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Mistral, Frédéric: Calendau (Cant sieisen, excerpt)

Portre of Mistral, Frédéric

Calendau (Cant sieisen, excerpt) (Occitan)

- Duerbe à toun amo! dis... Souto Arle,

I tèms de l’emperaire Carle,

Cènt milo Sarrasin e cènt milo Crestian

Se coumbatien: lou vaste Rose

Dóu rai de sang èro tout rose...

Diéu preserve que mai s’arrose

D’un ruscle tant afrous la terro mounte sian!

 

Pèr sèt rèi lou Comte d’Aurenjo

Envirouna, dóu tèms que venjo

La mort de soun nebout, pèr sèt rèi barbarin

Acoussegui, cavauco e chaucho,

Trencant, taiant, à drecho, à gaucho...

Dóu chaple, soun pougnet s’enfaucho;

Di cop, soun brand d’acié trais d’uiau fouscarin.

 

Franquis lis Aliscamp: li Mouro

Ié fourniguejon... Bourro-bourro,

Vèntre à terro, fugis lou bon Comte Guihèn,

E s’enmountagno e s’empaluno;

Mai au soulèu, mai à la luno,

Vèi l’enemi que revouluno...

A la porto d’Aurenjo arribo tout bouiènt:

 

- Guibour! Guibour! ma gènto damo,

Siéu, dis, Guihèn, aquéu que t’amo!

A Guihèn dóu Court Nas, Guibour, vène durbi:

Souto li bàrri de la vilo

Li Sarrasin soun trento milo

Que me secuton... L’auro quilo,

Duerbe lèu! de la mort iéu me vese encoumbi.

 

La Coumtesso d’Aurenjo, proumto,

Sus lou cresten di bàrri mounto:

- Chivalié, dis Guibour, noun pode vous durbi:

Emé li femo tremouleto,

Lou clerc qu’abro li candeleto,

E lis enfant, çai siéu souleto...

Batènt li Maugrabin e Marran aloubi,

 

Moun bèu Guihèn e soun barnage

En aquesto ouro fan carnage

Au claus dis Aliscamp, eilalin... O Guibour,

Es iéu que siéu Guihèn: mis ome

(Dins soun repaus Diéu lis endrome!)

Soun tóuti mort, o souto un come

Van rema sus la mar. Ai vist, à l’escabour,

 

Arle cremant, e lis Areno

De crid d’espaime tóuti pleno...

De si cors caste e bèu fasènt d’espaventau,

Li mourgo, dins un sant foulige,

Pèr escapa dóu brutalige,

Se descaravon; à l’aurige,

Avignoun, mort de pòu, a dubert si pourtau...

 

Douço mouié, lou cor me manco;

E, se fas pas leva la tanco,

Toun Guihèn vai plega souto lis estramas

Di Maugrabin... - N’as menti! crido

Guibour, de la raço abourrido

Bessai que siés, lengo marrido!

Mai tu noun siés Guihèn lou Comte dóu Court Nas.

 

Guihèn, à vòsti choumo vilo,

Cafèr, noun laisso brula vilo;

Si sòci, pres o mort, Guihèn noun quito ansin;

Contro l’audàci di coursàri

Guihèn aparo miéus qu’un bàrri

L’ounour di vierge; e Guihèn, àrri!

Noun a jamai fugi davans lou Sarrasin! -

 

Lou Comte d’Aurenjo tresano:

De soun courrèire la caussano

Arrapo emé li dènt; souto soun èume verd

Plourant d’amour e de vergougno,

Subre, emé li dos man empougno

L’espaso, à soun courrèire cougno

Dous bon cop d’esperoun, e part, escalabert.

 

Es un demoun, es uno aurasso

Que rounflo, emporto, arranco, estrasso:

E toumbo sus lou vòu, e coumparablamen

A quand s’acano lis amelo

Li tèsto mouro coume grelo

Plovon, curbènt l’erbo que grelo;

Li coucho, broco-au-quiéu, fin-qu’à si bastimen,

 

E di sèt rèi n’en perfènd quatre.

Mai, esto fes, quand de se batre

Lou guerrié revèn mai: - Aro, bèu segne franc,

Dis la Coumtesso fièro e forto,

Poudès intra pèr la grand porto...

Sus lou pont-levadis se porto,

E ié lèvo soun èume e l’embrasso en plourant. –

 

A Calendau, l’enfant de l’oundo,

Ansin parlè la Fado bloundo...

Plourave, iéu tambèn: - Aro, fiho de Diéu,

O, lou coumprene, siéu qu’un verme,

Un vermenoun! Mai dins moun erme

O toun bon gran faudra que germe,

O brularai moun sang, ié repliquère... Adiéu!

