Hymn for King Henry III, King of France, for the Victory at Montcontour (Hymn 1:9)

For those who prefer poetry to music, here’s one of Ronsard’s hymns. Apparently the king liked this one so much he learned it by heart and would recite it regularly to his courtiers – or enjoy hearing others recite it!

Tel qu’un petit Aigle sort,    Fier et fort, Dessous l’aile de sa mere, Et d’ongles crochus et longs,    Aux Dragons Fait guerre sortant de l’aire :   Tel qu’un jeune Lyonneau    Tout nouveau Quittant caverne et bocage, Pour premier combat assaut    D’un cœur haut Quelque grand Taureau sauvage :   Tel aux desens de vos dos,    Huguenos Sentistes ce jeune Prince, Fils de Roy, frere de Roy,    Dont la Foy Merite une autre Province.   A peine sur son menton    Un cotton De soye se laisse espandre ; Jeune trompant le trompeur,    S’est sans peur Monstré digne d’Alexandre.   Il a guidant ses guerriers,    De Lauriers Orné son front et sa bande : Et Capitaine parfait,    Sa main fait Ce qu’aux autres il commande.   Il a tranché le lien    Gordien Pour nos bonnes destinées : Il a coupé le licol    Qui au col Nous pendoit des huit années.   Il a d’un glaive trenchant    Au mechant Coupé la force et l’audace, Il a des ennemis morts    Les grans corps Fait tomber dessus la place.   Ils ont esté combatus,     Abbatus, Terrassez dessus la poudre, Comme chesnes esbranchez,    Trebuchez Dessous l’esclat d’une foudre.   De sang gisent tous couverts    A l’envers, Tesmoins de sa main vaillante : Ilz ont esté foudroyez,    Poudroyez, Sur les bors de la Charante.   Charante qui prend son nom    D’Acheron, A tels esprits sert de guide, Les passant comme en bateau    Par son eau Au rivage Acherontide.   Ils sont trebuchez à bas,    Le repas Des mastins sans sepulture, Et sans honneur de tombeaux     Les corbeaux Mangent leur chair pour pasture.   Ny le tranchant coutelas,    Ny le bras, Ny force à la guerre adextre Ne sert de rien à la fin    Au plus Fin, Quand il se prend à son maistre.   Du fort pere vient l’enfant    Trionfant : Le cheval ensuit sa race, Le chien qui de bon sang part,    Va gaillard De luy-mesmes à la chasse.   Ainsi Pyrrhe Achillien    Du Troyen Coupa la guerre ancienne, Ruant en l’âge où tu es    Les feux Grecs Dedans la ville Troyenne.   Ainsi Prince valeureux,    Et heureux, Tu mets fin à nostre guerre, Qui depuis huit ans passez    Oppressez Nous tenoit les cœurs en serre.   Ce que les vieux n’avoyent sceu,    Tu l’as peu Parachever en une heure ; Aussi Prince de bon-heur,    Tout l’honneur Sans compagnon t’en demeure.   A Dieu grace nous rendons,    Et fendons L’air sous l’hynne de victoire, Poussant gaillars et joyeux    Jusqu’aux Cieux, Ton nom tes faits et ta gloire.   Et soit au premier resveil    Du Soleil, Soit qu’en la mer il s’abaisse, Tousjours nous chantons Henry    Favori De Mars et de la jeunesse.

