Sonnet 18

Une beauté de quinze ans enfantine,

Un or frisé de meint crespe anelet,

Un front de rose, un teint damoiselet,

Un ris qui l’ame aux Astres achemine :

 

Une vertu de telle beauté digne,

Un col de neige, une gorge de lait,

Un coeur ja meur en un sein verdelet,

En Dame humaine une beauté divine :

 

Un oeil puissant de faire jours les nuis,

Une main douce à forcer les ennuis,

Qui tient ma vie en ses dois enfermée :

 

Avec un chant decoupé doucement,

Or’ d’un souris, or’ d’un gemissement :

De tels sorciers ma raison fut charmée.

 

 

 

                                                                       A childlike beauty just fifteen years old,

                                                                       The curled gold of so many ringlets

                                                                       A rosy brow, a maiden’s hue,

                                                                       A smile which carries my soul to the stars :

 

                                                                       A virtue worthy of such beauty

                                                                       A snowy neck, a milk-white throat,

                                                                       A heart already ripe in a youthful breast

                                                                       In a human Lady, a divine beauty :

 

                                                                       An eye with the power to make nights into days,

                                                                       A soft hand to drive off cares,

                                                                       Which holds my life enclosed in its fingers :

 

                                                                       With a song softly ending

                                                                       Now in a smile, now in a sigh :

                                                                       With such sorcery my reason has been charmed.

 

 

 

Ronsard leaves the mythology behind to return to his closely-observed naturalism. The phrasing is beautiful even if sometimes the adjectives are familiar.  Though this version is very little changed from earlier ones, his second thoughts are nonetheless valuable – the changes from the earlier version (below) definitely enhance the poem.

 

Two minor changes:  “graces” to “beauté” in line 5 (earlier version: “A virtue worthy of such graces/favours”), and “piller” to “forcer” (line 10 – “A soft hand to steal cares away”);  and a different first line, far weaker than the one he replaced it with later:

 

Un chaste feu qui en l’ame domine

                                                                        A chaste warmth/fire which rules my soul

 

 

 

Odes 1, 17 – to Cassandre

Probably Ronsard’s single most famous poem, known to many a Frenchman who knows nothing else of the poet.

 

 

Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu, ceste vesprée,
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vostre pareil.

 

Las ! voyez comme en peu d’espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las, las, ses beautez laissé cheoir !
O vrayment marastre Nature,
Puis qu’une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !

 

Donc, si vous me croyez mignonne,
Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse :
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir vostre beauté.

 

 

 

                                                                                                 My darling, let’s go and see if the rose,

                                                                                                 Which this morning had opened

                                                                                                 Its scarlet dress to the Sun,

                                                                                                 Has in any way lost, this evening,

                                                                                                 The folds of its scarlet dress

                                                                                                 And its hue, equal to your own.

 

                                                                                                 Alas!  see how in a little time,

                                                                                                 My darling, it has all round it,

                                                                                                 Alas, let its beauties fall !

                                                                                                 Nature, you are a  cruel stepmother

                                                                                                 If such a flower lasts

                                                                                                 From morning just till evening !

 

                                                                                                 So, if you believe me, my darling,

                                                                                                 While your years are blooming

                                                                                                 In their freshest newness,

                                                                                                 Harvest, oh harvest your youth :

                                                                                                 Just like this flower, old age

                                                                                                 Will tarnish your beauty.

 

 

You can read Tony Kline’s version in verse here.

 

 

 

 

À la Fontaine Bellerie (Odes 2, 9)

O Déesse Bellerie,                                                                  O goddess Bellerie [“of the lovely smile” perhaps]

Belle Déesse cherie                                                               Goddess fair and dear 

De nos Nimphes, dont la vois                                              Of our nymphs, whose voices

Sonne ta gloire hautaine                                                       Sound your glory on high

Accordante au son des bois,                                                In harmony with the sound of the woods

Voire au bruit de ta fontaine,                                                And of the murmur of your fountain too;

Et de mes vers que tu ois.                                                     Goddess also of my verse which you know.               

 

Tu es la Nimphe eternelle                                                     You are the eternal nymph

De ma terre paternelle,                                                          Of my homeland

Pource en ce pré verdelet                                                      And so in this verdant meadow              

Voi ton Poëte qui t’orne                                                          Look on your poet who honours you  

D’un petit chevreau de laict,                                                  With a small suckling kid                    

A qui l’une & l’autre corne                                                      With its two young horns                

Sortent du front nouvelet.                                                      Newly sprung from its forehead.                

