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Travaillez, prenez de la
peine :
C'est
le fonds qui
manque le moins.
Un riche laboureur, sentant sa mort prochaine,
Fit venir ses enfants, leur parla sans témoins.
«Gardez-vous, leur dit-il, de vendre l'héritage
Que nous ont laissé nos parents :
Un trésor est caché dedans.
Je ne sais pas l'endroit; mais un peu de courage
Vous le fera trouver : vous en viendrez à bout.
Remuez votre champ dès qu'on aura fait
l'oût :
Creusez, fouillez, bêchez; ne laissez nulle place
Où la main ne passe et repasse.»
Le père mort, les fils vous retournent le champ,
Deçà, delà, partout : si bien qu'au bout de l'an
Il en rapporta davantage.
D'argent, point de caché. Mais le père fut sage
De leur montrer, avant sa mort,
Que le travail est un trésor . |
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The Ploughman and
His Sons
The farmer's patient care and toil
Are oftener wanting than the soil.
A wealthy ploughman drawing
near his end,
Called in his sons apart from every friend,
And said, "When of your sire bereft,
The heritage our fathers left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is concealed:
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearched a single clod."
The father died. The sons and not in vain
Turned over the soil, and over again;
That year their acres bore
More grain than ever before.
Though hidden money found they none,
Yet had their father wisely done,
To show by such a measure,
That toil itself is treasure.
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