As a little eagle comes out,    Bold and strong, From beneath its mother’s wing And with long, hooked talons    Makes war On dragons, coming from the air;   As a young lion,    New-grown, Quiting cave and woodland For its first fight attacks    With high courage Some great, savage bull;   So, to the cost of your hides,    Huguenots, You felt this young Prince: The son of a King, the brother of a King    Whose faithfulness Deserves another demesne.   Hardly on his chin    Had the silken Fluff begun to sprout; Young, deceiving the deceiver,    He fearlessly showed Himself worthy of Alexander.   Guiding his warriors, he has    With laurels Adorned his brow and his troop, And, the perfect captain,    His hand does What he commands others to do.   He cut the knot    Of Gordium To make our future good, He cut the halter    Which for eight years Has hung around our necks.   With his slicing blade he has    Cut off The strength and daring of the wicked, He has made the dead enemies’    Great corpses Fall upon the ground.   They were fought,    Beaten down, Crushed into the dust Like oaks lopped down,    Battered Under a bursting thunderbolt.   Covered in blood they all lie    Overturned, Witnesses to his valiant hand. They were crushed,    Turned to dust, On the banks of the Charente.   The Charente, which takes its name    From Acheron, Acted as guide to those spirits, Passing them, as if in boats,    Through its waters To the banks of Acheron.   They are catapulted down,    A meal For dogs, without burial And without the honour of tombs;    Crows Feast on their flesh.   Neither the slicing cutlass,    Nor an arm Or strength suited to war Offer any help in the end    To the finest When he takes himself to his master.   From a powerful father comes a son    Triumphant; The horse follows his breeding, The dog which comes from a good bloodline    Happily goes Off to the hunt by himself.   Thus Pyrrhus, son of Achilles,    Cut short The ancient war of the Trojan, Hurling down in the age in which you are    Those who once were Greek Within the city of Troy.   So, valorous and fortunate    Prince, You have made an end of our wars Which for the last eight years    Oppressed Us all, squeezing our hearts.   What the ancients could not do,    You have managed To complete in a single hour; So Prince of good fortune,    All the glory Rests with you and you alone.   To God we give thanks    And shatter The air with our victory song; Shouting gaily and joyously    To the heavens Your name, your deeds and your glory.   Whether at the first rising    Of the sun, Or when he sets in the sea, We continuously sing of Henry,    Favourite Of Mars and of our youth.

 

 Plenty of classical and other learning in here, so let’s add a few notes. 

 

Stanzas 3-4 reminds us that this was a period of considerable Catholic-Protestant tension. The Battle of Montcontour was in 1569, during the Third War of Religion, and was (as suggested in stanza 16) decisive. Sadly it did not end the strife; the famous St Bartholomew’s Day massacre took place three years later in 1572 (when Ronsard was in his late 40s). Henry, who was only 18 at the time of the battle, came to the throne in 1574.

 

In stanza 6, the reference to Gordium goes back to Alexander the Great cutting the Gordian knot – a symbol of future rule over Asia and of future victories, hence its appropriate use here. But the knot is also proverbially used as a symbol of insoluble problems; and any claim that Henry III resolved the Wars of Religion at Montcontour can only be considered optimistic…!

 

In stanzas 9-10 Ronsard makes the fanciful claim that the river Charente derives its name from Acheron, the river of Hades. It gives him a good image but seems unlikely. (Montcontour is in the Poitou-Charentes region.)

 

Pyrrhus (in stanza 14) is another name for Neoptolemus, the rather angry and aggressive son of Achilles who killed old men, boys & women (Priam, Astyanax & Polyxena) in the sack of Troy. I doubt Ronsard is suggesting Henry III is quite so savage or ruthless; the link is rather the decisiveness of the victories.

 

 

There are some minor variants in editions: Blanchemain’s opening stanza goes

 

      Tel qu’un petit Aigle sort,

         Fier et fort,

      De dessous l’aile à sa mere,

      Et d’ongles crochus et longs,

         Aux dragons

      Fait guerre sortant de l’aire

 

– the changed third line can be translated identically, or could mean the eagle comes out ‘from beneath the wing to its mother’.  Then stanzas 10-11 go:

 

      Charante qui prend son nom

         D’Acheron,

      Leur sert de port et de guide,

      Les passant comme en bateau

         Par son eau

      Au rivage Acherontide.

 

      Ils sont trebuchez à bas,

         Le repas

      Des mastins, sans sepulture,

      Et sans honneur de tombeaux ;

         Les corbeaux

      De leur chair font leur pasture.

 

 

(The Charente ‘acts as their port and guide’; and crows ‘make their feast on their flesh’).

 

 

 

 

Ode 4:30

Celuy qui n’ayme est malheureux, Et malheureux est l’amoureux ; Mais la misere la plus grande, C’est quand l’amant (après avoir En bien servant fait son devoir) Ne peut avoir ce qu’il demande.   La race en amours ne sert rien, Ne beauté, grace ne maintien ; Sans honneur la Muse gist morte ; Les amoureuses du jourd’huy, En se vendant, ayment celuy Qui le plus d’argent leur apporte.   Puisse mourir mechantement Qui l’or ayma premierement ! Par luy le frere n’est pas frere, Par luy le pere n’est pas père, Par luy la sœur n’est pas sœur, Et la mere n’est pas la mere.   Par luy la guerre et le discord, Par luy les glaives et la mort, Par luy viennent mille tristesses, Et, qui pis est, nous recevons La mort par luy, nous qui vivons Amoureux d’avares maistresses.