 

Sus ton bord je me repose,                                                  I lie down on your banks

Et là oisif je compose                                                            And there idly compose,

Caché sous tes saules vers                                                 Hidden under your willows, some                                                    

Je ne sçai quoi, qui ta gloire                                                Sort of verse to announce

Envoira par l’univers,                                                            Your glory throughout the universe,

Commandant à la memoire                                                Lodging it in memory

Que tu vives par mes vers.                                                  So that you will always live through my verse.

 

L’ardeur de la Canicule                                                         The heat of the dog-days

Toi, ne tes rives ne brule,                                                      Burns neither you nor your banks

Tellement qu’en toutes pars                                                 Since in every part  

Ton ombre est epaisse & drue                                            You provide shade deep and dense      

Aus pasteurs venans des parcs,                                         For the shepherds coming from the fields,          

Aus beufs las de la charue,                                                 For the oxen freed from the plough,

Et au bestial epars.                                                                And for our scattered livestock.

 

Tu seras faites sans cesse                                                   You will unceasingly be called

Des fontaines la princesse,                                                  Princess of fountains

Moi çelebrant le conduit                                                       By me celebrating the spring

Du rocher persé, qui darde                                                  In the pierced rock, from which gush forth  

Avec un enroué bruit,                                                           With a hoarse sound

L’eau de ta source jazarde                                                  The chattering waters of your fount    

Qui trepillante se suit.                                                           Which splashing chase one another.

 

 

There is an earlier version of this ode too:  Ronsard made detailed changes most of the way through, so here is the whole poem in its earlier state:

 

 

O fontaine Bellerie,                                                                 O fountain Bellerie

Belle fontaine cherie                                                              Fountain fair and dear 

De nos Nimphes, quand ton eau                                        Of our nymphs, when your water

Les cache au creux de ta source,                                        Hides them in the hollow of your spring

Fuyantes le Satyreau,                                                            As they flee from the satyr

Qui les pourchasse à la course,                                          Who pursues them in the hunt

Jusqu’au bord de ton ruisseau                                            Right to the edge of your stream

 

Tu es la Nimphe eternelle                                                     You are the eternal nymph

De ma terre paternelle,                                                          Of my homeland

Pource en ce pré verdelet                                                     And so in this verdant meadow              

Voi ton Poëte qui t’orne                                                          Look on your poet who honours you  

D’un petit chevreau de laict,                                                  With a small suckling kid                    

A qui l’une & l’autre corne                                                      With its two young horns                

Sortent du front nouvelet.                                                      Newly sprung from its forehead.                

 

L’Été je dors ou repose,                                                         In summer I sleep or lie down

Sur ton herbe, où je compose                                             On your bank, where I compose,

Caché sous tes saules vers                                                 Hidden under your willows, some                                                    

Je ne sçai quoi, qui ta gloire                                                Sort of verse to announce

Envoira par l’univers,                                                            Your glory throughout the universe,

Commandant à la memoire                                                Lodging it in memory

Que tu vives par mes vers.                                                  So that you will always live through my verse.

 

L’ardeur de la Canicule                                                         The heat of the dog-days

Ton vert rivage ne brûle,                                                       Burns not your green banks

Tellement qu’en toutes pars                                                 Since in every part  

Ton ombre est epaisse & drue                                            You provide shade deep and dense      

Aus pasteurs venans des parcs,                                         For the shepherds coming from the fields,          

Aus beufs las de la charue,                                                 For the oxen freed from the plough,

Et au bestial epars.                                                                And for our scattered livestock.

 

Iô ! tu seras sans cesse                                                        Lo, you will be unendingly

Des fontaines la princesse,                                                 Princess of fountains

Moi çelebrant le conduit                                                       As I celebrate the spring

Du rocher persé, qui darde                                                 In the pierced rock, from which gush forth  

Avec un enroué bruit,                                                           With a hoarse sound

L’eau de ta source jazarde                                                  The chattering waters of your fount    

Qui trepillante se suit.                                                           Which splashing chase one another.

 

 

You can read Tony Kline’s verse translation of this second version here.

 

 

 

Pièces retranchées – Sonnet 4

Quand en songeant ma folastre j’acolle,

Laissant mes flancs sus les siens s’alonger,

Et que, d’un branle habilement leger

En sa moitié ma moitié je recole :

 

Amour adonc si follement m’affole,

Qu’un tel abus je ne voudroy changer,

Non au butin d’un rivage estranger,

Non au sablon qui jaunit en Pactole.

 

Mon Dieu, quel heur, et quel consentement,

M’a fait sentir ce faux recolement,

Changeant ma vie en cent metamorphoses !

 

Combien de fois, doucement agité,

Suis-je ore mort, ore resuscité,

Entre cent lis, et cent vermeilles roses ?

