The Shepherd and the Gascon Poet
To the Bordelais, on the grand Fête given me at the Casino.
In a far land, I know not where,
Ere viol’s sigh, or organ’s swell,
Had made the sons of song aware
That music is a potent spell,
A shepherd to a city came,
Play’d on his pipe, and rose to fame.
He sang of fields, and at each close
Applause from ready hands arose.
The simple swain was hail’d and crown’d
In mansions where the great reside,
And cheering smiles and praise he found,
And in his heart rose honest pride:
All seem’d with joy and rapture gleaming,—
He trembled that he was but dreaming.
But, modest still, his soul was moved;
Yet of his hamlet was his thought,—
Of friends at home, and her he loved,—
When back his laurel-branch be brought:
And, pleasure beaming in his eyes,
Enjoy’d their welcome and surprise.
’Twas thus with me, when Bordeaux deign’d
To listen to my rustic song;
Whose music praise and honour gain’d
More than to rural strains belong.
Delighted, charm’d, I scarcely knew
Whence sprung this life so fresh and new.
And to my heart I whisper’d low,
When to my fields return’d again,
“Is not the Gascon Poet now
As happy as the shepherd swain?”
The minstrel never can forget
The spot where first success he met;
But he, the shepherd who, of yore,
Had charm’d so many a list’ning ear,
Came back, and was beloved no more;—
He found all changed and cold and drear!
A skilful hand had touch’d the flute;—
His pipe and he were scorn’d—were mute.
But I, once more I dared appear,
And found old friends as true and dear—
The mem’ry of my ancient lays
Lived in their hearts—awoke their praise.
Oh! they did more;—I was their guest;
Again was welcomed and caress’d:
And, twined with their melodious tongue,
Again my rustic carol rung;
And my old language proudly found
Her words had list’ners, pressing round.
Thus, though condemn’d the shepherd’s skill,
The Gascon Poet triumph’d still.
I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months, and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the little shop I was hailed as an old friend. “Ah!” cried Jasmin, “enfin la voila encore!” I could not but be flattered by this recollection, but soon found it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed, than because a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in which he pointed out to me an article headed “Jasmin à Londres;” being a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading English literary journal.23 He had, he said, been informed of the honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion, that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew who was the reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses giving pleasure in an English dress, to be the superior simplicity of the English language over modern French, for which he has a great contempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long.
He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more.
He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming, and full of grace and naïveté; and one very affecting, being an address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, she made a remark to that effect: to which he answered impatiently, “Nonsense—don’t you see they are in tears.” This was unanswerable; and we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered.
We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity. “Oh!” he rejoined, “what would you have! I am a child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at success, which I let everybody see.”
His wife drew me aside, and asked my opinion as to how much money it would cost to pay Jasmin’s expenses, if he undertook a journey to England: “However,” she added, “I dare say he need be at no charge, for, of course, your queen has read that article in his favour, and knows his merit; she will probably send for him, pay all the expenses of his journey, and give him great fêtes in London.” I recommended the barber-poet to wait till he was sent for; and left the happy pair, promising to let them know the effect that the translation of Jasmin’s poetry produced on the royal mind:—their earnest simplicity was really entertaining.