Odes 1:2

I mentioned this poem and its focus on “the King first, last and in the  middle” …

AU ROY HENRY II DE CE NOM   Strophe I   Comme un qui prend une coupe, Seul honneur de son tresor, Et de rang verse à la troupe, Du vin qui rit dedans l’or : Ainsi, versant la rosée Dont ma langue est arrousée Sus la race des Valois, En son doux nectar j’abbreuve, Le plus grand roy qui se treuve Soit en armes ou en lois.   Antistrophe I   Heureux l’honneur que j’embrasse, Heureux qui se peut vanter De voir la thebaine grace Qui sa vertu veut chanter. Je vien chanter la tienne Sur la corde dorienne, Et pour estre désormais Celui qui de tes victoires Ne souffrira que les gloires En l’oubly tombent jamais.   Epode I   De ce beau trait decoché, Dy, Muse mon esperance, Quel prince sera touché Le tirant parmy la France ? Sera-ce pas nostre Roy, De qui la divine aureille Boira la douce merveille Qui n’obeit qu’à ma loy ?   Strophe II   De Jupiter les antiques Leurs escrits embellissoient, Par luy leurs chants poëtiques Commençoient et finissoient, Réjouy d’entendre bruire Ses louanges sur la lyre ; Mais Henry sera le Dieu Qui commencera mon metre, Et que seul j’ay voué mettre A la fin et au milieu.   Antistrophe II   Le ciel, qui ses lampes darde Sur ce tout qu’il apperçoit, Rien de si grand ne regarde Qui vassal des roys ne soit. D’armes le monde ils estonnent, Sur le chef de ceux ils tonnent Qui les viennent despiter ; Leurs mains toute chose attaignent, Et les plus rebelles craignent Les Roys fils de Jupiter.   Epode II   Mais du nostre la grandeur Les autres d’autant surpasse Que d’un rocher la hauteur Les flancs d’une rive basse. Puisse-t-il par l’univers Devant ses ennemis croistre, Et pour ma guide apparoistre Tousjours au front de mes vers !

Strophe 1   As one who takes a cup Sole pride of his treasure And in turn pours out for his followers Wine which laughs within the gold; So, pouring out the dew With which my tongue is bedewed Upon the race of Valois, In its sweet nectar I salute The greatest king there is, Both in war and in lawgiving.   Antistrophe I   Happy the honour I embrace, Happy he who can boast Of seeing the grace of Thebes, Who can sing of its virtue. I come to sing your own On the Dorian string, And to be henceforth He who will not allow The glory of your victories To fall ever into oblivion.   Epode I   By this fair arrow shot, Say Muse, my hope, Which prince will be hit As I aim throughout France? Won’t it be our King, Whose god-like ear Shall drink in this sweet marvel Which obeys only my law?   Strophe II   With Jupiter the ancients Embellished their writings, With him their poetic songs Began and finished, Overjoyed to hear sounded His praises on the lyre; But Henry shall be the god for us Who shall be the beginning of my poems, And whom alone I have vowed to place At the end and in the middle.   Antistrophe II   Heaven, which darts its light Upon this cosmos which it sees, Considers none so grand Who is not vassal of kings. With arms they amaze the world, They thunder on the head of those Who come to vex them; Their hands attain all things, And the most rebellious fear Kings, the sons of Jupiter.   Epode II   But the grandeur of our own [King] As far surpasses the others As the height of a rock [Overtops] the banks of a deep river. May he increase throughout the world Before his enemies And appear as my guide Always at the fore of my verse!

 

 

This poem has turned up in the musical settings: it seems to have been a popular text, perhaps as much because of its connections with drinking as for its praise of the Valois kings. Blanchemain notes that it is “a direct imitation of Pindar’s 7th Olympic ode”: this begins

 

As when someone takes a goblet, all golden, the most prized of his possessions, foaming with the dew of the vine from a generous hand, and makes a gift of it to his young son-in-law, welcoming him with a toast from one home to another …

 

After this point, as you might gather, Ronsard and Pindar diverge more and more.

 

In the first antistrophe, the ‘grace of Thebes’ (that is, he who graces Thebes) is Orpheus; the ‘Dorian string’ simply a reference to Greek music, though note that there was a ‘Dorian’ mode still in musical discourse.