He who loves not is unfortunate, And unfortunate is he who loves: But the greater misery Is when the lover (after Making his bow, serving his lady well) Cannot have what he seeks.   In love, breeding is no use, Nor beauty, grace or bearing. Dishonoured, the muse lies dead; The lovers of today, Selling themselves, love him Who brings them most money.   May he die disagreeably Who loves gold first of all: Because of him, a brother is not a brother, Because of him, a father is not a father, Because of him, a sister is not a sister, And a mother not a mother.   Because of him come war and discord, Because of him, swords and death, Because of him, a thousand sad things, And what is worse we gain Death because of him, we who live In love with greedy mistresses.

 

I’ve just been reading about Ronsard’s re-invention of his gentrified background; and this poem seems entirely appropriate for today. Subtly, in the second stanza, he implies that he has breeding, as well as that he’s not in this for the money. But of course that’s just tucked away; the main thrust of the poem is against greedy mistresses, and greed more generally. As alway, Ronsatd manages to be sententious without being dull.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours diverses 23

Que me servent mes vers et les sons de ma Lyre,

Quand nuict et jour je change et de mœurs et de peau

Pour aimer sottement un visage si beau ?

Que l’homme est malheureux qui pour l’amour souspire ! 

 

Je pleure je me deuls je suis plein de martyre,

Je fay mille Sonnets, je me romps le cerveau,

Et ne suis point aimé : un amoureux nouveau

Gaigne tousjours ma place et je ne l’ose dire. 

 

Madame en toute ruse a l’esprit bien appris,

Qui tousjours cherche un autre apres qu’elle m’a pris.

Quand d’elle je bruslois, son feu devenoit moindre : 

 

Mais ores que je feins n’estre plus enflamé,

Elle brusle apres moy. Pour estre bien aimé,

Il faut aimer bien peu, beaucoup promettre et feindre.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            What use to me are my poems, and the sounds of my lyre,

                                                                            When night and day I keep changing what I do, and how I look,

                                                                            From loving foolishly a face so fair?

                                                                            How unhappy is the man who sighs for love!

 

                                                                            I weep, I grieve, I’m filled with suffering,

                                                                            I write a thousand sonnets, I rack my brains;

                                                                            And am not loved at all. A new lover

                                                                            Keeps taking my place, and I dare not speak to her.

 

                                                                            My Lady has a spirit well-taught in every trick,

                                                                            And she always looks for another after she has caught me.

                                                                            When I burned for her, her love became less;

 

                                                                            But now I pretend no longer to be afire

                                                                            She burns for me! To be properly loved

                                                                            You must love just a little, promise much, and pretend.

 

 

 Well, a thousand sonnets is a slight exaggeration, but not too much of one…! 🙂  I love the way Ronsard starts off with a typical ‘forlorn lover’ topos, and then switches it around in the last tercet, to end with a very cynical view of love.

 

Blanchemain’s version has a few variants: but most importantly, the earlier version doesn’t have this role-reversal ending!  As well as the lack of contrast between the two halves, this version also has the weakness that the first half ends with another lover; and then the second half basically repeats the thought process…  In this case, I think, a clear win for Ronsard the reviser.

 

Que me servent mes vers et les sons de ma lyre,

Quand nuict et jour je change et de mœurs et de peau

Pour aimer sottement un visage trop beau ?

Mal-heureux est celuy qui pour l’amour souspire ! 

 

Je pleure, je me deuls, je suis plein de martyre,

Je fais mille sonnets, je me romps le cerveau,

Et si je suis hay : un amoureux nouveau

Gaigne tousjours ma place, et je ne l’ose dire. 

 

Ma dame en toute ruse a l’esprit bien appris,

Qui me hait maintenant que d’elle suis espris,

O dure cruauté ! Avant que je l’aimasse, 

 

Elle n’aimoit que moy ; mais ores à mespris

Me met comme un esclave, et s’encourt à la chasse

Pour en reprendre un autre ainsi qu’elle m’a pris.

 

 

 

                                                                            What use to me are my poems, and the sounds of my lyre,

                                                                            When night and day I keep changing what I do, and how I look,

                                                                            From loving foolishly a face all too fair?

                                                                            Unhappy is he who sighs for love!

 

                                                                            I weep, I grieve, I’m filled with suffering,

                                                                            I write a thousand sonnets, I rack my brains;

                                                                            And yet I’m hated. A new lover

                                                                            Keeps taking my place, and I dare not speak to her.

 

                                                                            My Lady has a spirit well-taught in every trick,

                                                                            And she hates me now that I am in love with her.

