C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Scaling of Ventour
By Frédéric Mistral (1830–1914)
S
To tufts of lavender and roots of box
I needs must cling, and as my feet I ground
In the thin soil, the little stones would bound
With ringing cry from off the precipice,
And plunge in horror down the long abyss.
Would narrow to a thread; I must retrace
My steps and seek some longer, wearier way.
And if I had turned dizzy in that day,
Or storm had overtaken me, then sure
I had lain mangled at thy feet, Ventour.
With only death in view, I heard above
Some solitary skylark wing her flight
Afar, then all was still. Only by night
God visits these drear places. Cheery hum
Of insect rings there never. All is dumb.
In a deep chasm, caught my downward view,
“Thou art there!” I cried; and straightway did discover
New realms of wood towering the others over,
A deeper depth of shadows. Ah, methought
Those were enchanted solitudes I sought!
Till all my nails were broken. At the last,
The utter last,—oh palms of God,—I caught
The soft larch murmur near me, and distraught
Embraced the foremost trunk, and forward fell;
How broken, drenched, and dead, no words can tell!
A fresh wind blew, and all the pain was gone,
And I rose up, both stout of limb and glad;
Bread in my sack for nine full days I had,—
A drinking-flask, a hatchet, and a knife
Wherewith to carve the story of my strife
On old Ventour, rushing through all the trees!
A symphony sublime I seemed to hear,
Where all the hills and vales gave answer clear,
Harmonious. In a stately melancholy,
From the sun’s cheerful glances hidden wholly
The larches rose. No tempest’s utmost rage
Could shake them, but with huge limbs close entwined,
Mutely they turned their faces to the wind;
Some hoar with mold and moss, while some lay prone,
Shrouded in the dead leaves of years agone.