 

 

 

                                                                       Oh, how while dreaming I stick to my folly,

                                                                       Allowing my limbs to stretch alongside hers,

                                                                       And how, with an expert and gentle impulse

                                                                       To her half I re-join my half !

 

                                                                       Love has thus so bewildered and fooled me

                                                                       That I would not change such a deception,

                                                                       Not for the booty of some foreign shore,

                                                                       Not for all the sand which yellows the river Pactolus.

 

                                                                       My goodness, what hour and what assent

                                                                       Made me feel this false attachment,

                                                                       Changing my life a hundred different ways !

 

                                                                       How many times, sweetly troubled,

                                                                       Am I now dead, now revived,

                                                                       Between a hundred lilies and a hundred red roses !

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 17

Le Destin veut qu’en mon ame demeure

L’oeil, et la main, et le poil delié,

Qui m’ont si fort brulé, ferré, lié,

Qu’ars, prins, lassé, par eux faut que je meure.

 

Le feu, la prise, et le ret à toute heure,

Ardant, pressant, nouant mon amitié,

En m’immolant aux pieds de ma moitié,

Font par la mort, ma vie estre meilleure.

 

Oeil, main, et poil, qui bruslez et gennez,

Et enlacez mon coeur que vous tenez

Au labyrint de vostre crespe voye,

 

Que ne puis-je estre Ovide bien disant?

Oeil tu serois un bel Astre luisant,

Main un beau lis, poil un beau ret de soye.

 

 

 

                                                                       Fate wills that in my heart should live

                                                                       The eye and hand and unloosed hair

                                                                       Which have so fiercely burned, seized, bound,

                                                                       That – burned, caught, wearied by them – I must die.

 

                                                                       The fire, the capture, the net – all the time

                                                                       Scorching, crushing, tying up my love –

                                                                       Destroying me utterly by my other half

                                                                       Make my life, through death, be better ;

 

                                                                       Eye, hand and hair which burn and discomfort

                                                                       And entwine round my heart, which you hold

                                                                       In the labyrinth of your harsh glance.

 

                                                                       Oh, why can’t I be Ovid who wrote so well?

                                                                       Eye, you would be a fair star shining;

                                                                       Hand, a fair lily; hair, a net of fine silk.

 

 Continuing his Ovidian theme, this time Ronsard mentions Ovid explicitly. The ‘other half’ – that is, his lady love – who destroys him is a common topos of classical poetry.

 

By now Ronsard was clearly happy with his melding of classical references to his naturalistic poetry. Only a few minor changes occur in this poem. Line 1 in an (earlier) version is

 

 Par un destin dedans mon coeur demeure

 

                                                                       Through some fate, within my heart live…

 

And in line 7 he tried:

 

Occise aux pieds de ma fiére moitié

 

                                                                       Cut me down to the ground through my proud other half

 

 

 

Sonnet 16

Je veux pousser par la France ma peine,

Plustost qu’un trait ne vole au decocher :

Je veux de miel mes oreilles boucher,

Pour n’ouir plus la voix de ma Sereine.

 

Je veux muer mes deux yeux en fonteine,

Mon coeur en feu, ma teste en un rocher,

Mes piés en tronc, pour jamais n’approcher

De sa beauté si fierement humaine.

 

Je veux changer mes pensers en oiseaux,

Mes doux soupirs en Zephyres nouveaux,

Qui par le monde eventeront ma pleinte.

 

Je veux du teint de ma palle couleur,

Aux bords du Loir enfanter une fleur,

Qui de mon nom et de mon mal soit peinte.

 

 

 

                                                                       I want to publish throughout France my trouble,

                                                                       Quicker than an arrow flies from the bow :

                                                                       I want to plug my ears with honey

                                                                       So as no longer to hear the voice of my Siren.

 

                                                                       I want to change my two eyes into a fountain,

                                                                       My heart into fire, my head into a rock,

                                                                       My feet into a tree-stump, so as never to approach

                                                                       Her beauty, so proudly human.

 

                                                                       I want to change my thoughts into birds,

                                                                       My soft sighs into new Zephyrs [breezes],

                                                                       Which will expose my woes throughout the world.

 

                                                                       I want to birth a flower, with the hue

                                                                       Of my pale colour, on the banks of the Loire

                                                                       Which would be painted with my name and my ills.

 

 

Ronsard is thinking of Ovid this time, and offers a meditation on his Metamorphoses. Lines 3-4 recall Odysseus whose men plugged their ears with honey as they sailed past the ship-wrecking Sirens (Homer’s Odyssey book 12). The last tercet recalls Narcissus – or, better, Hyacinth who was changed on his death into a flower marked with the words ‘woe, woe’. (The Zephyrs in the previous line may also recall Hyacinth’s story, since it is Zephyr in one version who is responsible for his death.)

