Classic Poem

(To Guillaume des Autels, French Poet)

M Y des Autels, whose true,
Pure utterance
Transforms to gold anew
The speech of France,

List while I celebrate
My dear Vend├┤me.
O land thrice fortunate,
The Muses' home,

For thee ungrudging Heaven
Has emptied free
The horn of plenty, and given
All grace to thee.

Two ridges, circling, long,
With summits bold
Shut out the South-winds strong,
The North-winds cold;

On one, my loved Gastine,
The sacred wood,
Lifts high its head of green,
Holy, and proud;

Along the other's side
Spring countless vines,
That almost match the pride
Of Anjou wines;

In winding meadow-ways
The Loir soft-flowing
With its own wavelets plays,
Nor hastes its going.

Though none from distant lands,
By hope cajoled,
Come seeking 'mongst thy sands
The toilsome gold,

Though gems of Orient price
Hide not in thee
To tempt man's avarice
Across the sea,

Afric, nor boastful Ind
Can thee outvie,
Honored, by Gods more kind,
With gifts more high.

For Justice, fled from earth
And dispossessed,
Left thee, to mark thy worth,
Her footprints blest;

And while no more we see
The golden age,
Virtue has chosen thee
For hermitage.

The nymphs, that tune their voice
To notes of streams
Have made of thee their choice
To list high themes,

Singing with happy grace
And sweet accords
Praise to the Heaven-born race,
Our Bourbon lords.

The Muses, whom I woo,
Worship, and fear,
The golden Graces too,
Inhabit here.

Though ever back and forth
My steps may roam,
This little plot of earth
Alone is home.

Hence may my fated end,
When time is full,
Me into exile send
Perdurable.

And here you'll come to weep
From lands afar,
While dust and darkness keep
Your friend, R ONSARD .