                                                                            O harsh cruelty! Before I loved her,

 

                                                                            She loved only me, but now scornfully

                                                                            She treats me as a slave, and sets out on the hunt

                                                                            To capture another just as she caught me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

del Mel – Mignonne allons veoir si la rose

In 1598 Phalèse published a large collection of songs, the Rossignol Musical. There are several Ronsard settings among them, including this one.  Rinaldo del Mel (or del Melle) made his name in Italy, where he published many madrigals (including madrigal cycles) and motets. But he wasn’t Italian. Instead, he was one of a 150-year-long line of Franco-Flemish composers who had headed south to find work in the courts of Italy. Like others in the late 16th century, he took an Italian name: Orlando di Lasso, ‘the divine Orlando’, was really a Flamand called Roland de Lassus; and Rinaldo del Melle was originally René de Mel.

Title

Mignonne allons veoir si la rose

Composer

Rinaldo del Mel (1554-c1598)

Source

Le Rossignol Musical des Chansons de diverses et excellens autheurs de nostre temps, published by Phalèse 1597

(text on recmusic.org/lieder site here)
(blog entry here)
(recorded extract not available – this song doesn’t appear to have been recorded)

This setting is marked by several features not seen in the earlier French settings: not least that there are 5 voice-parts.  There’s frequent imitation (the repeated ‘Mignonne’ all the way through; the rhythm of ‘O vrayement marastre nature’ which repeats in all voices in part 2; the distinctive “Comme a ceste fleur” in part 3 where the dotted minim extends across the barline nearly every time, until everyone sings it all together homophonically; and the rhythmic figure which bounces around the choir in part 3 on ‘fera tenir’); and the runs  on ‘cueillez’ in the third part, and similar figures elsewhere – both imitative and melismatic at the same time! – are much more prevalent than in the French settings I’ve posted.

There are a few lapses in prosody (word setting) which strike me as odd from a Franco-Flemish composer:  there’s one place in the superius where ‘vray-e-ment’ with a short ‘e’ becomes ‘vray-ehhhhh-ment’ with a long middle syllable, for instance; and I wonder what Ronsard would have made of the way del Mel runs together the lines at “…laisse cheoir / O vrayement …” so that the line-break comes after the ‘O’ – “laisse cheoir O – – – vrayement”?! But these are minor niggles.

[Edit: there’s a fairly horrible clash between an F-A-C in the top three voices and a G in the bass at bottom of p3. No amount of ‘ficta’ (accidentals) will resolve that, so it’s either a misprint or deliberate. I’ve left it as printed, though you should probably lower the F to an E in the Contra part.]

Part 1

Part 2

part 3

My copy of the Rossignol musical came from the wonderful Gallica website; here are the relevant pages extracted from the 1598 second edition. You can see immediately how some parts (tenor and bassus in part 1 for instance) have less repetition – and so less words – than others.

superius contra tenor quinta bassus

Ode 3:13 – to Joachim du Bellay

Nous avons quelque fois grand faute Soit de biens, soit de faveur haute, Comme l’affaire nous conduit, Mais tousjours tandis que nous sommes Ou morts, ou mis au rang des hommes, Nous avons besoing de bon bruit.   Car la louange emmiellée Au sucre des Muses mellée Nous perçe l’aureille en riant Je di louange qui ne cede A l’or que Pactole possede Ny aux perles de l’Orient.   La vertu qui n’a cognoissance Combien la Muse a de puissance Languit en tenebreux sejour Et en vain elle est soupirante Que sa clarté n’est apparante Pour se monstrer au raiz du jour.   France sous Henry fleurist comme Sous August’ fleurist Romme, Elle n’est plaine seulement D’hommes qui animent le cuïvre, Ny de peintres qui en font vivre Deux ensamble eternellement ;   Mais grosse de sçavoir enfante Des filz dont el’ est triumphante, Qui son nom rendent honoré : L’un chantre d’amour la decore L’autre Mars, et l’autre encore, De Phoebus au beau crin doré.   Entre lesquelz le ciel ordonne Que le premier lieu l’on te donne, Si tu monstres au jour tes vers Entés dans le tronc d’une Olive, Qui hausse sa perrucque vive Jusque à l’esgal des lauriers vers.