 

Ronsard made only minor changes here:  in the first line another version has “par l’univers” (through the whole universe) instead of just France(!); and there is a slightly clumsier version of line 3, improved on here.

 

 

 

Sonnet 15

Ha, qu’à bon droit les Charites d’Homere

Un faict soudain comparent au penser,

Qui parmi l’air peut de loin devancer

Le Chevalier qui tua la Chimere :

 

Si tost que luy une nef passagere

De mer en mer ne pourroit s’élancer,

Ny par les champs ne le sçauroit lasser,

Du faux et vray la prompte messagere.

 

Le vent Borée ignorant le repos,

Conceut le mien de nature dispos,

Qui dans le Ciel et par la mer encore

 

Et sur les champs animé de vigueur,

Comme un Zethés, s’envole apres mon cueur,

Qu’un Harpye en se jouant devore.

 

 

 

                                                                       Ah, how rightly the Graces of Homer

                                                                       Would compare a sudden deed to thought

                                                                       Which can far outrun through the air

                                                                       That Knight who killed the Chimaera :

 

                                                                       So quick, that a ship in its passage

                                                                       From sea to sea could not forge ahead of it

                                                                       Nor over land could the swift messenger

                                                                       Of truth and falsehood outrun it.

 

                                                                       The North Wind which never rests

                                                                       Conceived my [thoughts], by nature alert,

                                                                       Which in the heavens and by sea too

 

                                                                       And over land, vigorous and active

                                                                       Like Zetes, fly off after my heart

                                                                       Which a Harpy is playfully devouring.

 

 

Another of those complicated classical allusions which struggles to come to life. Homer does indeed compare swift deeds to the speed of thought; the Knight is Bellerophon whose flight on Pegasus to defeat the Chimaera is here recalled; the ‘swift messenger of truth and falsehood’ is Rumour, subject of a famous passge in Virgil’s Aeneid; Zetes is one of the sons of the North Wind; and the Harpies were the winged demons who came and stole all the food from Phineus’s table in the story of Jason and the Argonauts – – as featured in the Ray Harryhausen epic film !

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 14

Je vey tes yeux dessous telle planete,

Qu’autre plaisir ne me peut contenter,

Sinon tout seul en souspirant chanter,

Allege moy ma plaisante brunette.

 

O liberté combien je te regrette !

Combien le jour que je vey t’absenter,

pour me laisser sans espoir tourmenter

En l’esperance où si mal on me traite !

 

L’an est passé le vintuniesme jour

Du mois d’Avril, que je vins au sejour

De la prison où les Amours me pleurent :

 

Et si ne voy (tant les liens sont forts)

Un seul moyen pour me tirer dehors,

Si par la mort toutes mes morts ne meurent.

 

 

 

                                                                       I see your eyes beneath such a star

                                                                       That no other pleasure can content me,

                                                                       Unless to sing all alone while sighing

                                                                       “Relieve me, my charming brunette.”

 

                                                                       O freedom, how much I regret losing you !

                                                                       How much [I regret] the day when I saw you absent yourself,

                                                                       Thus leaving me tortured hopelessly

                                                                       In that hope in which I’m wounded so badly !

 

                                                                       The year had passed the twenty-first day

                                                                       Of April when I came to stay

                                                                       In that prison where Love grieves for me :

 

                                                                       And I do not see – so strong are its bonds –

                                                                       A single means of dragging myself outside it

                                                                       Unless by death all my deaths shall die.

 

 

Ronsard gets a little further into a rut – several poems in a row which are technically good but don’t really come to life.  Ronsard’s opening gesture here is borrowed from Petrarch. On the other hand, line 4 is a reference to a particularly ribald little song (guess what sort of relief he means…)  Perhaps lack of inspiration prevented him making more than minor changes – line 3 in another version is

 

Sinon le jour, sinon la nuit chanter

 

                                                                       Unless to sing both day and night

                                                                     

 

 

 

Sonnet 13

Pour aller trop tes beaux soleils aimant,

Non pour ravir leur divine etincelle,

Contre le roc de ta rigueur cruelle

Amour m’attache à mille clous d’aimant.

 

En lieu d‘un Aigle, un Soin cruellement

Souillant sa griffe en ma playe eternelle,

Ronge mon coeur, et si ce Dieu n’appelle

Madame, à fin d’adoucir mon tourment.

