Philippe Desportes (1546–1606)

Translated by Henry Francis Cary

THIS cool spring, and its waters silver-clean,

In gentle murmurs seem to tell of love,

And all about the grass is soft and green;

And the close alders weave their shade above;

The sidelong branches to each other lean,

And as the west-wind fans them, scarcely move;

The sun is high in mid-day splendour sheen,

And heat has parched the earth, and soiled the grove.

Stay, traveller, and rest thy limbs awhile,

Faint with the thirst, and worn with heat and toil;

Where thy good fortune brings thee, traveller, stay.

Rest to thy wearied limbs will here be sweet,

The wind and shade refresh thee from the heat,

And the cool fountain chase thy thirst away.