We have sometimes a great lack Either of goods or of high favour, As matters lead us, But always while we are Either dead or placed among the ranks of men, We have need of good report.   For honeyed praise Mixed with the sugar of the Muses Pierces our ears amidst laughter;  I sing a praise which does not give place To the gold which Pactolus owns Nor to the pearls of the Orient.   Virtue, which takes no note How powerful is the Muse, Pines in a shadowy place And in vain it sighs That its brightness is not bright enough To show itself in the light of day.   France under Henry flourishes as Rome flourished under Augustus; It is not full only Of men who bring life to brass, Nor of painters who make the two of them Together live eternally;   But pregnant with knowledge it gives birth To sons in whom she is triumphant, Who make her name honoured; One ornaments her as a singer of love, Another of war, another still Of Phoebus with his fair golden hair.   Among these, heaven ordains That we give you the first place, If you show the daylight your verse Grafted on the trunk of an Olive, Which raises its living crown Up to level with the green laurels.

 

 Today, a lovely & beautifully-built ode to his friend du Bellay, praising his ‘Olive’ (the first book of sonnets in French). Along the way Ronsard manages to get in a brief but telling patriotic gesture of praise to Henri II’s France, another Rome in the golden age of Augustus. As each stanza moves us one step closer to the goal, in a very carefully-calculated but artful way, there is a definite sense of climax.

 

 

 

 

 

Odelette (Odes retranch. 74)

Tay-toy, babillarde arondelle,

Ou bien je plumeray ton aile,

Si je t’empoigne, et d’un cousteau

Je te couperay ta languette,

Qui matin san repos caquette,

Et m’estourdit tout le cerveau.

 

Je te preste ma cheminée

Pour chanter, toute la journée,

De soir, de nuict, quand tu voudras ;

Mais au matin ne me resveille

Et ne m’oste, quand je sommeille,

Ma Cassandre d’entre les bras

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Hush, you chattering swallow,

                                                                            Or else I’ll pluck your wings

                                                                            If I can catch you, and with a knife

                                                                            I’ll cut out your little tongue

                                                                            Which every morning without a break cackles

                                                                            And stuns my brain completely.

 

                                                                            I’ll lend you my chimney

                                                                            To sing all day long,

                                                                            At eve, at night, whenever you want;

                                                                            But in the morning, don’t wake me

                                                                            And don’t, while I’m asleep, take

                                                                            My Cassandre from my arms.

 

 

 

 Ronsard can be at his best in his shorter poems – charming, light, breezy, humorous. Here’s a winner!

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1:214

Je sens portraits dedans ma souvenance

Tes longs cheveux et ta bouche et tes yeux,

Ton doux regard, ton parler gracieux,

Ton doux maintien, ta douce contenance.

 

Un seul Janet honneur de nostre France,

De ses crayons ne les portrairoit mieux,

Que de l’Archer le trait ingenieux

M’a peint au cœur leur vive remembrance.

 

Dans le cœur donque au fond d’un diamant,

J’ay son portrait, que je suis plus aimant

Que mon cœur mesme. O vive portraiture !

 

De ce Janet l’artifice mourra :

Dedans mon cœur le tien me demourra,

Pour estre vif apres ma sepulture.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I see portrayed within my memory

                                                                            Your long hair, your lips, your eyes,

                                                                            Your sweet glance, your gracious way of speaking,

                                                                            Your sweet bearing, your sweet countenance.

 

                                                                            Only a Janet, the pride of our France,

                                                                            Could portray them better with his colours

                                                                            Than the Archer’s cunning blow

                                                                            Has painted their vivid remembrance in my heart.

 

                                                                            In my heart, then, in the depths of a diamond

                                                                            I have his picture, which I love more

                                                                            Than my heart itself. What a life-like portait!

 

                                                                            This Janet’s art will die;

                                                                            But within my heart yours will remain,

                                                                            Still living on after my death.

 

 

 A lovely poem with a faintly bizarre final couplet!  The only difference in the earlier version is in line 10, where Ronsard says to Cassandre “J’ay ton portrait” (‘I have your portrait’). For ‘Janet’ see here.

 

 

 

 

Le Chant des Sereines (Amours 2:67e)

“The Song of the Sirens” is based around the episode in the Odyssey (in book 12) when Odysseus – Ulysses to the Romans – sails past the Sirens’ island but, while his men are warned to stop up their ears so they cannot hear the alluring song, Odysseus has himself bound tightly to the mast and keeps his ears open…

 