 

In line 2 of the second antistrophe, I’ve translated “ce tout” (‘this whole’ ) as ‘cosmos’ – the ‘whole’ being the universe; that of course also means ‘everything’, though the Greek Greek ‘cosmos’ (that which is organised) has a similar meaning and, like Ronsard’s ‘whole’, is a less obvious word.

 

 

 

 

Odes 1.3

Today one of Ronsard’s early Odes, very formally structured in the classical style with strophes & antistrophes repeating a metrical scheme, and then epodes acting as a ‘refrain’ structure in between pairs of these.

A LA ROYNE   Strophe 1   Je suis troublé de fureur, Le poil me dresse d’horreur, D’un effroy mon ame est pleine, Mon estomac est pantois, Et par son canal ma vois Ne se desgorge qu’à peine. Une deité m’emmeine ; Fuyez, peuple, qu’on me laisse, Voicy venir la deesse ; Fuyez, peuple, je la voy. Heureux ceux qu’elle regarde, Et plus heureux qui la garde Dans l’estomac comme moy !   Antistrophe 1   Elle, esprise de mes chants, Loin me guide par les champs Où jadis sur le rivage Apollon Florence aima, Lorsque jeune elle s’arma Pour combattre un loup sauvage. L’art de filer ny l’ouvrage Ne plurent à la pucelle, Ny le lit mignard ; mais elle, Devant le jour s’éveillant, Cherchoit des loups le repaire, Pour les bœufs d’Arne son père Sans repos se travaillant.   Epode 1   Ce Dieu, qui du ciel la vit Si valeureuse et si belle, Pour sa femme la ravit, Et surnomma du nom d’elle La ville qui te fit naistre, Laquelle se vante d’estre Mere de nostre Junon, Et qui par les gens étranges Pour ses plus grandes louanges Ne celebre que ton nom.   Strophe 2   Là les faits de tes ayeux Vont flamboyant comme aux cieux Flamboye l’aurore claire ; Là l’honneur de ton Julien Dans le ciel italien Comme une planette esclaire. Par luy le gros populaire Pratiqua l’experience De la meilleure science, Et là reluisent aussi Tes deux grands papes, qui ores Du ciel, où ils sont encores, Te favorisent icy.   Antistrophe 2   On ne compte les moissons De l’esté, ni des glaçons Qui, l’hiver, tiennent la trace Des eaux roides à glisser : Ainsi je ne puis penser Les louanges de ta race. Le Ciel t’a peint en la face Je ne sçay quoy qui nous monstre, Dès la premiere rencontre, Que tu passes par grand-heur Les princesses de nostre âge, Soit en force de courage, Soit en royale grandeur.   Epode 2   Le comble de ton sçavoir Et de tes vertus ensemble Dit que l’on ne peut icy voir Rien que toy qui te resemble. Quelle dame a la pratique De tant de mathematique ? Quelle princesse entend mieux Du grand monde la peinture, Les chemins de la nature Et la musique des cieux ?   Strophe 3   Ton nom, que mon vers dira, Tout le monde remplira De ta loüange notoire : Un tas qui chantent de toy Ne sçavent si bien que moy Comme il faut sonner ta gloire. Jupiter, ayant mémoire D’une vieille destinée Autrefois determinée Par l’oracle de Themis, A commandé que Florence Dessous les loix de la France Se courbe le chef soumis.   Antistrophe 3   Mais il veut que ton enfant En ait honneur triomphant, D’autant qu’il est tout ensemble Italien et François, Qui de front, d’yeux et de vois, A père et mere resemble. Déjà tout colere il semble Que sa main tente les armes, Et qu’au milieu des alarmes Jà desdaigne les dangers ; Et, servant aux siens de guide, Vainqueur, attache une bride Aux royaumes estrangers.   Epode 3   Le Ciel, qui nous l’a donné Pour estre nostre lumiere, Son empire n’a borné D’un mont ou d’une riviere. Le destin veut qu’il enserre Dans sa main toute la terre, Seul roy se faisant nommer, D’où Phébus les Indes laisse, Et d’où son char il abbaisse Tout panché dedans la mer.

