2 suite]Poèm by Alphonse Lamartine/Le Désert

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Part 2: Poem by Alphonse de Lamartine – Le Désert 🏜 Continuation
...Shadows full of truths!
There is born under her fertile breath
As many gods as the human soul
Has terrors and desires;
Her genius, enamored of idols,
Gives being to all symbols,
Creates a god for every sigh!
Sahara! upon your dusty waves
Where go from the four quarters of the air
Your caravans more numerous
Than the sands of your deserts?
It is the blind child of the prophet,
Who goes seven times to strike his head
Against the threshold of his holy place!
The desert rises in vain,
Beneath the tempest or the sword:
Let us die, he says, God alone is God!
Beneath the green willows of the Euphrates,
What does this exiled people weep for?
It is not ungrateful Judea,
The dried-up wells of Siloam!
It is the worship of its ancestors!
Its ark, its temple, its priests,
Its God who forgets it today!
Its name is in all its canticles;
And its melancholy harps
Remember nothing else!
They still remember it,
Now that among nations
This exiled child of the dawn
Endures derision!
In vain, tired of proscribing him,
The stranger with a bitter smile
Pursues his credulous children;
Like water drinking this offense,
This people drags along a hope
Stronger than its two thousand years!
The savage child of the savannas,
Rough sketch of humans,
Before raising his huts,
Fashions a god with his own hands;
If, driven from the banks of the river
Where the bear, where the tiger drinks,
He emigrates under other skies,
Laden with his tutelary gods:
Let us march, he says, bones of our fathers,
The homeland is where the gods are!
And what do you speak of, marbles, bronzes, porticoes,
Columns of Palmyra or Persepolis?
Pantheons buried under ash or wave,
So empty now, formerly so full!
And you, whose symbolic letters we seek,
Uncertain relics of a past without memory,
Mysteries of an old world written in mysteries?
And you, standing temples, superb basilicas,
Whose forecourts a divine breath animates?
You speak to us of gods! of gods! of gods still!
Each altar bears one, adored by a holy delirium,
Eternal holocaust that every place seems to offer.
Man and the elements, full of this sole mystery,
Have had but one thought, one work on earth:
To confess this being and die!
But if man, occupied with this supreme work,
Exhausts every tongue to name the Sole Great One,
Ah! how much better does nature, in its very silence,
Name Him to the heart that understands Him!
Would you have this God proclaim Himself, O mortals?
Trample underfoot the ash where the Pantheon sleeps
And the book where pride vainly spells out His name!
The palest ray of the morning star
Sheds more light on your soul regarding this divine mystery
Than the false-day lamp that watches with Plato.
Ascend to those heights from which rivers descend
And whose golden feet the azure seas bathe,
At the hour when the rays spread across their slopes,
Like a drenched net streaming over the meadows!
When all around you is splendor and joy,
When the warm networks of the midday hours
Enveloping you like a silk mantle,
Make your warmed blood blossom!
When the earth, exhaling its balsamic soul,
Intoxicates your senses with its vital perfume,
And even the insect, chanting its canticle,
Hums with love upon the budding shoots!
When your gaze, drowned in a vague atmosphere,
Like the dolphin in its native azure,
Floats uncertain between wave and earth,
And sapphic skies and crystal seas,
Listen within your senses, listen within your soul
And in the pure ray that has shone upon you from above!
And say whether the name this hymn proclaims
Is not as living, as divine as He?

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Part 2: Poem by Alphonse de Lamartine – Le Désert 🏜 Continuation ...Shadows full of truths! There is born under her fertile breath As many gods as the human soul Has terrors and desires; Her genius, enamored of idols, Gives being to all symbols, Creates a god for every sigh! Sahara! upon your dusty waves Where go from the four quarters of the air Your caravans more numerous Than the sands of your deserts? It is the blind child of the prophet, Who goes seven times to strike his head Against the threshold of his holy place! The desert rises in vain, Beneath the tempest or the sword: Let us die, he says, God alone is God! Beneath the green willows of the Euphrates, What does this exiled people weep for? It is not ungrateful Judea, The dried-up wells of Siloam! It is the worship of its ancestors! Its ark, its temple, its priests, Its God who forgets it today! Its name is in all its canticles; And its melancholy harps Remember nothing else! They still remember it, Now that among nations This exiled child of the dawn Endures derision! In vain, tired of proscribing him, The stranger with a bitter smile Pursues his credulous children; Like water drinking this offense, This people drags along a hope Stronger than its two thousand years! The savage child of the savannas, Rough sketch of humans, Before raising his huts, Fashions a god with his own hands; If, driven from the banks of the river Where the bear, where the tiger drinks, He emigrates under other skies, Laden with his tutelary gods: Let us march, he says, bones of our fathers, The homeland is where the gods are! And what do you speak of, marbles, bronzes, porticoes, Columns of Palmyra or Persepolis? Pantheons buried under ash or wave, So empty now, formerly so full! And you, whose symbolic letters we seek, Uncertain relics of a past without memory, Mysteries of an old world written in mysteries? And you, standing temples, superb basilicas, Whose forecourts a divine breath animates? You speak to us of gods! of gods! of gods still! Each altar bears one, adored by a holy delirium, Eternal holocaust that every place seems to offer. Man and the elements, full of this sole mystery, Have had but one thought, one work on earth: To confess this being and die! But if man, occupied with this supreme work, Exhausts every tongue to name the Sole Great One, Ah! how much better does nature, in its very silence, Name Him to the heart that understands Him! Would you have this God proclaim Himself, O mortals? Trample underfoot the ash where the Pantheon sleeps And the book where pride vainly spells out His name! The palest ray of the morning star Sheds more light on your soul regarding this divine mystery Than the false-day lamp that watches with Plato. Ascend to those heights from which rivers descend And whose golden feet the azure seas bathe, At the hour when the rays spread across their slopes, Like a drenched net streaming over the meadows! When all around you is splendor and joy, When the warm networks of the midday hours Enveloping you like a silk mantle, Make your warmed blood blossom! When the earth, exhaling its balsamic soul, Intoxicates your senses with its vital perfume, And even the insect, chanting its canticle, Hums with love upon the budding shoots! When your gaze, drowned in a vague atmosphere, Like the dolphin in its native azure, Floats uncertain between wave and earth, And sapphic skies and crystal seas, Listen within your senses, listen within your soul And in the pure ray that has shone upon you from above! And say whether the name this hymn proclaims Is not as living, as divine as He?

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