Fameux Ulysse, honneur de tous les Grecs, De nostre bord approche toy plus pres, Ne single point sans prester les oreilles A noz chansons, et tu oirras merveilles.   Nul estranger de passer a soucy Par ceste mer sans aborder icy, Et sans contraindre un petit son voyage, Pour prendre port à nostre beau rivage : Puis tout joyeux les ondes va tranchant, Ravy d’esprit, tant doux est nostre chant, Ayant appris de nous cent mille choses, Que nous portons en l’estomach encloses.   Nous sçavons bien tout cela qui s’est fait, Quand Ilion par les Grecs fut desfait : Nous n’ignorons une si longue guerre, Ny tout cela qui se fait sur la terre. Doncques retiens ton voyage entrepris, Tu apprendras, tant sois-tu bien appris.   Ainsi disoit le chant de la Serene, Pour arrester Ulysse sur l’arene, Qui attaché au mast ne voulut pas Se laisser prendre à si friands apas : Mais en fuyant la voix voluptueuse, Hasta son cours sur l’onde tortueuse, Sans par l’oreille humer cette poison Qui des plus grands offense la raison.   Ainsi, Jamin, pour sauver ta jeunesse, Suy le conseil du fin soldat de Grece : N’aborde point au rivage d’Amour, Pour y vieillir sans espoir de retour. « L’Amour n’est rien qu’ardante frenesie, « Qui de fumee emplist la fantaisie « D’erreur, de vent et d’un songe importun : « Car le songer et l’Amour ce n’est qu’un.

Famous Ulysses, honour of all the Greeks, Approach now nearer our borders, Sail no more without lending your ears To our songs, and you will hear marvellous things.   No stranger cares to pass Over this sea without landing here, And without delaying his journey a little To seek port on our fair shores; Then most happy he leaves slicing through the waves, His spirit delighted, so sweet is our song, After learning from us a hundred thousand things Which we carry locked up in our breasts.   We know well all that happened When Troy was destroyed by the Greeks; We are not unaware of so long a war, Nor all that which is done on earth. So, defer the voyage you’ve undertaken, You will learn much, however learned you are.   So spoke the song of the Siren, To halt Ulysses on the sands, He who, attached to the mast, did not wish To allow himself such delightful attractions; But fleeing the voluptuous voice He hurried his journey on the winding seas, Without drinking in through his ears that poison Which assaults the reason of the greatest.   So, Jamin, to rescue your youth, Follow the counsel of the fine soldier of Greece; Do not land on the shores of Love, To grow old there without hope of return. “Love is nothing but burning madness, Which fills the imagination with smoke, Mistakes, empty wind and nagging dreams; For dreaming and Love are the same thing.”

 

 

Ronsard addresses the poem to Amadis Jamyn (last stanza). Amadis Jamyn was “an excellent poet who translated into [French] verse Homer’s Iliad and part of the Odyssey”, as a learned footnote tells us – thus giving us the reason why the subject is from the Odyssey.

 

Inevitably there are a few differences in Blanchemain’s version, but only a few:  the 6th line of the 2nd stanza becomes “S’en retournant ravy de nostre chant” (‘Looking back delighted with our song’); and in the 4th stanza, Odysseus is very vividly “garroté au mast” (less vividly, ‘bound tight to the mast’ – but obviously the literal meaning is ‘garroted’, tied around the throat so tightly he would choke), and he hurries away “sur l’onde poissonneuse” (‘over the fishy sea’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson – Amours 2:67d

