Read Ebook: Les roses d'Ispahan: La Perse en automobile à travers la Russie et le Caucase by Anet Claude

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1686 lines and 92016 words, and 34 pages

POEMS

The Ages? Thanatopsis The Yellow Violet Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood Song.--"Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow" To a Waterfowl Green River A Winter Piece The West Wind The Burial-place.? A Fragment Blessed are they that Mourn No Man knoweth his Sepulchre A Walk at Sunset Hymn to Death The Massacre at Scio? The Indian Girl's Lament? Ode for an Agricultural Celebration Rizpah The Old Man's Funeral The Rivulet March Sonnet.--To-- An Indian Story Summer Wind An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers Song--"Dost thou idly ask to hear" Hymn of the Waldenses Monument Mountain? After a Tempest Autumn Woods Sonnet.--Mutation Sonnet.--November Song of the Greek Amazon To a Cloud The Murdered Traveller? Hymn to the North Star The Lapse of Time Song of the Stars A Forest Hymn "Oh fairest of the rural maids" "I broke the spell that held me long" June A Song of Pitcairn's Island The Skies "I cannot forget with what fervid devotion" To a Musquito Lines on Revisiting the Country The Death of the Flowers Romero A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal The New Moon Sonnet.--October The Damsel of Peru The African Chief? Spring in Town The Gladness of Nature The Disinterred Warrior Sonnet.--Midsummer The Greek Partisan The Two Graves The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus? A Summer Ramble Scene on the Banks of the Hudson The Hurricane? Sonnet.--William Tell? The Hunter's Serenade? The Greek Boy The Past "Upon the mountain's distant head" The Evening Wind "When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam" "Innocent child and snow-white flower" To the River Arve Sonnet.--To Cole, the Painter, departing for Europe To the fringed Gentian The Twenty-second of December Hymn of the City The Prairie? Song of Marion's Men? The Arctic Lover The Journey of Life

TRANSLATIONS. Version of a Fragment of Simonides From the Spanish of Villegas Mary Magdalen.? The Life of the Blessed. Fatima and Raduan.? Love and Folly.? The Siesta. The Alcayde of Molina.? The Death of Aliatar.? Love in the Age of Chivalry.? The Love of God.? From The Spanish of Pedro de Castro y A?aya? Sonnet. Song. The Count of Greiers. The Serenade. A Northern Legend.

LATER POEMS. To the Apennines Earth The Knight's Epitaph The Hunter of the Prairies Seventy-Six The Living Lost Catterskill Falls The Strange Lady Life? "Earth's children cleave to earth" The Hunter's Vision The Green Mountain Boys? A Presentiment The Child's Funeral? The Battlefield The Future Life The Death of Schiller? The Fountain? The Winds The Old Man's Counsel? Lines in Memory of William Leggett An Evening Revery? The Painted Cup? A Dream The Antiquity of Freedom The Maiden's Sorrow The Return of Youth A Hymn of the Sea Noon.? The Crowded Street The White-footed Deer? The Waning Moon The Stream of Life

NOTES

POEMS.

THE AGES.?

When to the common rest that crowns our days, Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays His silver temples in their last repose; When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years:

And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by,-- When lived the honoured sage whose death we wept, And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, And beat in many a heart that long has slept,-- Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped-- Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept, Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold-- Those pure and happy times--the golden days of old.

Peace to the just man's memory,--let it grow Greener with years, and blossom through the flight Of ages; let the mimic canvas show His calm benevolent features; let the light Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame, The glorious record of his virtues write, And hold it up to men, and bid them claim A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.

But oh, despair not of their fate who rise To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw! Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law, And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth.

Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march Faltered with age at last? does the bright sun Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch, Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on, Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky With flowers less fair than when her reign begun? Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye?

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth In her fair page; see, every season brings New change, to her, of everlasting youth; Still the green soil, with joyous living things, Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep.

Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race With his own image, and who gave them sway O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, Now that our swarming nations far away Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed His latest offspring? will he quench the ray Infused by his own forming smile at first, And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed?

