A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Butterfly (Xavier de Maistre)
THE BUTTERFLY.
Thou dweller of the ethereal plain,
Beloved and brilliant butterfly!
How in this dungeon, where I sigh,
Couldst thou admittance gain?
Scarce ever on these frightful walls,
Across the bars, one ray of light
Steals to dispel the long, long night
That in its cheerlessness appals.
Hast thou from Nature, wise and great,
Received a heart to friendship prone?
By pity hither art thou drawn
To share the sorrows of my fate?
Thy very presence charms my pain,
No longer bleeds the wound that bled:
The hope extinct, or all but dead,
Is brought by thee to life again.
Sweet ornament on Nature's sheen!
Recall her loveliness to me,
And speak, oh speak of liberty,
Of waters, flowers, and foliage green;
Speak of the torrent's dreadful voice,
Of lakes profound, of cooling shades,
And of the murmur in the glades,
When winds 'mid dripping leaves rejoice.
Hast thou beheld the roses blow?
Hast thou amongst them lovers met?
Of spring the tidings let me get,
And give me news of morns-a-glow.
Tell me, if in the forest gloom,
Thou heard'st thy friend the nightingale
Repeat her joyous notes, or wail,
To flowers that listen as they bloom.
Along these sombre humid halls
For forest flowers thou search'st in vain;
Here captives register their pain,
And trace their sorrows on the walls;
A living grave, deep under ground,
Unvisited by breeze or ray;
Here chains assert their ruthless sway,
And groanings are the only sound.
Gay darling of the meadows—go,
My prison is no place for thee!
Short-lived but freest of the free,
Enjoy the blessings as they flow;
Out of this place of endless sighs!
Where life is one long torment still!
And then, no chains may bind thy will,
No walls enclose thee but the skies.
Perchance some day, while fluttering glad
In some sequestered lone retreat,
Thou shalt two playful children meet,
Beside a mother pale and sad;
Ah then! console that mother meek,
And tell her all, yes, all I feel,—
But how should'st thou my heart reveal,
Alas! I know thou canst not speak!
Display thy richly-gilded wings
At least before the children's eyes,
And in their pastimes them surprise,
Wheeling around in glittering rings.
Soon shall they follow thee in chase,
With shouts—'̕̕'Tis here—'tis there—'tis gone!'
From flower to flower allure them on,
Until thou lead'st them to this place.
Their mother then will surely come,
Their sad companion while they play;
Attract them with thy movements gay,
And cheer them all the way from home.
Ah me! what hopes unconscious start!
They come—they come—away my fears!
Who knows but childhood's tender tears
May melt the gaoler's iron heart?
Yes—to the faithful, faithful bride,
The tender husband shall be given,
The bars asunder shall be riven,
The brazen gates stand open wide.
But ah, great Lord! what do I say?
This clanking chain dispels my dream,
The butterfly—was but a gleam,
Behold,—it flutters far away!