POEMES et POETES

La paix, soeur du doux repos,
Et que Jules va conclure,
Fait déjà refleurir Vaux ;
Dont je retire un bon augure.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  S’il tient ce qu’il a promis,
Et qu’un heureux mariage
Rende nos rois bons amis,
Je ne plains pas son voyage.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Le plus grand de mes souhaits
Est de voir, avant les roses,
L’Infante avec la Paix ;
Car ce sont deux belles choses.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                O Paix, infante des cieux,
Toi que tout heur accompagne,
Viens vite embellir ces lieux
Avec l’Infante d’Espagne.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Chasses des soldats gloutons
La troupe fière et hagarde,
Qui mange tous mes moutons,
Et bat celui qui les garde.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Délivres ce beau séjour
De leur brutale furie,
Et ne permets qu’à l’Amour
D’entrer dans la bergerie.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Fais qu’avec le berger
On puisse voir la bergère,
Qui court d’un pied léger,
Qui danse sur la fougère,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Et qui, du berger tremblant
Voyant le peu de courage,
S’endorme ou fasse semblant
De s’endormir à l’ombrage.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  O Paix ! source de tout bien,
Viens enrichir cette terre,
Et fais qu’il n’y reste rien
Des images de la guerre.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Accordes à nos longs désirs
De plus douces destinées ;
Ramènes-nous les plaisirs,
Absents depuis tant d’années.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Etouffes tous ces travaux,
Et leurs semences mortelles :
Que les plus grands de nos maux
Soient les rigueurs de nos belles ;

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Et que nous passions les jours
Etendus sur l’herbe tendre,
Prêts à conter nos amours
A qui voudra les entendre.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                           (Jean de La Fontaine, 1679)