Monday, December 10, 2007

L'Isolement (Isolation) -- Alphonse de Lamartine



Souvent sur la montagne, à l'ombre du vieux chêne,
Au coucher du soleil, tristement je m'assieds ;
Je promène au hasard 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 couronnés 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 objets dont pour moi le charme est envolé ?
Fleuves, rochers, forêts, solitudes 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.

Mais peut-être au-delà des bornes de sa sphère,
Lieux où le vrai soleil éclaire d'autres cieux,
Si je pouvais laisser ma dépouille à la terre,
Ce que j'ai tant rêvé paraîtrait à mes yeux !

Là, je m'enivrerais à la source où j'aspire ;
Là, je retrouverais et l'espoir et l'amour,
Et ce bien idéal que toute âme désire,
Et qui n'a pas de nom au terrestre séjour !

Que ne puîs-je, porté sur le char de l'Aurore,
Vague objet de mes voeux, m'élancer jusqu'à toi !
Sur la terre d'exil pourquoi resté-je encore ?
Il n'est rien de commun entre la terre et moi.

Quand là feuille des bois tombe dans la prairie,
Le vent du soir s'élève et l'arrache aux vallons ;
Et moi, je suis semblable à la feuille flétrie :
Emportez-moi comme elle, orageux aquilons !
__________________________________________________

Often on the mountain, in the shadow of the old oak,
At the setting of the sun, I sit myself sadly down;
My gaze wanders at random over the plain,
Whose changing tableau unfolds at my feet.

Here thunders the mighty river of frothy waves,
It snakes, and sinks into the obscure distance;
There, the still lake extends its sleeping waters
To where the evening star rises in the azure.

To the summit of these mounts crowned with dark woods,
The dusk still throws a last ray;
And the floating chariot (vapour) of the queen of shadows
Climbs, and already whitens the edges of the horizon.

Meanwhile, clinging to the gothic spire,
A religious sound reverberates through the air:
The traveler stops himself, and the rustic clock
With its final sounds of the day mixes with the holy concert.

But in these two tableaus my uncaring soul
Perceives before them neither charm nor transports;
I contemplate the earth as a wayward shadow which
The sun of the living excites (heats) not the dead.

From hill to hill in vain moves my view,
From the south to the north wind, from the rising to the setting,
I pass over every point of the vast spread,
And I say: “Nowhere does happiness await me.”

What are they doing to me, these glens, these palaces, these cottages,
Vain objects of which the charm has been stolen from me.
Rivers, rocks, forests, lonely beloved places,
A single being you lack, and all is emptied of people!

When I could have followed its great progression,
My eyes would have seen everywhere the emptiness and deserts:
I desire nothing of that which it enlightens (lights);
I ask nothing of this immense universe.

But perhaps beyond the limits of its sphere,
Places where the true sun lights other skies,
If I could leave my mortal remains to the earth,
That of which I dream would appear before my eyes!

There, I would get drunk at the source of my desire;
There, I would find hope and love,
And this fine ideal that every soul desires,
And that which has no name in the terrestrial sojourn.

If I only could, carried by the Chariot of Aurora,
Vague object of my vows, throw myself towards you!
On the earth our exile why should I stay?
There is nothing in common between the earth and me.

When the leaf of the woods falls on the meadow,
The wind of the night awakens itself and wrestles it into the glen;
And me, I am like that withered leaf:
Carry me like her, stormy North Winds!

4 comments:

Unknown said...

Why is there no translation for the 8th stanza??

Unknown said...

I tried to slightly improve the translation and added the missing "quatrain"

Often on the mountain, in the shadow of the old oak,
At the setting of the sun, I sit down sadly;
My gaze wanders at random over the plain,
Whose changing tableau unfolds at my feet.

Here thunders the mighty river of frothy waves,
It snakes, and sinks into the obscure distance;
There, the still lake extends its sleeping waters
To where the evening star rises in the azure.

To the summit of these mounts crowned with dark woods,
The dusk still throws a last ray;
And the floating vapour of the queen of shadows
Climbs, and already whitens the edges of the horizon.

Meanwhile, clinging to the gothic spire,
A religious sound reverberates through the air:
The traveler stops himself, and the rustic clock
Joins the final sounds of the day joins into a holy concert.

