Qu\u2019il est doux, quand du soir l\u2019\u00e9toile solitaire,
\nPr\u00e9c\u00e9dant de la nuit le char silencieux,
\nS\u2019\u00e9l\u00e8ve lentement dans la vo\u00fbte des cieux,
\nEt que l\u2019ombre et le jour se disputent la terre,
\nQu\u2019il est doux de porter ses pas religieux
\nDans le fond du vallon, vers ce temple rustique
\nDont la mousse a couvert le modeste portique,
\nMais o\u00f9 le ciel encor parle \u00e0 des c\u0153urs pieux !<\/p>\n
Salut, bois consacr\u00e9 ! Salut, champ fun\u00e9raire,
\nDes tombeaux du village humble d\u00e9positaire ;
\nJe b\u00e9nis en passant tes simples monuments.
\nMalheur \u00e0 qui des morts profane la poussi\u00e8re !
\nJ\u2019ai fl\u00e9chi le genou devant leur humble pierre,
\nEt la nef a re\u00e7u mes pas retentissants.
\nQuelle nuit ! quel silence ! au fond du sanctuaire
\n\u00c0 peine on aper\u00e7oit la tremblante lumi\u00e8re
\nDe la lampe qui br\u00fble aupr\u00e8s des saints autels.
\nSeule elle luit encor, quand l\u2019univers sommeille :
\nEmbl\u00e8me consolant de la bont\u00e9 qui veille
\nPour recueillir ici les soupirs des mortels.<\/p>\n
Avan\u00e7ons. Aucun bruit n\u2019a frapp\u00e9 mon oreille ;
\nLe parvis fr\u00e9mit seul sous mes pas mesur\u00e9s ;
\nDu sanctuaire enfin j\u2019ai franchi les degr\u00e9s.
\nMurs sacr\u00e9s ! saints autels ! je suis seul, et mon ame
\nPeut verser devant vous ses douleurs et sa flamme,
\nEt confier au ciel des accents ignor\u00e9s,
\nQue lui seul conna\u00eetra, que vous seuls entendrez.<\/p>\n
Mais quoi ! de ces autels j\u2019ose approcher sans crainte !
\nJ\u2019ose apporter, grand Dieu, dans cette auguste enceinte
\nUn c\u0153ur encor br\u00fblant de douleur et d\u2019amour !
\nEt je ne tremble pas que ta majest\u00e9 sainte
\nNe venge le respect qu\u2019on doit \u00e0 son s\u00e9jour !
\nNon : je ne rougis plus du feu qui me consume :
\nL\u2019amour est innocent quand la vertu l\u2019allume.
\nAussi pur que l\u2019objet \u00e0 qui je l\u2019ai jur\u00e9,
\nLe mien br\u00fble mon c\u0153ur, mais c\u2019est d\u2019un feu sacr\u00e9 ;
\nLa constance l\u2019honore et le malheur l\u2019\u00e9pure.
\nJe l\u2019ai dit \u00e0 la terre, \u00e0 toute la nature ;
\nDevant tes saints autels je l\u2019ai dit sans effroi :
\nJ\u2019oserais, Dieu puissant, la nommer devant toi.
\nOui, malgr\u00e9 la terreur que ton temple m\u2019inspire,
\nMa bouche a murmur\u00e9 tout bas le nom d\u2019Elvire ;
\nEt ce nom r\u00e9p\u00e9t\u00e9 de tombeaux en tombeaux,
\nComme l\u2019accent plaintif d\u2019une ombre qui soupire,
\nDe l\u2019enceinte fun\u00e8bre a troubl\u00e9 le repos.<\/p>\n
Adieu, froids monuments ! adieu, saintes demeures !
\nDeux fois l\u2019\u00e9cho nocturne a r\u00e9p\u00e9t\u00e9 les heures,
\nDepuis que devant vous mes larmes ont coul\u00e9 :
\nLe ciel a vu ces pleurs, et je sors consol\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Peut-\u00eatre au m\u00eame instant, sur un autre rivage,
\nElvire veille ainsi, seule avec mon image,
\nEt dans un temple obscur, les yeux baign\u00e9s de pleurs
\nVient aux autels d\u00e9serts confier ses douleurs.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"parent":0,"template":"","meta":{"inline_featured_image":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"default","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"default","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"set","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}}},"annee":[479],"poems-book":[476],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[483],"class_list":["post-10741","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-479","poems-book-meditations-poetiques","poete-alphonse-de-lamartine"],"yoast_head":"\n