JASMIN'S DEFENCE OF THE GASCON DIALECT.
To M.SYLVAIN DUMON,Deputy-Minister,who has condemned to death our native language.
There's not a deeper grief to man Than when our mother,faint with years,Decrepit,old,and weak,and wan,Beyond the leech's art appears;When by her couch her son may stay,And press her hand,and watch her eyes,And feel,though she survives to-day,Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.
It is not thus,believe me,Sir,With this enchantress,we will call Our second mother.Frenchmen err,Who cent'ries since proclaimed her fall!
Our mother tongue,all melody,While music lives,shall never die.
Yes!still she lives,her words still ring,Her children yet her carols sing;And thousand years may roll away Before her magic notes decay.
The people love their ancient songs,and will While yet a people,love and keep them still.
These lays are like their mother--they recall Fond thoughts of brother,sister,friends,and all The many little things that please the heart--Those dreams and hopes,from which we cannot part;These songs are as sweet waters,where we find Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.
In every home,at every cottage door,By every fireside,when our toil is o'er,These songs are round us,near our cradles sigh,And to the grave attend us when we die.
Oh!think,cold critic!'twill be late and long Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!
There are who bid this music sound no more,And you can hear them,nor defend--deplore!
You,who were born where the first daisies grew,Have 'fed upon its honey,sipp'd its dew,Slept in its arms,and wakened to its kiss,Danced to its sounds,and warbled to its tone--You can forsake it in an hour like this!
Weary of age,you may renounce,disown,And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!
For me,truth to my eyes made all things plain;At Paris,the great fount,I did not find The waters pure,and to my stream again I come,with saddened and with sobered mind;And now the spell is broken,and I rate The little country far above the great.
For you,who seem her sorrows to deplore,You,seated high in power,the first among,Beware!nor make her cause of grief the more;Believe her mis'ry,nor condemn her tongue.
Methinks you injure where you seek to heal,If you deprive her of that only weal.
We love,alas!to sing in our distress;
For so the bitterness of woe seems less;
But if we may not in our language mourn,What will the polish'd give us in return?
Fine sentences,but all for us unmeet--
Words full of grace,even such as courtiers greet:
A deck'd out miss,too delicate and nice To walk in fields;too tender and precise To sing the chorus of the poor,or come When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.
To cover rags with gilded robes were vain--
The rents of poverty would show too plain.
How would this dainty dame,with haughty brow,Shrink at a load,and shudder at a plough!
Sulky,and piqued,and silent would she stand As the tired peasant urged his team along:
No word of kind encouragement at hand,For flocks no welcome,and for herds no song!
Yet we will learn,and you shall teach--
Our people shall have double speech:
One to be homely,one polite,As you have robes for different wear;But this is all:--'tis just and right,And more our children will not bear,Lest flocks of buzzards flit along,Where nightingales once poured their song.
There may be some who,vain and proud,May ape the manners of the crowd,Lisp French,and maim it at each word,And jest and gibe to all afford;But we,as in long ages past,Will still be poets to the last![1]
Hark!and list the bridal song,As they lead the bride along:
"Hear,gentle bride!your mother's sighs,And you would hence away!
Weep,weep,for tears become those eyes."
--"I cannot weep--to-day."
Hark!the farmer in the mead Bids the shepherd swain take heed:
"Come,your lambs together fold,Haste,my sons!your toil is o'er:
For the setting sun has told That the ox should work no more."Hark!the cooper in the shade Sings to the sound his hammer made:
"Strike,comrades,strike!prepare the cask.
'Tis lusty May that fills the flask:
Strike,comrades!summer suns that shine Fill the cellars full of wine."Verse is,with us,a charm divine,Our people,loving verse,will still,Unknowing of their art,entwine Garlands of poesy at will.
Their ****** language suits them best:
Then let them keep it and be blest.
Let the wise critics build a wall Between the nurse's cherished voice,And the fond ear her words enthral,And say their idol is her choice.
Yes!--let our fingers feel the rule,The angry chiding of the school;True to our nurse,in good or ill,We are not French,but Gascon still.
'Tis said that age new feeling brings,Our youth returns as we grow old;And that we love again the things Which in our memory had grown cold.
If this be true,the time will come When to our ancient tongue,once more,You will return,as to a home,And thank us that we kept the store.
Remember thou the tale they tell Of Lacuee and Lacepede,[2]
When age crept on,who loved to dwell On words that once their music made;And,in the midst of grandeur,hung,Delighted,on their parent tongue.
This will you do:and it may be,When weary of the world's deceit,Some summer-day we yet may see Your coming in our meadows sweet;Where,midst the flowers,the finch's lay Shall welcome you with music gay;While you shall bid our antique tongue Some word devise,or air supply,Like those that charm'd your youth so long,And lent a spell to memory.
Bethink you how we stray'd alone Beneath those elms in Agen grown,That each an arch above us throws,Like giants,hand-in-hand,in rows.
A storm once struck a fav'rite tree,It trembled,shook,and bent its boughs,--The vista is no longer free:
Our governor no pause allows;
