Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
Adieu to Brittany
By Sir Samuel Ferguson (18101886)R
I depart with a sigh from thy shore,
And with kinsman’s affection a blessing invoke
On the maids and the men of Arvôr.
Though the lights of antiquity pale
In the point of the dawn where the partings begin
Of the Bolg and the Kymro and Gael.
Be the low-burning beacons of fame,
Holy Nature attests us, in writing sublime
On heart and on visage, the same.
In the open look, modest and kind,
In the face’s fine oval reflecting the play
Of the sensitive, generous mind;
With thy Maries and Josephs I roam,
In companionship gentle and friendly I seem,
As with Patrick and Brigid at home.
Though greener meads, valleys as fair,
Be at home, yet the home-yearning heart will demand,
Are they blest as in Brittany there?
Yet would God that even as thou
In thy homeliest homesteads, contented Bretagne,
Were the green isle my thoughts are with now!
Deck the coronal troubadours twine,
Where the waves of the Loire and Garomna are rolled
Through the land of the white wheat and vine,
To the quick-thoughted, dark-flashing eye;
While Glory and Change, quaffing Luxury’s cup,
Challenge all things below and on high.
Of the Loire, of the Seine, of the Rhone—
In the Idea’s high pathways to march in the van,
To o’erthrow, and set up the o’erthrown;
That the world’s simple seniors have trod,
To walk with soft steps, living peaceable days,
And on earth not forgetful of God.
With the things of the old time before,
For to thee are committed the keys of the past,
O gray monumental Arvôr.
It is thine at thy feet to survey,
From thy earlier shepherd-kings’ sepulchre-thrones,
The giant, far-stretching array;
Where, along by the slow-breaking wave,
The hoary, inscrutable sentinels stand
In their night-watch by History’s grave.
From the prime of the morning they sprung,
When the works of young Mankind were lasting and large,
As the will they embodied was young.
With a pensive regard from the west,
Lit the beech-tops low down in the ditch of the Dun,
Lit the service-trees high on its crest:
Into morsels of ruin around,
And palace of monarch and minster of monk
Were effaced from the grassy-fossed ground.
O Wilts, on thy long-rolling plain,
And at last but the works of the hand of the Celt
And the sweet hand of Nature remain.
With a rumor of troublesome sounds,
On his iron way gliding, the Angel of Change
Spread his dusky wings wide o’er thy bounds,
And the pick of the miner in vain
Shall search the dark void; while the stones of Carnac
And the word of the Breton remain.
See, we stream back our pennon of smoke:
Farewell, russet skirt of the fine robe of France,
Rugged land of the granite and oak!