To the Forest of Gastine

Stretched in thy shadows I rehearse,
Gastine, thy solitudes.
Even as the Grecians in their verse
The Erymanthian woods.

For I, alas! cannot conceal
From any future race
The pleasure, the delight, I feel
In thy green dwelling-place.

Thou who beneath thy sheltering bowers
Dost make me visions see;
Thou who dost cause that at all hours
The Muses answer me;

Thou who from each importunate care
Dost free me with a look,
When lost I roam I know not where
Conversing with a book!

Forever may thy thickets hold
The amorous brigade
Of Satyrs and of Sylvans bold.
That make the Nymphs afraid;

In thee the Muses evermore
Their habitation claim,
And never may thy woods
The sacrilegious flame.