De la defloration de Lede (Odes 3:20)

Time for one of Ronsard’s longer poems, I think! This is one of his mythological extravaganzas, and its topic is the ‘Defloration of Leda’ – it is dedicated to Cassandre(!)

Ronsard divides it into 3 ‘pauses’ or parts; and there are two alternative openings (the later 1587 one printed by Blanchemain in a footnote). For simplicity I’ve shown the two at the beginning of the poem. I’ve also added a number of ‘footnotes’, indicated in the text to make it easier to locate them.

Premier pause   Le cruel Amour, vainqueur De ma vie, sa sujette, M’a si bien écrit au cœur Votre nom de sa sagette, Que le temps, qui peut casser Le fer et la pierre dure, Ne le sauroit effacer Qu’en moi vivant il ne dure.   [alternative opening (1587) : Amour, dont le traict vainqueur Fait en mon sang sa retraite, M’a si bien escrit au cœur Le nom de ma Cassandrette, Que le tombeau mange-chair, Logis de la pourriture, Ne pourra point arracher De mon cœur sa pourtraiture.]   Mon luth, qui des bois oyans Souloit alléger les peines, Las ! de mes yeux larmoyans Ne tarit point les fontaines ; Et le soleil ne peut voir, Soit quand le jour il apporte, Ou quand il se couche au soir, Une autre douleur plus forte.   Mais vostre cœur obstiné, Et moins pitoyable encore Que l’Ocean mutine Qui baigne la rive more, Ne prend mon service à gré, Ains d’immoler envie Le mien, à luy consacré Des premiers ans de ma vie.   Jupiter, espoinçonné De telle amoureuse rage, A jadis abandonné Et son trône et son orage ; Car l’œil qui son cœur estraint, Comme estraints ores nous sommes Ce grand seigneur a contraint De tenter l’amour des hommes.   Impatient du desir Naissant de sa flame esprise, Se laissa d’amour saisir, Comme une despouille prise. Puis il a, bras, teste et flanc, Et sa poitrine cachée Sous un plumage plus blanc Que le laict sur la jonchée.   Et son col mit un carcan Avec une chaîne où l’œuvre Du laborieux Vulcan Admirable se descœuvre. D’or en estoient les cerceaux, Piolez d’émail ensemble. A l’arc qui note les eaux Ce bel ouvrage ressemble.   L’or sur la plume reluit D’une semblable lumiere Que le clair œil de la nuit Dessus la neige premiere. Il fend le chemin des cieux Par un voguer de ses ailes, Et d’un branle spatieux Tire ses rames nouvelles.   Comme l’aigle fond d’en haut, Ouvrant l’espais de la nue, Sur l’aspic qui leche au chaud Sa jeunesse revenue, Ainsi le cygne voloit Contre-bas, tant qu’il arrive Dessus l’estang où souloit Jouer Lede sur la rive.   Quand le ciel eut allumé Le beau jour par les campagnes, Elle au bord accoustumé Mena jouer ses compagnes ; Et, studieuse des fleurs En sa main un pannier porte Peint de diverse couleurs Et peint de diverse sorte.     Seconde pause   D’un bout du pannier s’ouvroit, Entre cent nues dorées, Une aurore qui couvroit Le ciel de fleurs colorées ; Ses cheveux vagoient errans, Souflez du vent des narines Des prochains chevaux tirans Le soleil des eaux marines.   Comme au ciel il fait son tour Par sa voye courbe et torte, Il tourne tout a l’entour De l’anse en semblable sorte. Les nerfs s’enflent aux chevaux Et leur puissance indontée Se lasse sous les travaux De la penible montée.   La mer est peinte plus bas, L’eau ride si bien sur elle, Qu’un pescheur ne nieroit pas Qu’elle ne fust naturelle. Ce soleil tombant au soir Dedans l’onde voisine entre A chef bas se laissant cheoir Jusqu’au fond de ce grand ventre.   Sur le sourci d’un rocher Un pasteur le loup regarde, Qui se haste d’approcher, Du couard peuple qu’il garde ; Mais de cela ne luy chaut, Tant un limas luy agrée, Qui lentement monte au haut D’un lis au bas de la prée.   