PROTEST AGAINST THE WOODSMEN OF THE FOREST 



OF GASTINE 



By PIERRE DE RONSARD (1524-1581) 

 Translated by Bristow Adams 



[This poem by Pierre de Ronsard is historically interesting, since it shows a sentiment 

 for forest preservation in France in the middle of the sixteenth century. France has suf- 

 fered greatly from forest destruction, and in recent years has been at great pains and expense 

 to repair the damage. The naive philosophy of the last two stanzas is somewhat prophetic, 

 as poetry often is, of the changes to earth fo rnis that may, and do, come about through 

 forest destruction and its attendant evils. 1 he poem is, of course, far from the modern 

 spirit. The original meter and rhyme-scheme have been retained. B. A.] 



Ah, woodsman hold! Stay thy destroying arm; 

 These are not trees that thou dost bring to harm. 

 Dost thou not see the blood that trickles dark 

 From veins of nymphs that dwell beneath the bark. 

 If murderers deserve the stake, the rope, 

 How much less thou should st ever dare to hope 

 For mercy from such punishments as these, 

 For thou art killing our divinities. 



O, forest home in which the song-birds dwell ! 

 The squirrel and the stag shall miss the spell 

 Of thy cool depths when summer's sun assails, 

 Nor more find shelter in thy shadowed vales. 



No longer will the love-lorn shepherd lean 

 Against thy trunks; nor will his pipes shrill keen 

 His dog at heel, his crook beside him set 

 The tale of love he bears the fair Janet. 

 All will be silent; Echo will be dead; 

 A field will lie where shifting shadows fled 

 Across the ground. The mattock and the plow 

 Will take the place of Pan and Satyr now. 

 The timid deer, the spotted fawns at play 

 From thy retreats will all be driven away. 



Farewell, old woods where Zephyr played so free ; 

 Where first I turned my soul to poesy ; 

 Where first I heard Apollo's arrows whirr; 

 Where first I heard my better impulse stir; 

 Where first I met Calliope divine, 

 And through her learned to know the Muses nine. 

 Their wreaths of roses on my brow were pressed 

 The while Euterpe held me to her breast. 



Farewell, old forest, sacred crowns farewell ! 

 Revered in letters and in art as well 

 Thy place becomes the scorn of everyone, 

 Doomed now to burn beneath the summer sun. 

 All cry out insults as they pass thee by, 

 Upon the men who caused thee thus to die ! 

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