 

Leissant Cassis, patrìo amaro,

Autant que terro adounc s’esmarro

Moun arèbre desden; e di roucas pela

Me revirant contro li bougno:

- Ah! me sounjave dins ma fougno,

Estatuaire à duro pougno

Que sentiés davans tu lou mabre tremoula,

 

Espeiandrado e mercantilo,

Quand óufriguères à ta vilo

De la vesti de nòu dins l’ordre courintian,

E que Marsiho, avaro maire,

Te rebufè comme un gastaire,

Ah! grand Puget, quente desaire

Deguè frounci toun front, nebla toun souleiant!

 

Mai quand, pèr aureja ta pimo,

Anères, dins l’azur di cimo,

Batre à cop de martèu la roco d’un puget,

E que taières à la bruto,

Furiousamen, tout d’uno buto,

Aquelo grand figuro muto

Que nouman desempièi la Tèsto dóu Puget,

 

Ah! que sabour e que delice

Deguè raja dins lou calice

De toun rufe pegin, en vesènt treluca

Dins la mountagno escalabrouso

Lou mounumen, provo auturouso

De toun audàci pouderouso

E de l’ingratitudo ounte avié trabuca!



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.cieldoc.com

From “Calendau” (English)

At Arles in the Carlovingian days,     

        By the swift Rhone water,         

A hundred thousand on either side,   

Christian and Saracen, fought till the tide      

        Ran red with the slaughter.

 

May God forefend such another flood          

        Of direful war!   

The Count of Orange on that black morn      

By seven great kings was overborne, 

        And fled afar,

 

Whenas he would avenge the death   

        Of his nephew slain.      

Now are the kings upon his trail;       

He slays as he flies: like fiery hail     

        His sword-strokes rain.

 

He hies him into the Aliscamp,—      

        No shelter there!

A Moorish hive is the home of the dead,      

And hard he spurs his goodly steed   

        In his despair.

 

Over the mountain and over the moor           

        Flies Count Guillaume;  

By sun and by moon he ever sees     

The coming cloud of his enemies;     

        Thus gains his home.

 

Halts and lifts at the castle gate;         

        A mighty cry,     

Calling his haughty wife by name;    

“Guibour, Guibour, my gentle dame,

        Open! ’T is I!

 

“Open the gate to thy Guillaume!      

        Ta’en is the city 

By thirty thousand Saracen,   

Lo, they are hunting me to my den:   

        Guibour, have pity!”

 

But the countess from the rampart cried,       

        “Nay, chevalier, 

I will not open my gates to thee;        

For, save the women and babes,” said she,   

        “Whom I shelter here,

 

“And the priest who keeps the lamps alight,  

        Alone am I.        

My brave Guillaume and his barons all         

Are fighting the Moor by the Aliscamp wall, 

        And scorn to fly!”         

 

“Guibour, Guibour, it is I myself!     

        And those men of mine 

(God rest their souls!) they are dead,” he cried,        

“Or rowing with slaves on the salt sea-tide.   

        I have seen the shine

 

“Of Arles on fire in the dying day;    

        I have heard one shriek 

Go up from all the arenas where       

The nuns disfigure their bodies fair   

        Lest the Marran wreak

 

“His brutal will. Avignon’s self         

        Will fall to-day! 

Sweetheart, I faint; oh, let me in        

Before the savage Mograbin  

        Fall on his prey!”

 

“I swear thou liest,” cried Guibour,   

        “Thou base deceiver!     

Thou art perchance thyself a Moor    

Who whinest thus outside my door;—          

        My Guillaume, never!

 

“Guillaume to look on burning towns

        And fired by—thee!      

Guillaume to see his comrades die,   

Or borne to sore captivity,     

        And then to flee!

 

“He knows not flight! He is a tower  

        Where others fly!           

The heathen spoiler’s doom is sure,  

The virgin’s honor aye secure,          

        When he is by!”

 

Guillaume leapt up, his bridle set      

        Between his teeth,          

While tears of love and tears of shame         

Under his burning eyelids came,       

        And hard drew breath,

 

And seized his sword and plunged his spurs 

        Right deep, and so         

A storm, a demon, did descend         

To roar and smite, to rout and rend   

        The Moorish foe.           

 

As when one shakes an almond-tree,

        The heathen slain           

Upon the tender grass fall thick,        

Until the flying remnant seek 

        Their ships again.           

 

Four kings with his own hand he slew,          

        And when once more    

He turned him homeward from the fight,      

Upon the drawbridge long in sight     

        Stood brave Guibour.

 

“By the great gateway enter in,          

        My lord!” she cried;       

And might no further welcome speak,          

But loosed his helm, and kissed his cheek,   

        With tears of pride.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.bartleby.com

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