To the Queen       I am assailed by madness, My hair stands up with horror, Panic fills my soul, My heart is stunned, And my voice can barely Pass through my throat. A deity has seized me. Run, people, please leave me, See, here comes the goddess ! Run, people, I see her ! Fortunate the men on whom she looks, More fortunate the man who keeps her In his heart, like me !       In love with my songs, she Guides me far among the fields Where once on the riverbank Apollo loved Florence, When the young [nymph] armed herself To fight a savage wolf. Not the art of spinning nor its works Could please the maid, Nor her pretty bed ; but she, Before the breaking day Would seek the dens of wolves, Working without rest For the cattle of her father Arno.       This god, who from heaven saw her So bold and so fair, Seized her as his wife And named from her name The town which gave you birth. That town boasts of being Mother of our Juno [queen], And amongst foreign peoples For her greater praise Celebrates only your name.       There the deeds of your ancestors Rise blazing, as in the heavens Blazes the bright dawn ; There [blazes] the glory of your Guiliano In the Italian skies Like a bright planet. Through him, the rude commons Gained understanding Of the best learning, And there shone forth too Your two great Popes, who still From heaven, where they are now, Favour you here.       We cannot count the harvest Of summer, nor the icicles Which in winter mark the route Of waters stubborn in flowing ; Just so I cannot encompass The praises of your family. Heaven painted something In your appearance which has shown us, Since first we met, That you surpass in the greatnes of your destiny The princesses of our age, Whether in the force of your courage Or in royal grandeur.       The sum of your learning And of all your virtues Tells us that we cannot see here Anyone but you, who is like you. What lady has the skill Of so much mathematics ? What princess understands better The design of the great world, The paths of nature And the music of the heavens ?       Your name, which my verse shall praise, Will fill the whole world With your well-known praise ; A mass of those who sing of you Do not know as well as I How we should sound your glory. Jupiter, recalling An ancient fate Once determined By the oracle of Themis, Commanded that Florence Beneath the laws of France Should bend its submissive head.       But he wanted your child To have triumphant honour from it As he is, at the same time, Italian and French, His brow, eyes and voice Resembling his father’s and mother’s. Already full of anger it seems That his hand tries out arms And in the midst of alarms Already disdains danger ; And, acting as a guide to his men, As victor places a bridle On foreign kingdoms.       Heaven, which gave us him To be our light, Has not bounded his empire With hill or river. Fate wants him to grip In his hand the whole earth, Giving him the name of king alone, From where Phoebus leaves the Indies To where he brings down his chariot Sinking into the sea.

 

We’ve seen Ronsard in panegyric mode before. Obviously it was important to lavish praise on potential patrons, especially royalty; what I think distinguishes Ronsard’s work in this vein is the way he knits so many ideas together into a complex and sophisticated hymn of (undeserved) praise.

 

So here he adopts a very classical style, with a very un-classical theme; and indeed opens with the singer being ‘possessed’ by a god in a theme harking back to Greek tragedy. Indeed the whole form of the poem echoes tragic choruses in Greek plays.

 

Antistrophe 1 invents a foundation myth for Florence. The poem is ddressed to Queen Catherine (de Medici), whose family famously rules Florence for much of the renaissance.  Ronsard himself offered some footnotes to help us through the invented myth:  “as in Pausanias Apollo loved the maiden Bolina, after whom is named a town in Achaea. In the style of the ancients, the poet disguises true things with fictions and fables, and invents a nymph who gave her name to the town of Florence, a daughter of Arno, loved and raped by Apollo; which in effect means that this town is full of courage and learning, as in truth many admirable spirits & many great captains have come from it.” Note that, for all his praise of Florence, Ronsard praises France more for having seized the city – strophe 3!

 

The authorial footnote is less helpful in strophe 2, where – regarding the reference to “Julien” he tells us only ‘See here the history of Florence’!  There are two famous Giuliano de Medicis – brother and son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. The former is famous for being assassinated in the Duomo (cathedral) in Florence; the latter for marrying into the royal family of Savoy and being made Duke of Nemours by king Francis I (of France), before dying prematurely. Both are buried side by side in the Medici chapel in Florence, beneath monuments designed by Michelangelo. I suspect Ronsard is referring to the Duke of Nemours – Catherine’s father’s uncle; but it could be either.

