Lamartine Tree
to a flower pressed in my album
The Maasser Cedar Forest holds a unique distinction as the oldest cedar forest referenced in ancient literature. Within its hallowed grounds stand two remarkable trees.
First and foremost, there's the cedar tree that proudly graces the Lebanese flag, boasting an incredible age of over 3000 years. And then, there's the La Martine tree, a majestic sight that will truly take your breath away, leaving you with a profound understanding of why Mr. Alphonse de Lamartine held it in such high regard.
In the year 1833, Alphonse de Lamartine, a French poet with a deep appreciation for the Orient, found himself in Lebanon's lofty mountains. It was here that he fell under the enchanting spell of Lebanon's cedar trees. Amid these giants, he discovered a particular tree, one where he spent most of his time, quietly taking in the serenity of its shade.
“The Cedars know the history of the earth better than history itself.”
À une fleur séchée dans un album
Il m’en souvient, c’était aux plages
Où m’attire un ciel du midi,
Ciel sans souillure et sans orages,
Où j’aspirais sous les feuillages
Les parfums d’un air attiédi.
Une mer qu’aucun bord n’arrête
S’étendait bleue à l’horizon ;
L’oranger, cet arbre de fête,
Neigeait par moments sur ma tête ;
Des odeurs montaient du gazon.
Tu croissais près d’une colonne
D’un temple écrasé par le temps ;
Tu lui faisais une couronne,
Tu parais son tronc monotone
Avec tes chapiteaux flottants ;
Fleur qui décores la ruine
Sans un regard pour t’admirer !
Je cueillis ta blanche étamine,
Et j’emportai sur ma poitrine
Tes parfums pour les respirer.
Aujourd’hui, ciel, temple et rivage,
Tout a disparu,
sans retour :
Ton parfum est dans le nuage,
Et je trouve, en tournant la page,
La trace morte d’un beau jour !
— Alphonse de Lamartine
To a flower pressed in my album
I remember, it was at the beach
There, drawn by the afternoon sky,
A sky unstained, no tempest near,
I breathed beneath the verdant leaves,
The warm and perfumed air.
A sea unbounded by borders
That stretched out blue to the horizon;
The orange tree, full with its blossom
Dropping like snow to fall on my head;
Scent rising up from the turf.
You grew close to a column
Of a temple battered by time.
You set upon it a crown
That appeared on its unadorned face
With capitals seemingly floating.
Flowers decorated a ruin
With no thought for reward!
I plucked your white stem
Wore you there on my chest
In order to breathe your scent.
Today, sky, temple and shore
Have all disappeared,
no more to return:
Your perfume has risen into the clouds
And I find, upon turning the page,
The mortal remains of a beautiful day.
— Alphonse de Lamartine