Un satyre tout follet, Larron, en folastrant tire La panetiere et le laict D’un autre follet satyre. L’un court après tout ireux, L’autre defend sa despouille, Le laict se verse sur eux, Qui sein et menton leur souille.   Deux beliers qui se heurtoient Le haut de leurs testes dures Pourtraits aux deux bords estoient Pour la fin de ses peintures. Tel pannier en ses mains mist Lede, qui sa troupe excelle, Le jour qu’un oiseau la fist Femme en lieu d’une pucelle.   L’une arrache d’un doigt blanc Du beau Narcisse les larmes, Et la lettre teinte au sang Du Grec marry pour les armes. De crainte l’œillet vermeil Pallist entre ces pillardes, Et la fleur que toy, Soleil, Des cieux encor tu regardes.   A l’envi sont jà cueillis Les verds tresors de la plaine, Les bassinets et les lis, La rose et la marjolaine, Quand la vierge dit ainsi, De son destin ignorante : « De tant de fleurs que voicy Laissons la proye odorante.   « Allons, troupeau bien-heureux, Que j’aime d’amour naïve, Ouyr l’oiseau douloureux Qui se plaint sur nostre rive. » Et elle, en hastant le pas, Fuit par l’herbe d’un pied vite ; Sa troupe ne la suit pas, Tant sa carriere est subite ;   Du bord luy tendit la main, Et l’oiseau, qui tressaut d’aise, S’en approche tout humain, Et le blanc yvoire baise. Ores l’adultere oiseau, Au bord par les fleurs se joue, Et ores au haut de l’eau Tout mignard près d’elle noue.   Puis, d’une gaye façon, Courbe au dos l’une et l’autre aile, Et au bruit de sa chanson Il apprivoise la belle. La nicette en son giron Reçoit les flammes secrettes, Faisant tout à l’environ Du cygne un lict de fleurettes.   Luy, qui fut si gracieux, Voyant son heure opportune, Devint plus audacieux, Prenant au poil la fortune. De son col comme ondes long Le sein de la vierge touche, Et son bec luy mit adonc Dedans sa vermeille bouche.   Il va ses ergots dressant Sur les bras d’elle qu’il serre, Et de son ventre pressant Contraint la rebelle à terre. Sous l’oiseau se debat fort, Le pince et le mord, si est-ce Qu’au milieu de tel effort Ell’ sent ravir sa jeunesse.   Le cinabre çà et là Couloura la vergongneuse. A la fin elle parla D’une bouche desdaigneuse : « D’où es-tu, trompeur volant ? D’où viens-tu, qui as l’audace D’aller ainsi violant Les filles de noble race ?    « Je cuidois ton cœur, helas ! Semblable à l’habit qu’il porte, Mais (hè pauvrette ! ) tu l’as, A mon dam, d’une autre sorte. O ciel ! qui mes cris entens, Morte puissé-je estre enclose Là bas, puis que mon printemps Est despouillé de sa rose !   « Plustost vien pour me manger, O veufve tigre affamèe, Que d’un oiseau estranger Je sois la femme nommée. » Ses membres tombent peu forts, Et dedans la mort voisine Ses yeux jà nouoient, alors Que luy respondit le cygne :   Troisiesme pause   « Vierge, dit-il, je ne suis Ce qu’à me voir il te semble ; Plus grande chose je puis Qu’un cygne à qui je ressemble : Je suis le maistre des cieux, Je suis celuy qui desserre Le tonnerre audacieux Sur les durs flancs de la terre.   « La contraignante douleur Du tien, plus chaud, qui m’allume, M’a fait prendre la couleur De ceste non mienne plume. Ne te va donc obstinant Contre l’heur de ta fortune : Tu seras incontinant La belle-sœur de Neptune,   « Et si tu pondras deux œufs De ma semence feconde, Ainçois deux triomphes neufs, Futurs ornemens du monde. L’un deux jumeaux esclorra : Pollux, vaillant à l’escrime, Et son frere, qu’on loûra Pour des chevaliers le prime ;   « Dedans l’autre germera La beauté, au ciel choisie, Pour qui un jour s’armera L’Europe contre l’Asie. » A ces mots, elle consent, Recevant telle avanture, Et jà de peu à peu sent Haute eslever sa ceinture.