 

The two great Popes are also, of course, Medicis:  Clement VII, alias Giulio de Medici, the posthumous son of the assassinated Giuliano; and Leo X, alias Giovanni de Medici, nephew of the same Giuliano. Both feature in Raphael’s famous portrait of Leo X (Giulio as a cardinal).

 

Epode 2 brings an unexpected appearance of the word ‘mathematics’ in poetry…! While the praises here are overdone, there is no doubting that Catherine was cultured and knowledgeable: her patronage of the arts and of public spectacles has left little to remember, but she also spent enormous sums on building programmes, and no doubt took a close interest in the architectural designs (which would have been mathematically proportioned). The authorial footnote in any case tells us that ‘mathematics covers all kinds of science, geometry, astronomy and the others, which are all called mathematics’. Some have read the remaining lines as further evidence of scientific learning: ‘the painting of the great world’ (as it translates literally) might be cosmography, but could equally be a reference to her understanding of the art of perspective etc in painting; the ‘paths of nature’ might refer to an understanding of natural phenomena as much as the knowledge of physics (or perhaps alchemy/chemistry) suggested by some; and the ‘music of the spheres’ need not imply metaphysics any more than an understanding of ‘musical proportion’ etc. But however we read it the message is clear: a clever, learned and cultured queen.

 

Although the prophecy in strophe 3 is invented, Themis is invoked as the classical (or pre-classical) model of what is ‘right’. The footnote tells us ‘this ancient goddess is, high in the heavens for the gods, what justice is here below for men on the earth’. Themis can be translated as ‘right’, though it carries strong connotations of divine order, natural law, the right way of doing things, the will of the gods…  All of which Ronsard is invoking through his reference, as ordaining France’s conquest of Florence – so that France’s king, Catherine’s son, might have the best of French and Italian spirit and courage.  In the 1550s, this would have been a clear reference to Francis II; but in the following 30 years Catherine was a major power behind the throne for three of her sons, Francis being followed by Charles IX and then Henri III as the Valois dynasty tottered towards its collapse. Ronsard’s decision not to name her son here proved very handy, and kept the poem up-to-date through the rest of his life (Catherine died 4 years after him).

 

Strophe 3 and Epode 2 (in that order) form the text of Lassus’s 1571 musical setting and were also set by Clereau (here and here), who printed them as separate songs but in the same, reversed, order. Though neither openly names Catherine or is dedicated to her, both retain the reference to Florence as well as France. As Charles IX had married the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor in 1570, we can be pretty confident that the composers expected the song to be recognised as a tribute to the most powerful Queen in Europe; whether they also meant the song as a sign of support for the Catholic faith at a time when much of northern Europe was riven by the Protestant-Catholic troubles, is less obvious – though it may have been hard to separate the one from the other.

 

 

 

 

Odes 2.18 – A son laquais (To his servant)

 

J’ay l’esprit tout ennuyé D’avoir trop estudié Les Phenomenes d’Arate : Il est temps que je m’esbate Et que j’aille aux champs jouer. Bons dieux ! qui voudroit louer Ceux qui, collez sur un livre, N’ont jamais soucy de vivre ?   Que nous sert l’estudier, Sinon de nous ennuyer Et soing dessus soing accrestre, A nous qui serons peut-estre, Ou ce matin, ou ce soir, Victime de l’orque noir, De l’orque qui ne pardonne, Tant il est fier, à personne ?   Corydon, marche devant ; Sçache où le bon vin se vend. Fais après à ma bouteille, Des feuilles de quelque treille, Un tapon pour la boucher. Ne m’achete point de chair, Car, tant soit-elle friande, L’esté je hay la viande.   Achete des abricôs, Des pompons, des artichôs, Des fraises et de la crème : C’est en esté ce que j’aime, Quand, sur le bord d’un ruisseau, Je les mange au bruit de l’eau, Estendu sur le rivage Ou dans un antre sauvage.   Ores que je suis dispos, Je veux boire sans repos De peur que la maladie Un de ces jours ne me die, Me happant à l’imporveu : « Meurs, gallant, c’est assez beu. »