Oh, no! a thousand cheerful omens give Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh. He who has tamed the elements, shall not live The slave of his own passions; he whose eye Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, And in the abyss of brightness dares to span The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high, In God's magnificent works his will shall scan-- And love and peace shall make their paradise with man.

Sit at the feet of history--through the night Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, And show the earlier ages, where her sight Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face;-- When, from the genial cradle of our race, Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, Or freshening rivers ran; and there forgot The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not.

Then waited not the murderer for the night, But smote his brother down in the bright day, And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, His own avenger, girt himself to slay; Beside the path the unburied carcass lay; The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men.

But misery brought in love--in passion's strife Man gave his heart to mercy, pleading long, And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life; The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong, Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong. States rose, and, in the shadow of their might, The timid rested. To the reverent throng, Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white, Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right;

Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed On men the yoke that man should never bear, And drove them forth to battle. Lo! unveiled The scene of those stern ages! What is there! A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air Moans with the crimson surges that entomb Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom, O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb.

Those ages have no memory--but they left A record in the desert--columns strown On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, Heaped like a host in battle overthrown; Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone Were hewn into a city; streets that spread In the dark earth, where never breath has blown Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread The long and perilous ways--the Cities of the Dead:

And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled-- They perished--but the eternal tombs remain-- And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane;-- Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain The everlasting arches, dark and wide, Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain. But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride.

And Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke; She left the down-trod nations in disdain, And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke, New-born, amid those glorious vales, and broke Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands: As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke. And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire stands Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands.

Oh, Greece! thy flourishing cities were a spoil Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed And crushed the helpless; thou didst make thy soil Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best; And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast, Thy just and brave to die in distant climes; Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for rest From thine abominations; after times, That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes.

Yet there was that within thee which has saved Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name; The story of thy better deeds, engraved On fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shame Our chiller virtue; the high art to tame The whirlwind of the passions was thine own; And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, Far over many a land and age has shone, And mingles with the light that beams from God's own throne;

And Rome--thy sterner, younger sister, she Who awed the world with her imperial frown-- Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee,-- The rival of thy shame and thy renown. Yet her degenerate children sold the crown Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves; Guilt reigned, and we with guilt, and plagues came down, Till the north broke its floodgates, and the waves Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves.

Vainly that ray of brightness from above, That shone around the Galilean lake, The light of hope, the leading star of love, Struggled, the darkness of that day to break; Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake, In fogs of earth, the pure immortal flame; And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake, Were red with blood, and charity became, In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name.

They triumphed, and less bloody rites were kept Within the quiet of the convent cell: The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept, And sinned, and liked their easy penance well. Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell, Amid its fair broad lands tpar le train. Chacun de nous se pr?cipite pour voir s'il a son compte de colis, valises, malles, ch?les, etc.

J'admire les voyageurs qui, partant pour des pays lointains et des contr?es d?sertes, ne nous parlent jamais de leurs bagages. Il semble qu'ils soient des ?tres immat?riels, corps c?lestes ou purs esprits, insensibles au froid, ? la pluie, ? la soif, au manque de nourriture. Nous ne sommes pas ces voyageurs. Il nous faut du linge, des v?tements de rechange, et la <>. Le souci de transporter avec soi tout le n?cessaire est le souci le plus quotidien du voyage, quand on prend les modes de locomotion que nous avons choisis. Chaque jour, il faut d?faire et refaire ses valises, d?plier et replier les ch?les, alors qu'on est ab?m? de fatigue. Je supplie le lecteur de compatir ? nos peines et d'abord de faire connaissance avec nos bagages.