Quand ce beau Printemps je voy,      J’apperçois Rajeunir la terre et l’onde Et me semble que le jour,      Et l’amour, Comme enfans naissent au monde.    Le jour qui plus beau se fait,      Nous refait Plus belle et verte la terre : Et Amour armé de traits      Et d’attraits, En nos cœurs nous fait la guerre.    Il respand de toutes parts      Feux et dards Et domte sous sa puissance Hommes Bestes et Oiseaux,      Et les eaux Luy rendent obeïssance.    Vénus avec son enfant      Triomphant Au haut de son Coche assise, Laisse ses cygnes voler      Parmy l’air Pour aller voir son Anchise.     Quelque part que ses beaux yeux      Par les cieux Tournent leurs lumieres belles, L’air qui se monstre serein,      Est tout plein D’amoureuses estincelles.    Puis en descendant à bas      Sous ses pas Naissent mille fleurs écloses : Les beaux liz et les œillets      Vermeillets Rougissent entre les roses.     Je sens en ce mois si beau      Le flambeau D’Amour qui m’eschauffe l’ame, Y voyant de tous costez      Les beautez Qu’il emprunte de ma Dame.    Quand je voy tant de couleurs      Et de fleurs Qui esmaillent un rivage, Je pense voir le beau teint      Qui est peint Si vermeil en son visage.    Quand je voy les grand rameaux      Des ormeaux Qui sont lassez de lierre, Je pense estre pris és laz      De ses bras, Et que mon col elle serre.     Quand j’entens la douce vois      Par les bois Du gay Rossignol qui chante, D’elle je pense jouyr      Et ouyr Sa douce voix qui m’enchante.    Quand je vois en quelque endroit      Un Pin droit, Ou quelque arbre qui s’esleve, Je me laisse decevoir,      Pensant voir Sa belle taille et sa gréve.    Quand je voy dans un jardin,      Au matin S’esclorre une fleur nouvelle, J’accompare le bouton      Au teton De son beau sein qui pommelle.    Quand le Soleil tout riant      D’orient Nous monstre sa blonde tresse, Il me semble que je voy      Davant moy Lever ma belle maistresse.    Quand je sens parmy les prez      Diaprez Les fleurs dont la terre est pleine, Lors je fais croire à mes sens      Que je sens   La douceur de son haleine.   Bref je fais comparaison      Par raison Du Printemps et de m’amie : Il donne aux fleurs la vigueur,      Et mon cœur D’elle prend vigueur et vie.    Je voudrois au bruit de l’eau      D’un ruisseau Desplier ses tresses blondes, Frizant en autant de nœus      Ses cheveux Que je verrois frizer d’ondes.    Je voudrois pour la tenir,      Devenir Dieu de ces forests desertes, La baisant autant de fois      Qu’en un bois Il y a de fueilles vertes.    Hà maistresse mon soucy,      Vien icy, Vien contempler la verdure : Les fleurs de mon amitié      Ont pitié, Et seule tu n’en as cure.    Au moins leve un peu tes yeux      Gracieux, Et voy ces deux colombelles, Qui font naturellement      Doucement L’amour du bec et des ailes :    Et nous sous ombre d’honneur,      Le bon heur Trahissons par une crainte : Les oiseaux sont plus heureux      Amoureux, Qui font l’amour sans contrainte.    Toutesfois ne perdons pas      Nos esbats Pour ces loix tant rigoureuses : Mais si tu m’en crois vivons,      Et suivons Les colombes amoureuses.   Pour effacer mon esmoy,      Baise moy, Rebaise moy ma Deesse : Ne laissons passer en vain      Si soudain Les ans de notre jeunesse.

When I see the fair Springtime I recognise Earth and sea renewing their youth And it seems to me that Day And Love Like children are born into the world.   Day which makes itself lovelier, Makes the earth again Lovelier and greener for us, And Love armed with charms And harms Makes war on us in our hearts.   He looses in all directions His fiery darts And overcomes with his power Men, beasts and birds, And even the waters Give him obedience.   Venus with her Triumphant son Sitting up high on her couch Sets her swans flying Through the air To go and see her Anchises.   Wherever her lovely eyes Around the heavens Turn their fair light, The air, remaining calm, Is filled With sparks of love.   Then coming down low Under her feet A thousand flowers blooming are born; Fair lilies and bright red Carnations Redden among the roses.   In this month so lovely, I feel The flame Of Love warming my soul, Seeing there on all sides The beauties Which it has borrowed from my Lady.   When I see so many colours And flowers Studding a riverbank, I imagine I see the fair colour Which paints Her complexion so pink.   When I see the great branches Of the elms Which are laced with ivy, I imagine being taken into the lakes Of her arms And her supporting my neck.   When I hear the soft voice Of the happy nightingale Singing in the woods, I imagine enjoying her And hearing Her soft voice which enchants me.   When I see in some place A tall pine Or some other tree growing tall I allow myself to be deceived And imagine I see Her lovely shape and size.   When I see in a garden In the morning A new flower opening, I compare its bud With the nipple Of her fair breast, swelling.   When the sun, smiling In the east, Shows us his golden tresses, I imagine I see Before me My fair mistress arising.   When I spy the meadows Dotted With the flowers which fill the earth, Ah then I make my senses believe That I feel The softness of her breath.   In short, I make the comparison, With good reason Of Springtime with my beloved; One gives the flowers their new strength, And my heart Takes from the other its strength and life.   I’d like, to the sound of the water Of some stream To untie her blonde tresses Curling her hair into So many knots That I’d see waves curling.   I’d like, so I could hold her, To become God of these empty forests, Kissing her as many times As there are Green leaves in a wood.   Ah, my mistress, my desire, Come here Come and consider the greensward; The flowers take pity On my love And only you care not.   At least lift your gracious eyes A little And see these two doves Who quite naturally And sweetly Make love with beak and wings.   And we, beneath the shade of honour Betray Our happiness through fear: The birds are luckier Lovers Who make love without constraint.   Still, let us not give up Our frolics For these too restrictive laws; But if you trust me, let’s live Let’s copy The amorous doves.   To sweep away my anguish Kiss me Kiss me again, my goddess! Don’t let them go by empty And quickly, These years of our youth!