My spirit is quite bored From having studied too hard The Phenomena of Aratus: It’s time I frolicked And went out to play. Good grief! Who’d want to praise Those who, stuck to a book, Never have any interest in living?   What use to us is studying, Except to bore us And to pile up care upon care Upon us, who may perhaps be This morning, or this evening, Victims of the black bark, The bark which grants no pardon, So proud is it, to anyone.   Corydon, go in front: You know where the good wine is sold. Then make up for my bottle From the leaves from some vine A spout to drink from. Buy me no meat For, tasty as it is, In summer I hate meat.   Buy apricots, Melons, artichokes, Strawberries and cream; That’s what I love in summer When, on a river bank, I eat them by the sound of the stream, Stretched out on the bank Or in a wild cavern.   Now that I’m settled, I want to drink without a break For fear that illness One of these days will say to me Catching me by surprise, “Die, my boy, that’s enough drinking!”

 

Once more the transition from classical learning to the delights of food – you perhaps remember the artichokes and melons from Tours (the “pompons”) from a recent post!

 

Aratus was one of those classical authors who took some detailed science and turned it into a poem so that it could be more easily memorised. For Aratus, it was the constellations and the weather (Darwin’s father Erasmus did the same in the early nineteenth century for botany… ) You can imagine Ronsard being a bit bored by it – though Aratus was revered in antiquity.

 

Corydon in verse 3 is a ‘pastoral’ name used regularly by Ronsard; in verse 2 the ‘bark which grants no pardon’ is of course Charon’s bark which ferries the dead across the Styx.

 

Although I am only using Blanchemain as a source for the Odes, there are still a couple of variants to report (from his footnotes):  in the third stanza

 

 

Corydon, marche devant ;

Sçache où le bon vin se vend.

Fay refreschir ma bouteille,

Cerche une fueilleuse treille

Et des fleurs pour me coucher.

                                                                      Corydon, go in front:

                                                                      You know where the good wine is sold.

                                                                      Get me a new bottle,

                                                                      Look for a leafy vine

                                                                      And some flowers for me to lie on.

 

 

And the last two lines which read:

 

« Je t’ay maintenant veincu.

Meurs, galland : c’est trop vescu. »

 

                                                                      “I’ve got you now.

                                                                      Die, my boy; you’ve lived too long.”

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 3.21

 

A GASPAR D’AUVERGNE   Gaspar, qui, loin de Pegase, As les filles de Parnase Conduites en ta maison, Ne sçais-tu que moy, poête, De mon Phoebus je souhéte Quand je fais une oraison ?   Les moissons je ne quiers pas Que le faux arrange à bas Sur la Beauce fructueuse ; Ny tous les cornus troupeaux Qui sautent sur les coupeaux De l’Auvergne montueuse ;   Ny l’or sans forme qu’ameine La mine pour nostre peine ; Ny celuy qui est formé Portant d’un roy la figure Ou la fiere pourtraiture De quelque empereur armé ;   Ny l’ivoire marqueté En l’Orient acheté Pour parade d’une sale ; Ny les cousteux diamans Magnifiques ornemens D’une majesté royale ;   Ny tous les champs que le fleuve Du Loir lentement abreuve ; Ny tous les prez emmurez Des plis de Braye argentine ; Ny tous les bois dont Gastine Void ses bras en-verdurez ;   Ny le riche accoustrement D’une laine qui dément Sa teinture naturelle Ez chaudrons du Gobelin, S’yvrant d’un rouge venin Pour se disguiser plus belle   Que celuy dans une coupe Toute d’or boive à la troupe De son vin de Prepatour, A qui la vigne succede, Et près Vendôme en possede Deux cents arpens en un tour.   Que celuy qui aime Mars S’enrolle entre les soldars, Et face sa peau vermeille D’un beau sang pour son devoir, Et que la trompette, au soir, D’un son luy raze l’aureille.   Le marchant hardiment vire Par le mer de sa navire La proue et la poupe encor ; Ce n’est moy, bruslé d’envie, A tels despens de ma vie, Rapporter des lingots d’or.   Tous ces biens je ne quiers point, Et mon courage n’est poingt De telle gloire excessive. Manger o mon compagnon Ou la figue d’Avignon, Ou la provençale olive,   L’artichôt et la salade, L’asperge et le pastenade, Et les pompons tourangeaux, Me sont herbes plus friandes Que les royales viandes Qui se servent à monceaux.   Puis qu’il faut si tost mourir, Que me vaudroit d’acquerir Un bien qui ne dure guere, Qu’un heritier qui viendroit Après mon trespas vendroit Et en feroit bonne chere ?   Tant seulement je desire Une santé qui n’empire ; Je desire un beau sejour, Une raison saine et bonne Et une lyre qui sonne Tousjours le vin et l’amour.