But in these two tableaus my indifferent soul
Perceives before them neither charm nor transports;
I contemplate the earth as a wayward shadow
The sun of the living does not warm the dead.

From hill to hill in vain moves my sight,
From the south to the north wind, from the rising to the setting,
I pass over every point of the vast panorama,
And I say: “I can only see doom everywhere”

What are they doing to me, these glens, these palaces, these cottages,
Vain objects of which the charm has been stolen from me.
Rivers, rocks, forests, lonely beloved places,
When you miss your beloved, all feels empty!

Whether the sun's rotation begins or ends,
With an indifferent eye I follow him in his progression;
In a dark or pure sky whether it is a sunrise or a sunset,
Who cares about the sun? I do not expect anything anymore from the days.

Even if I had followed its great cycle,
My eyes would have seen everywhere only emptiness and deserts:
I desire nothing of that it covers;
I ask nothing of this immense universe.

But perhaps beyond the limits of its influence,
Places where the real sun lights other skies,
If I could give back my mortal remains to the earth,
That of which I dream would appear before my eyes!

There, I would get drunk recollecting the object of my desire;
There, I would find hope and love,
And this fine ideal that every soul yearns,
And that which has no name on this earth.

If I only could, carried by the chariot of dawn,
Vague object of my vows, throw myself towards you!
On this earth of exile why should I stay?
There is nothing anymore in common between the earth and me.

When the leaf of the woods falls on the meadow,
The wind of the night wakes up and wrestles into the glen;
And me, I am like that withered leaf:
Carry me towards her, stormy North Winds!

Unknown said...

It's very beautiful. Thank you very much for translating it.

Peter Shor said...

And with a little more rhyme and meter in English (but maybe a little less
literally in some places):


Often, on the mountain, in the old oak’s shadow,
When the sun is going down, I sadly take a seat
And let my gaze meander haphazardly across the plains,
Where a changing panorama unrolls below my feet.


Here, the river roars as it cascades down the slopes;
It snakes across the landscape, and fades from view in fields afar;
There, the placid lake stretches forth its sleeping waters
And catches in its depths the rising evening star.


On the summits of those mountains, crowned with their dark woods,
The last rays of twilight are slowly growing dim,
And the misty chariot of the queen of shadows
Ascends, already whitening the horizon’s rim.


Flooding from the gothic spire, sweet religious tones
Carry through the air, and the traveler on his way
Pauses in his steps to listen as the rustic bell
Blends its holy concert with the last sounds of the day.


But none of these tableaux moves my indifferent soul:

In the face of all their charm and beauty, it remains unaffected;
I contemplate the earth the way a wandering shadow would:
The sun of the living no longer warms the dead.


From hill to hill in vain I cast my restless eyes,
From south to north, from dawn to sunset, I trace the compass round,
Scanning through each point of the land laid out beneath me,

And I conclude “Nowhere can happiness be found.”


Of what avail these valleys, these cottages, these palaces,
Vain objects that for me have lost all their charm and grace?
Rivers, rocks, and forests, those cherished solitudes—
A single entity is missing, and all becomes a waste!

Whether the sun is starting or finishing its daily tour,

I follow it along its course with an indifferent gaze;
In a dark and stormy sky, or in brilliant azure,
What do I care about the sun? I expect nothing from its days.


If I could follow it on its wide circuit round the sky,
I would see only desolation, empty wastelands of no worth:
I do not wish for anything that it ever shines on;
I do not ask anything of the entire earth.


But maybe somewhere else, beyond the boundaries of its sphere,

Some place where the real sun shines in other skies,
If only I could leave my husk lying on this earth,
Everything I’ve dreamed of would appear before my eyes!

There, I could refresh myself from the springs I long for;
There, the hope and love that I once had would be restored,
And I would find that perfect good that every soul desires,
And which has no name in our terrestrial abode.


If only I could travel on the chariot of Dawn,
Then, vague object of my wishes, straight towards you I would fly!
Why do I remain here upon the earth of exile?
Not a single thing in common do we have, the earth and I.


When the leaves fall from the trees and lie scattered in the meadows
The evening wind will rise and sweep them from the vale;
I have no more substance than the withered leaves:
Oh, carry me away with them, wild autumn gale!