A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sur la Terrasse des Aygalades (Joseph Méry)
SUR LA TERRASSE DES AYGALADES.
From this high terrace where the roses
Mount up as if to tempt the hand,
Three things the horizon-bound discloses—
The road, the town, the sea-line grand.
The sea says:—Fear me, when wrath urges,
Yawns terrible for all my deep,
And those who brave my foam-fringed surges
Down, down amidst my sea-weeds sleep.
The town says:—Wouldst thou comfort borrow
From me so full of noise and care?
My days are given to toil and sorrow,
And all my nights want fresher air.
The road says:—Lo, my winding traces
Lead to the climates of the snow,
Inhabited by divers races,—
But Death is in the winds that blow.
Now, life is here, in this sweet shadow;
What balm sheds Zephyr as he flies!
And oh! what flowers on hill and meadow
As thick as stars in summer skies!
Around the red-tiled roofs that slumber
Bathed in an azure light divine,
Grow olive trees, a countless number,
And tendrils propped that promise wine.
The mountains, stern as stern Pelides,
Wear crowns of flowers, and at their feet
The fair spring of the Hesperides
A carpet strows for Beauty meet.
The skies rain music, clear and clearer,
Sweet echoes from the Heavenly court!
And on the rounded hill-tops nearer
The gentle sheep and lambkins sport.
What long arcades of birch and hazel!
How soft the twilight that they cast!
And what cascades! The sunbeams dazzle,
And span them with a rainbow vast.
Peace on these shores herself invites us
To pass with her the hours away;
The very air we breathe incites us
To keep an endless holiday.
Ah! Who would not live here for ever,
From every care and passion free,
And leave the crowd its vain endeavour,
Its dusty road and town and sea?