D?NOMBREMENT DES BAGAGES.--Nous sommes sept voyageurs, plus trois m?caniciens. Nous avons droit, chacun de nous, ? deux valises, improprement d?nomm?es ? main. Nous y ajoutons sournoisement un nombre consid?rable de petits colis qui, soi-disant, ne comptent pas, et que nous passons le plus clair de notre temps ? compter. La chasse et la r?union de ces multiples colis suffiraient ? lasser une activit? moins d?vorante que la n?tre. Les seuls appareils de photographie forment un bataillon important: il y a trois kodaks pliants avec objectifs Goerz ou Zeiss, un petit panoramique qui ne se laisse pas r?duire, et un grand panoramique qui est hors toute mesure. Il emplit ? lui seul la caisse de l'auto; ses angles sont incisifs et, ? chaque cahot, il nous entame les tibias. A la halte, il sert de tabouret ou de table; c'est du reste l'unique service qu'il rend pendant longtemps, car il se refuse obstin?ment ? photographier les paysages devant lesquels nous le faisons fonctionner. Nous emportons deux fusils inutiles, mais qui tiennent leur place et la n?tre; comptez enfin les fourrures, peaux de bique, caoutchoucs, manteaux, cache-poussi?re, couvertures et ch?les, les jeux de casquettes pour neige et pour soleil, les sacs ? main insidieux qui ne sont pas des valises, et les n?cessaires de toilette. Voyez l'amoncellement de ces colis qui doivent ?tre transport?s avec nous dix dans les trois autos! Regardez les valises ouvertes, les ch?les d?faits, le d?sordre de nos chambres d'h?tel! Imaginez l'affairement de chacun de nous ? retrouver ce qui lui appartient! Supputez les retards in?vitables!

En outre, il y a des malles qui, elles, prennent des trains, des bateaux, la poste. Ce sont des malles ind?pendantes; elles font un voyage d'agr?ment, de leur c?t?; il est fort rare qu'elles consentent ? se rencontrer avec nous ? l'?tape. Nous les retrouvons dans des endroits inattendus, et toujours avec le m?me plaisir ?tonn?.

Enfin tous ces bagages sont ? Giurgevo, tous, sauf un carton ? chapeaux qui, en objet tr?s malin, a pr?f?r? se perdre ? la premi?re ?tape.

Et nous nous embarquons ? bord du bateau autrichien.

SUR LE DANUBE.--Les rives du fleuve sont sauvages, du c?t? bulgare accident?es, du c?t? roumain plates. A droite, des troupeaux de moutons sur les montagnes: ? gauche, des saulaies immenses, troncs ?normes et mutil?s sur lesquels poussent de jeunes branches aux feuillages fins. Des canards s'envolent; un h?ron argent? se l?ve, les ailes claires battent l'air gris. Le ciel est voil?, uniforme; le Danube s'en va sans fin, couleur de boue, si large qu'on a soudain la surprise de d?couvrir qu'une de ses rives bois?es est celle d'une ?le.

Sur le pont, nous sommes comme ?tonn?s d'?tre partis. D?j? des groupes se forment; les uns prennent un fusil et guettent le h?ron cendr? qui se laissera surprendre. Les autres, r?unis autour de tasses de th? , ?coutent la lecture de quelques belles pages de Gobineau sur l'esprit asiatique et sur les taziehs persans.

Turtu-Kaya, une ville turque o? nous abordons, minarets et mosqu?es, foule enturbann?e, d?guenill?e, femmes voil?es, les premi?res aussi, le chant du muezzin, c'est d?j? un peu de l'Orient.

La nuit vient et un frisson de froid apr?s la chaleur du jour. Les rives se glacent dans le gris du soir, les collines s'endorment, une lune incertaine passe ? travers une d?chirure des nuages et regarde le monde d?sert o? nous glissons sans bruit entre les bords du fleuve sur lesquels on ne distingue plus que les silhouettes trapues des saules comme d'hommes tr?s vieux qui nous ?pieraient.

Nous passons une demi-heure ? Braila, grand port roumain d'exportation pour les bl?s, ville de soixante mille habitants, laide et moderne.

Nous quittons Galatz avec un grand retard, ce dont le capitaine ne se soucie. Sur le quai, un groupe de femmes du peuple, le visage entour? d'un foulard blanc, font des gestes d'adieu ? un pauvre conscrit qui part pour la guerre, pour la lointaine et sanglante Mandchourie. Les femmes douloureuses restent ? voir le bateau glisser lentement sur les eaux jaunes du fleuve; elles pleurent et cachent leur figure dans leurs mains.

