# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Tears of Racine (Sainte-Beuve)

THE TEARS OF RACINE.
SAINTE-BEUVE.
When Jean Racine the poet grand, Loving and true, a child of light, Had veiled his lyre, grown mute, to stand For ever out of human sight, Though earth he had renounced and fame, He felt at times song's sacred flame Within his heart burn bright and clear, And then before the Saviour's feet, He burst in prayers confused and sweet, Prayers always sealed with many a tear.
Just as the pure heart of a maid In secret often overflows, At each domestic cloud or shade, At each small joy his tears arose. To see his eldest daughter weep, To see fair children round him leap, And deck his rooms with flowers and leaves, To feel a father's tender cares 'Mid chat of books or state affairs With Rollin, in the winter eves.
Or if in the loved native place, The cradle of his touching dreams, He strayed in fields, until in face Port-Royal rose 'mid rainbow gleams; If he beheld its cloisters cool, Its long wall and its lonely pool, As weeps an exiled man he wept. To weep was sweet! What blessed rain For Champmeslé and La Fontaine He shed each year, the day they slept.
But never gentler tears were seen To flow in love from any lid, Than his when brows of fair sixteen Beneath the shrouding veils were hid, And when the girls with solemn vows, Acknowledging the Lord as Spouse, Trod on their festal garlands gay, And giving up their beauty's crown, Their long hair, erst let loosely down, With tears, from parents passed away.
He also had to pay his debt, And to the temple bring his lamb: Upon his youngest's brow was set The seal of Him who said, I Am. The wedding-ring her finger graced, Pale, pale, before the altar placed, Her Lord Divine she longed to see: While heedless of the pomp and crowd, Incense, and organ swelling loud, The father sobbed on bended knee.
Sobs, sighs, that soon to tear-showers led, As gentle as those tear-showers sweet That Mary Magdalene shed Upon her blessed Sav1our's feet; As precious as the perfume rare Lazarus' sister with her hair Long-flowing softly wiped away; Tear-showers abundant as were thine, Best loved Apostle called divine, Before thy hallelujah-day.
Dumb prayers from a heart that throbs! Holy desires that upward mount! 'What lute shall interpret these sobs And sighs and tears that none can count! Who shall the mystery explain Of this vexed heart that strove in vain To hush itself, yet had no tone Articulate? Ah, who shall tell What winds of autumn in the dell Among the naked branches moan?
It was an offering with a cry Like Abraham's—a yearning strong! It was a struggle last and high For her whom he had nourished long. It was a retrospective glance Upon his past life's vast expanse— A sinner rescued from the fire! One cry unto the Judge sublime That for this victim every crime Might be effaced, and quenched all ire.
It was a dream of innocence, And this the thought that made him sob, He might have stayed here, and from hence Heard the world's pulses far off throb. Port-Royal might have been his home: In its calm vale how sweet to roam It would have been, amidst its woods Of chestnuts with their shadows deep, And muse, and pray, and wake, and sleep, In its vast parlours' solitudes.
And oh! If with his eyes still wet, Snatching his slumbering lute again, He has not unto music set What then he felt of bitterest pain; As poet, if he has not sung The holocaust his tears that wrung; The Master who by name can call His sheep, hath less not understood The minstrel's wise and silent mood; O mortals, blame him not at all.
The Lord unto whose holy throne Our prayers ascend, sends He tear-showers To sparkle on the lids alone, Like dew upon the opening flowers? No! Nor His breath to cause unrest, And agitate the human breast, Wild music from its chords to draw; His dews awake to life from death, Ardent, immense, His circling breath Labours the frost in us to thaw.
What matters song with harp and voice, What matters if we tread where trod The saints, and in the dance rejoice Before the holy Ark of God, If soon, too soon, at ease the soul Cast off her widow's weeds and dole, And dissipate what she should feel Continually; and what she pays, Poor guilty thing, in thanks and praise, From her repentance rashly steal!