Translations from the French of Madame de la Mothe Guion

’Tis folly all—let me no more be told Of Parian porticos, and roofs of gold; Delightful views of nature, dressed by art, Enchant no longer this indifferent heart; The Lord of all things, in his humble birth, Makes mean the proud magnificence of earth; The straw, the manger, and the mouldering wall, Eclipse its lustre; and I scorn it all.

Canals, and fountains, and delicious vales, Green slopes and plains, whose plenty never fails; Deep–rooted groves, whose heads sublimely rise, Earth–born, and yet ambitious of the skies; The abundant foliage of whose gloomy shades, Vainly the sun in all its power invades; Where warbled airs of sprightly birds resound, Whose verdure lives while Winter scowls around; Rocks, lofty mountains, caverns dark and deep, And torrents raving down the rugged steep;

Smooth downs, whose fragrant herbs the spirits cheer; Meads crowned with flowers; streams musical and clear, Whose silver waters, and whose murmurs, join Their artless charms, to make the scene divine; The fruitful vineyard, and the furrowed plain, That seems a rolling sea of golden grain: All, all have lost the charms they once possessed; An infant God reigns sovereign in my breast; From Bethlehem’s bosom I no more will rove; There dwells the Saviour, and there rests my love.