Une heure plus tard, nous arrivons ? Reni, douane russe. Mais nos recommandations sont adress?es aux autorit?s d'Isma?lia, o? nous d?barquerons. Les douaniers de Reni sont lents ? persuader. Il faut deux heures pour les convaincre. Emmanuel Bibesco continue ? ?tre notre interpr?te.

Cependant nous d?jeunons sur le pont; nous sommes cuits par un soleil d'orage. Pourquoi ne partons-nous pas? Des officiers arrivent sur la colline o? sont les b?timents de la douane. Et nous apprenons qu'on attend le gouverneur g?n?ral de la Bessarabie. Est-ce pour nous qu'il s'est d?rang?? A l'avance, nous sommes tr?s mal pr?venus en faveur des fonctionnaires russes. Le gouverneur arrive avec une escorte d'officiers magnifiques. Il se dirige vers le parc des autos sur le pont, les examine, discute longuement avec le capitaine. D?j? nous nous voyons le passage refus?, des difficult?s douani?res ? n'en plus finir.

Il part enfin, et nous apprenons alors que cet homme aimable a donn? ordre de faciliter de toutes mani?res notre voyage dans son gouvernement...

Descente du Danube sur Isma?lia; les premiers cosaques se montrent ? gauche: un cavalier sur un petit cheval se prom?ne le long du fleuve.

A droite c'est la Dobroudja roumaine, une plaine arr?t?e par des montagnes peu ?lev?es, de lignes accident?es. A gauche la Bessarabie, des pr?s pel?s o? paissent des troupeaux de moutons, des saules antiques, des rives de sable et d'argile, des herbes rares, le tout d'un ton roussi, qui passe du gris argent? ? l'?cru dans une gamme ch?re ? Corot.

Une lettre personnelle du tr?s puissant Bouliguine, ministre de l'Int?rieur, nous vaut cette entr?e facile sur le sol de la Sainte Russie.

Les autos sont amen?s sans difficult? ? quai o? plusieurs centaines de personnes nous attendent. Malgr? le service d'ordre, ouvriers et journaliers sont l? presque ? nous toucher; des yeux clairs de paysans dans des figures br?l?es par le plein air et le vent nous d?visagent. La puanteur qui se d?gage de cette foule nous asphyxie ? moiti?. Plus d'une heure, il faut la supporter pendant qu'on exp?die une partie des bagages ? Odessa et qu'on charge l'autre sur les voitures!

L'homme est l'animal le plus sale de la cr?ation. C'est m?me ce qu'il y a de plus sale au monde, car sur les pierres des chemins il pleut. Mais lorsqu'il pleut, le paysan de Bessarabie se met ? l'abri. Aussi ignore-t-il l'usage de notre soeur l'eau.

Guenilles, haillons et peaux humaines, quelle odeur!

Enfin nous partons. Pour la premi?re fois, nous entendons le bruit r?gulier des moteurs. C'est le soir d?j?. La foule qui nous entoure recule ?pouvant?e, l?ve les bras au ciel, crie au miracle, et nous passons.

Nous franchissons des caniveaux qui sont des foss?s et nous voici sur route. L'ordre de marche est le suivant: la grande Merc?d?s 40-chevaux en ?claireur; puis la Merc?d?s 20-chevaux de L?onida, puis la Fiat 16-chevaux qui porte les m?caniciens et les bagages. Ainsi sommes-nous s?rs, si nous avons une panne, de voir les m?caniciens arriver ? notre secours.

Nous sommes sur route russe. C'est dur. La chauss?e entre les arbres maigres est rudement empierr?e, avec, par places, des bosses inattendues.

Mais voil? qu'? ma grande surprise, ? dix kilom?tres d'Isma?lia, la route s'arr?te net! Mes amis sont moins ?tonn?s que moi et sans h?siter lancent les machines ? travers champs en suivant les orni?res trac?es devant nous. Ici le sol est beaucoup plus doux, mais on ne peut avancer vite. En temps de pluie, ces pistes d?tremp?es seraient impraticables.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet