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Give
me my scallop shell of quiet
My
staff of faith to walk upon
My
scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My
bottle of salvation
My
gown of glory, hope's true gage
And
thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
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Donne
moi ma coquille de paix,
Mon
bâton de foi pour marcher sur le chemin,
Ma
besace d'allégresse, nourriture éternelle,
Ma
gourde de salut
Ma
robe de gloire, vrai témoin de l'espoir,
Et
ainsi je commencerai mon pèlerinage.
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On
trouve souvent, cités dans des travaux anglo-saxons,
ces vers, écrits par Sir Walter Raleigh.
Le
poème a pour titre "Pèlerinage d'un homme qui
va mourir". Raleigh parle de son pèlerinage
à la mort, que d'ailleurs, il ne craint nullement.
Les
vers cités sont les six premières lignes de ce poème.
---------------------------------------------------------
THE
PASSIONATE MAN'S PILGRIMAGE.
GIVE
me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My
staff of faith to walk upon,
My
scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My
bottle of salvation,
My
gown of glory, hope's true gage ;
And
thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood
must be my body's balmer,
No
other balm will there be given ;
Whilst
my soul, like a quiet palmer,
Travelleth
towards the land of heaven ;
Over
the silver mountains,
Where
spring the nectar fountains :
There
will I kiss
The
bowl of bliss ;
And
drink mine everlasting fill
Upon
every milken hill :
My
soul will be a-dry before ;
But
after, it will thirst no more.
Then
by that happy blestful day,
More
peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That
have cast off their rags of clay,
And
walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll
take them first
To
quench their thirst,
And
taste of nectar suckets,
At
those clear wells
Where
sweetness dwells
Drawn
up by saints in crystal buckets.
And
when our bottles and all we
Are
filled with immortality,
Then
the blessed paths we'll travel,
Strowed
with rubies thick as gravel ;
Ceilings
of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High
walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From
thence to heavens's bribeless hall,
Where
no corrupted voices brawl ;
No
conscience molten into gold,
No
forged accuser bought or sold,
No
cause deferred, nor vain-spent journey ;
For
there Christ is the King's Attorney,
Who
pleads for all without degrees,
And
he hath angels, but no fees.
And
when the grand twelve-million jury
Of
our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst
our souls black verdicts give,
Christ
pleads his death, and then we live.
Be
thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted
lawyer, true proceeder !
Thou
giv'st salvation even for alms ;
Not
with a bribèd lawyer's palms.
And
this is my eternal plea
To
him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That,
since my flesh must die so soon,
And
want a head to dine next noon,
Just
at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set
on my soul an everlasting head.
Then
am I ready, like a palmer fit ;
To
tread those blest paths which before I writ.
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