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TO MADAM DE GONDOIN, AFTERWARD COUNTESS OF TOULOUSE, ON THE DANGER SHE HAD BEEN EXPOSED TO IN PASSING THE LOIRE IN 1719. - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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TO MADAM DE GONDOIN, AFTERWARD COUNTESS OF TOULOUSE, ON THE DANGER SHE HAD BEEN EXPOSED TO IN PASSING THE LOIRE IN 1719. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

Edition used:

From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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TO MADAM DE GONDOIN, AFTERWARD COUNTESS OF TOULOUSE, ON THE DANGER SHE HAD BEEN EXPOSED TO IN PASSING THE LOIRE IN 1719.

Whilst in a storm such risk you run,
Know you in Sully what was done?
The rogue Marigni, with a laugh
Malicious, wrote your epitaph;
The waves, said he, will soon restore
The body they o’erwhelmed before;
And then, said he, will be revealed
To sight what she through pride concealed:
But Espar, Guiche, la Vallière,
And Sully wept for one so dear;
Roussi did nothing else but swear,
The abbé Courtin wiped a tear;
Perceiving your last hour draw nigh,
Devoutly prayed to the Most High;
Between his lips some prayer he muttered,
And though the words he faintly uttered,
His voice devoutly in his throat
Quavered with many a thrilling note.
But what a sight, with glad surprise,
Strikes suddenly my wondering eyes,
A thousand loves on every side
Oppose the fury of the tide,
Combat the wind’s impetuous rage,
And strive their fury to assuage;
I see them round your vessel swim,
The surface of the water skim;
Still struggling with the boisterous tide,
Your vessel to the shore they guide.
Gondoin, the time which love has lent,
Must in love’s service all be spent;
Love for himself preserved your days,
And a just claim he to them lays.
That system so much famed, by which
The farmers-general grew rich,
And did their pelfs, through pure good will,
With all the nation’s money fill.
The sibyl thus, in times of old,
As in great Maro’s page we’re told.
No other treasure e’er possessing,
But the black art and skill at guessing,
Gives to Æneas oaken leaves,
From him the golden bough receives.
Perhaps with anguish in my heart,
I shortly shall the news impart,
That the old gouty bard is dead,
Whose works, like Chapelle’s, will be read;
Chaulieu shall quit this earthly sphere,
And soon before his judge appear;
And if a muse, whose polished lays
And numbers smooth all readers praise,
Salvation can on souls bestow,
He surely will to heaven go.
The curate came the other day,
Whilst in the agony he lay,
And gave, with ceremonious face,
His passport to a better place.
He saw his sins washed white as snow
By a repentant word or so,
And then received, with reverence due,
That which I need not name to you;
He made besides an exhortation,
Most highly suited to the occasion.
He pardon asked, and owned his fault,
That he too much false glory sought;
For pride, he candidly confessed,
Reigned much too powerful in his breast.
Poets are ever slaves to fame,
They labor for an empty name;
From vanity, all men agree,
Preachers and bards are seldom free.
Yet his pride can’t the world prevent
So great a poet to lament;
His loss will make Parnassus groan;
For he was left, and left alone,
Of all the bards, whose deathless strain
Immortalized great Louis’ reign.
But in the present age, ’tis said,
Our youths grown tasteless and ill-bred,
Have luxury exchanged for pleasure,
And idleness for that sage leisure,
Which men, with learned ease content,
In constant meditation spent.
Genonville, first of sonneteers,
Who worthy of that age appears,
Seems in great haste to quit the town,
And to your country seat go down.
The system has not soured his spirit,
He still is amiable, has merit;
Still he has elegance of style,
He still can gayly talk and smile;
My mistress’ charms he has enjoyed,
With which I never could be cloyed;
He makes a jest of this black treason,
And I might angry be with reason;
But in this world, a friend with friend
For trifles never should contend.