Mistral, Frédéric: From “Calendau” (Calendau (Cant sieisen, excerpt) in English)
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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!
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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.
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