Classic Poem

Le malade

Sharp is the pain that racks my aching breast;
My feeble voice in anguish is represt:
Yet all revives; already doth the bee
Haste to the flowers that deck the hawthorn-tree
God with his smile hath nature kindly blessed;
Soon in their splendor will the heavens be dressed
Come back, my voice, aye soft and pure, though weak;
There are some bright days still, of which my song should speak!

My Esculapius hath o'er turned my glass;
Joy is no more; dark shadows o'er me pass!
Yet now Love comes; and comes the month preferred
By Love — now pilfers for her nest the bird:
Whilst through the Universe, that teeming grows,
The stream of life voluptuously flows
Come back, my voice, tender for aye, though weak;
There are some pleasures still, of which my song should speak!

What songs my country asks! let us, in shame,
Avenge the Tricolor's forgotten fame:
With unknown names France decks herself anew;
To the dead eagle still our tears are due
The stormy tribune, too! what dangers there
Await the virtues, that to tempt it dare!
Come back, my voice, courageous, though thou'rt weak:
There are some glories still, of which my song should speak!

Freedom proscribed mine eye prophetic sees:
Again she comes — down, despots, to your knees!
To stifle her, would Tyranny in vain
Invoke the North on us to fall again:
Home to his den retreats the frighted bear,
Far from the sun, whose beams he longed to share
Come back, my voice, aye free and proud, though weak;
There is a triumph still, of which my song should speak!

Alas! what say I? yes, the Earth awakes,
Fair and adorned, as Spring upon us breaks:
But in our hearts our courage slumbering lies;
" I bide the time, " each fettered victim cries
Whilst Greece expires, and trembling Europe fears,
None dare revolt, except alone our tears!
Come back, my voice, consoling, though thou'rt weak;
There are some martyrs still, of whom my song should speak!