Cruel Love, conqueror Of my life, his subject, Has written so well in my heart Your name with his arrow That time, which can break Iron and hard stone, Could not wipe it away Such that it will not last in me while alive.     Love, whose conquering dart Has made its home in my blood, Has so well written in my heart The name of my little Cassandre That the flesh-eating tomb, Where decay lives, Could not take any part From my heart of her portrait.   My lute, which is accustomed To lessening the woes of the listening woods, Alas, dries not the fountains Of my weeping eyes; And the sun cannot see, Either when he brings the day Or when he goes to bed at night, Any other grief more strong.   But your stubborn heart, Less pitiful still Than the unruly ocean Which bathes the Moorish coast, Does not like my service, But wants to sacrifice My own, consecrated to it From the earliest years of my life.   Jupiter, excited By a similar passionate love, Once abandoned His throne and his storm; For his eye, which compelled his heart As sometimes our hearts are compelled, Compelled this great lord To try a human love.   Impatient with the desire Growing from his love-struck flame, He gave himself over to love Like the captured spoils of war. Then his arms, head and flanks And his breast he head Beneath a plumage whiter Than milk on scattered rushes.   And his neck wore a collar With a chain, on which the work Of hard-working Vulcan Could be seen and admired. The hoops were of gold Together with enamel of many colours. The bow which the waters draw This lovely piece of work resembled.   Gold shone out on his feathers With a light like The bright eye of the night On a first snow. He cleaved his path through the heavens With the sail of his wings, And with a measured beat He pulled his new oarage.   As the eagle swoops from on high, Making an opening in the thick clouds, Upon the asp which, in the heat, licks Its recovered youthfulness;1 So the swan flew Down here to arrive Upon the pool where Leda Was accustomed to play on the bank.   When fair day had lit The sky over the fields, She led her companions to play On the usual bank And fascinated by flowers She bore in her hand a basket Painted in many colours And painted many ways.         On one end of the basket was shown2 Amidst a hundred golden clouds A Dawn which covered The sky with colourful flowers; Her waving hair flying, Blown by the breath from the nostrils Of the nearby horses drawing The sun from the waters of the sea.3   As it makes its journey in the heavens On its curved, twisting route, It turns entirely around The handle [of the basket] in a similar way; The sinews on the horses swell And their undaunted power Tires under the labours Of the arduous climb.   The sea is painted below, The water ripples so well on it That a fisherman would not deny That it was natural; And the sun sinking at evening Into the waves beside, goes in With head lowered, letting itself fall Right to the bottom of its great belly.   On the brow of a rock A shepherd watches a wolf Which hastens to get near The cowardly race which he guards; But he cares not about that So much he is amused by a snail That slowly climbs to the top Of a lily, at the bottom of the meadow.   A frolicking satyr, A thief, as he frolics steals A basket and milk From another frolicking satyr; The one runs after him, utterly livid, The other defends his spoils, The milk gets tipped over them And soils their breasts and chins.   Two rams crashing together The tops of their hard heads Shown at the two edges were The last of its pictures. Such was the basket which Leda took In her hands, she who outshines her followers, On the day when a bird would make her A woman instead of a maid.   One [of the ladies] picked with her white fingers The tears of fair Narcissus, And the letters painted by the blood Of the Greek distraught over the armour. 4 In fear the pink carnation Pales amidst these looters, And so too the flower which you, o Sun, Still watch over from the heavens.   As competitively they were picking The green treasures of the plain, The buttercup and lily, The rose and marjoram, The maid spoke thus, Ignorant of her fate: “Leave your perfumed prey, The flowers that are so many here.   Come, my happy band Whom I love with an artless love, Come and hear the sad bird Who laments upon our riverbank.” And she, hurrying her steps, Ran through the grass with quick feet; Her band did not follow, So sudden was her flight.   On the bank, she held out her hand to it And the bird, which was fidgeting with pleasure, Approached her, entirely like a man, And kissed her white ivory. Sometimes the false bird 5 Played on the bank amidst the flowers, Sometimes on top of the water It swam, all daintily, near her.   Then in a jolly fashion It curved both wings over its back, And with the sound of its singing It tamed the fair maid. The silly girl felt His hidden fire in her lap, Making all around The swan little flowers of light.   He, from being so gracious, As he saw his opportune moment Became more daring, Going with fortune’s flow. With long waves of his neck He touched the maid’s breast And then placed his beak Within her crimson mouth.   Putting his spurs upon The arms of her he grasped, And pressing down with his belly, He forced her, unwilling, to the ground. Beneath the swan she fought hard, Pinching and biting him, yet it was That in the midst of her efforts She felt her youth stolen away.   Cinnabar here and there Coloured the shamed lass. In the end she spoke In a disdainful voice: “Where are you from, you flying deceiver? Where do you come from, who dare To go around thus raping Girls of noble race?   I thought your heart, alas, Was like the colours you wear, But – poor me! – you have one Of another sort, to my destruction. O heavens, who hear my cries, I would rather be dead and shut up Down below, since my springtime Has been stripped of its rose!   Rather come and eat me, Some hungry widowed tigress, Than that I should be called the wife Of some unknown bird.” Her limbs fell strengthless And her eyes were already swimming In death, her neighbout, when The swan replied thus to her:       “Maiden,” he said, “I am not What I seem to you as you see me; Greater things can I do Than the swan I appear; I am the master of the heavens, I am he who looses The insolent thunderbolts Upon the hard flanks of the earth.   A painful compulsion For your warmer [colour], which excites me, Made me take on the colour Of these feathers which are not mine. So do not go on complaining About the misfortune of your fate; You will forthwith be Neptune’s sister-in-law,   And so you will lay two eggs From my fruitful seed, And with them two new triumphs, Future ornaments of the world. One will disclose two twins: Pollux, valiant in the swordfight, And his brother who will be praised As the finest of horsemen;   Within the other will grow The beauty, chosen for heaven, For whom one day Europe Will take arms against Asia.” At these words, she accepted, Gaining such an outcome, And then little by little felt Her belt rising higher.

 

 Footnotes:

 ¹ i.e. its new skin after shedding the old² the description of what is painted on the basket, which fills the remainder of the poem, is a gentle parody of the descriptions of heroes’ shields in Homer and Virgil.

³ i.e. the sun’s chariot, pulled by fiery horses, rising from the sea at dawn

⁴ the narcissus grew from the tears of Narcissus; the ‘flower of Ajax’ [perhaps a fritillary (lily) or a larkspur] grew from the blood spilled at his suicide on failing to win the arms of Achilles, and the Greeks read its markings as the letters AI (= ‘ah, woe!’)

⁵ the French word means both ‘fake’ and ‘adulterous’; ‘false’ carries something of the same effect in English

 

 Those unfamiliar with the myth – which was a major source of inspiration to Renaissance artists – should glance at Wikipedia, or this indicative set of images! The reference in the last stanza is to Helen of Troy.