 

 One of Ronsard’s most famous poems – and deservedly so.

 

We met Venus & Anchises recently; also Zephyr the warm west wind.

 

Perhaps surprisingly there are no many variants between versions; though he did remove stanzas here and there as he revised. So in Blanchemain’s version, after the 6th stanza (just before “Je sens en ce mois si beau”) there is an extra stanza:

 

Celuy vrayment est de fer

   Qu’eschaufer

Ne peut sa beauté divine,

Et en lieu d’humaine chair

   Un rocher

Porte au fond de la poitrine

 

 

                                                          He indeed is made of iron

                                                             Whom her divine

                                                          Beauty cannot set afire,

                                                          And in place of human flesh

                                                             A rock

                                                          He carries deep in his breast.

 

 

Then, 4 stanzas later, just before the tall pine:

 

Quand Zephyre meine un bruit

   Qui se suit

Au travers d’une ramée,

Des propos il me souvient

   Que me tient

Seule à seul ma bien aimée.

 

 

                                                          When Zephyr’s sound

                                                             Chases itself

                                                          Through the branches,

                                                          I recall her words

                                                             Which keep me

                                                          Alone with my beloved alone.

 

 

Additionally there are a few minor changes:  in the 3rd stanza Love looses “Feu et dards” (‘His fiery darts’) in the 2nd line; 3 stanzas later, beneath her feet “Croissent mille fleurs écloses” (‘Grow a thousand flowers blooming’); and just before Zephyr (above) he hears the soft voice “Du beau rossignol” (‘Of the fair nightingale’) in the woods.

 

Incidentally, I love the way (in the middle of the poem) he bends the word ‘tetin’ into ‘teton’ to rhyme with ’bouton’, and makes it sound like a form of endearment at the same time!

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 5.11

 

Sur toute fleurette déclose J’aime la senteur de la rose Et l’odeur de la belle fleur Qui de la premiere couleur Pare la terre, quand la glace Et l’hyver au soleil font place   Les autres boutons vermeillets, La giroflée et les œillets, Et le bel esmail qui varie L’honneur gemmé d’une prairie En mille lustres s’esclatant ; Ensemble ne me plaisent tant Que fait la rose pourperette, Et de Mars la blanche fleurette,   Que puis-je, pour le passetemps Que vous me donnez le printemps Prier pour vous deux autre chose, Sinon que toy, pourprine rose, Puisses toujours avoir le sein En mai de rosée tout plein, Et que jamais le chaut qui dure En juin ne te fasse laidure ?   Ny à toy, fleurette de mars, Jamais l’hyver, lorsque tu pars Hors de la terre, ne te face Pancher morte dessus la place ; Ains toujours, maugré la froideur Puisses-tu de ta soefve odeur Nous annoncer que l’an se vire Plus doux vers nous, et que Zephyre Après le tour du fascheux temps Nous ramene le beau printemps.

Above all the flowers that bloom I love the scent of the rose, And the perfume of the fair flower Which with its initial colour Adorns the earth when ice And winter take the sun’s place.   The other crimson buds, The wallflower, the carnation, The beautiful carpet which variously spreads The bejewelled glory of a meadow With a thousand glowing colours bursting out, Together do not please me as much As does the purple rose And the white flower of Mars.   How can I, for the pleasant times Which you give me in spring, Beg anything else for the two of you Unless that you, crimsoned rose, Might always be able to keep your breast All filled with pink in May ; And may the heat which lasts so long In June never make you ugly.   And for you, flower of Mars, In winter as you emerge From the earth may it never make you Wilt dead upon the ground; So may you always, despite the cold, Be able with your pleasing odour To announce to us that the year is veering More gently towards us, and that Zephyr [West wind] After the turn of the dreary weather Is bringing us back the fine springtime.

 

Once again a beautiful little lyric. And once again the elusive ‘flower of Mars’ appears!

 

Blanchemain offers us a variant of the third stanza’s second half (“Puisses tousjours…” onwards), from 1587:

 

 

Du teint de honte accompagné

Sois toujours en may rebaigné

De la rosée qui doux glisse,

Et jamais juin ne te fanisse ?

 

 

                                                              Accompanied by the tint of shame

                                                              Might always be re-bathed in May

                                                              With the rosy pink which softly slips away,

                                                              And that June might never fade you.