclaire ;
Je ne demande rien à l’immense univers.
Solitude
Often on the mountain in the old oak's shadow
In the gathering sundown I sit in sorrow,
And cast a random look around over the plain
Whose changing face unfolds below its scenic pane.
Here growls a river bubbling its white heads,
Snaking a deep path into the far spreads;
There still waters lie in a rustic lake;
The evening star rises, night in its wake.
On those high peaks that bear the somber woods
The last dusky light casts its gloomy moods.
And the misty charriot of Darkness Queen
Rises to blanch the world in its white sheen.
From a Gothic flèche there spreads everywhere
The peel of bells that wafts over the air.
As the traveler stops, the rustic bell tower
Mingles its holy sounds with day's last hour.
To those peaceful tableaux my soul deadens
And feels no joy or bliss or elation.
To this wide world I'm just a lost shadow.
The sun will never wake the dead below.
My eyes in vain scan round the hills beyond
From south to northerly, from dusk to dawn.
I look throughout in this immensity,
And say, "There is no happiness for me."
What good are they, thatch hut, palace and dells,
Empty places from which no charm still dwells?
Rivers, forests, stones and solitude rare,
Just one person missing leaves the world bare.
Whether the sun begins or ends its course,
It leaves me cold and impassive perforce,
Be it somber or pure, rising or setting.
Who cares about the sun? I expect nothing.
Perhaps beyond the bourne of its true sphere
The sun shines bright in the other skies clear.
If I could leave my body free of care
Then I would find among the dreams my share.
Isolation
Often, on the mountain in the shadow of the old oak
At sunset, I sit sadly;
I walk to chance my eyes on the plain,
Including the changing table is held at my feet.
Here the river thunders foaming waves;
It winds and plunges into the distant obscure;
There the motionless lake extends its backwaters
Where the evening star rises in the sky.
At the top of Monte Corona dark wood,
Dusk still throws a last ray;
And the misty chariot of the queen of shadows
Monte, and the edges of white already ahead.
However, the gothic spire of springing,
A sound religious spreads through the air!
The traveler stops, and the rustic bell
For the last sounds of day saints concert mixes.
But these sweet pictures my soul indifferent
Feels to them or charm or transport;
I contemplate the earth and a wandering shade:
The sun warms the living over the dead.
From hill to hill in vain for my sight
From south to north wind, from dawn to sunset,
I travel all the items on the vast expanse
And I said: "Nowhere does the happiness awaits."
What do I do these valleys, these palaces, these
cottages,
Objects whose vain for me the charm is gone?
Rivers, cliffs, forests, solitude so dear,
One being you are missing, and everything is
depopulated!
That around the sun or begins or ends,
With indifference I'm in his way;
In a dark sky or pure that it goes down or gets up,
Whatever the sun? I expect nothing days.