 

Mais de cent maux, et de cent que j’endure,

Fiché cloué dessus ta rigueur dure,

Le plus cruel me seroit le plus dous,

 

Si j’esperois apres un long espace

Venir à moy l’Hercule de ta grace,

Pour delacer le moindre de mes nouds.

 

 

 

                                                                       For daring to love your lovely suns [eyes] too much,

                                                                       Though not to steal their divine sparkle,

                                                                       Love has pinned me with the thousand nails of a lover

                                                                       Against the rock of your cruel harshness.

 

                                                                       In place of an Eagle, Care cruelly

                                                                       Soiling his talons in my eternal wound

                                                                       Gnaws at my heart, and yet this God does not summon

                                                                       My lady so as to soften my torment.

 

                                                                       But of a hundred ills and a hundred more which I endure,

                                                                       Stuck, nailed to your severe harshness,

                                                                       The cruellest will be for me the sweetest,

 

                                                                       If I can hope that, after a long interval,

                                                                       The Hercules of your grace will come to me

                                                                       To untie the least of my bonds.

 

 

The sonnet parallels Ronsard’s fate as lover with that of Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods and was pinned to a rock, his liver torn daily by an eagle as punishment.  According to legend, Hercules came and killed the eagle.

 

This is a bit contrived, and so it won’t be a surprise that Ronsard wasn’t satisfied with the result. Another version of his work-in-progress, in the first octet:

 

 

Pour estre en vain tes beaux soleils aimant,

Non pour ravir leur divine etincelle,

Contre le roc de ta rigueur cruelle

Amour m’attache à mille clous d’aimant.

 

En lieu d‘un Aigle, un Soin horriblement

Claquant du bec at tresmoussant de l’aisle,

Ronge, goulu, ma poitrine immortelle

Par un desir qui naist journellement.

 

 

 

                                                                       For being a lover in vain of your lovely suns [eyes],

                                                                       Though not to steal their divine sparkle,

                                                                       Love has pinned me with the thousand nails of a lover

                                                                       Against the rock of your cruel harshness.

 

                                                                       In place of an Eagle, Care cruelly

                                                                       Snapping his beak and flapping his wings

                                                                       Gnaws, the glutton, at my immortal heart

                                                                       Through a desire which is re-born daily.

 

 

 

Sonnet 12

J’espère et crain, je me tais et supplie,

Or’ je suis glace et ores un feu chaud,

J’admire tout et de rien ne me chaut,

Je me delace et mon col je relie.

 

Rien ne me plaist sinon ce qui m’ennuie :

Je suis vaillant et le coeur me défaut,

J’ay l’espoir bas j’ay le courage haut,

Je doute Amour et si je le desfie.

 

Plus je me picque, et plus je suis retif,

J’aime estre libre, et veux estre captif,

Tout je desire, et si n’ay qu’une envie.

 

Un Promethée en passions je suis.

J’ose, je veux, je m’efforce, et ne puis

Tant d’un fil noir la Parque ourdit ma vie.

 

 

                                                                       I hope and fear, I’m silent, I beg;

                                                                       Now I’m like ice, now like hot fire;

                                                                       I’m amazed at everything, and care for nothing;

                                                                       I relax, and then tense my neck again.

 

                                                                       Nothing pleases me, except what bores me;

                                                                       I’m courageous and my heart fails me;

                                                                       I have no hope, I have high hopes;

                                                                       I doubt Love, and even so I defy him.

 

                                                                       The more I’m goaded, the more stubborn I get;

                                                                       I love to be free, and want to be imprisoned;

                                                                       I want everything, and yet have only one wish.

 

                                                                       I’m like a Prometheus in my suffering,

                                                                       I dare, I wish, I make great efforts but achieve nothing,

                                                                       In such a way does Fate with her black thread order my life.

 

 

 

 In Greek myth, Prometheus had his body torn every day by an eagle, and every night his wounds healed. Fate (or the Fates) measured out everyone’s life with their thread, and when they cut the thread, you died.

 

 It won’t surprise you that a variant of the last 6 lines was also offered by Ronsard. Here it is:

 

 

Plus je me picque, et plus je suis retif.

J’aime etre libre. et veux etre captif.

Cent fois je meurs, cent fois je prend naissance.

 

Un Promethée en passions je suis.

Et pour aimer pendant toute puissance

Crier mercy seulement je ne puis.

 

 

                                                                       The more I’m goaded, the more stubborn I get;

                                                                       I love to be free, and want to be imprisoned;

                                                                       I die again and again, again and again I’m reborn.

 

                                                                       I’m like a Prometheus in my suffering

                                                                       And, to love through every trial,

                                                                       Just cannot cry ‘enough’.