TO GASPAR OF AUVERGNE   Gaspar, who – without Pegasus – Has brought the daughters of Parnassus Into your home, Do you not know what I, a poet, Ask of my Apollo When I make him a prayer ?   Crops I don’t request, Those which the scythe cuts down Upon the fruitful Beauce ; Nor do I ask for all the horned troop Which leap upon the scarps Of the mountainous Auvergne ;   Nor shapeless gold which the mine Provides for our trouble ; Nor do I ask to be one made To bear a king’s figure Or the proud appearance Of some armed emperor ;   Nor inlaid ivory Bought in the East For some dishonest woman’s display ; Nor costly diamonds, Magnificent ornaments Of royal majesty ;   Nor all the fields which the river Loir slowly waters ; Nor all the meadows walled in By the bends of the silvery Braye ; Nor all the woods with which Gastine Sees his arms greened ;   Nor the rich clothing Of wool which gives the lie to Its natural colour In Gobelin’s cauldrons, Drinking in the red poison To disguise itself, more beautiful   Than his wine of Prepatour, Which he himself, in a cup Made all of gold, drinks to his troop – The vines to which he succeded And possesses near Vendome Two hundred acres of them.   Let he who loves Mars [war] Enrol among his soldiers, And print his pink skin With bright blood for his work, And let the evening trumpet With its call crash on his ear.   Let the merchant boldly steer Over the sea his ship’s Prow and poop too ; It’s not for me, burning with desire At such cost to my life, To bring back golden ingots.   All these good things I seek not at all, And my courage is not pricked To such excessive glory. Eating with my friend Figs from Avignon Or olives from Provence,   Artichokes and salad, Asparagus and parsnip And melons from Tours, These are tastier foods Than the king’s meat Which is served in mountains.   Since we must die so soon, What use to me is gaining Some good thing which hardly lasts, Which my inheritor will come After my death and sell And make a great deal from ?   I simply desire Health which doesn’t worsen ; I desire a fine time here, My reason unimpaired, And a lyre which sings Always of wine and love.

 

 

Blanchemain reprints several footnotes from Richelet’s commentary.In the 4th stanza, he notes that “tous les champs” are ‘the fields of his Vendome region’ (as we’d have guessed from the references to the Braye & Gastine); in the following stanza he tells us that Gobelin was  ‘formerly the famous & rich dyer of Paris’, though we now think of his Belgin tapestry factory; and explains that the “rouge venin” (‘red poison’) is scarlet dye in which the wool is soaked for a long time. A stanza later, he epxlains that Prepatour is ‘an excellent wine, whose vine belongs to the king & is in his domain in the Vendome’.

 

The stanzas 3rd & 4th from last also deserve a note or two: Ronsard says “Manger o mon compagnon”, which I guess to be Provençal dialect (“o” for “au”?), suited to the Avignon/Provencal food mentioned in the following lines, and or the Auvergne form which Gaspar hails. “Pastenade” is also Provençal, and there is even today a special variety of melon (“pompon”) grown around Tours: see here.

 

And what of Gaspar himself? Ronsard’s friend Gaspar (or Gaspard) was another of that learned circle of humanists, known among other things for translating Machiavelli into French – particularly ‘Le Prince’ and “Les discours de l’estat de paix et de guerre”, the former apparently undertaken between 1547 and 1553 but not published till the 1560s, one of three roughly contemporary translations of the notorious work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 4:5

 

Guy, nos meilleurs ans coulent Comme les eaux qui roulent D’un cours sempiternel ; La mort pour sa sequelle Nous ameine avec elle Un exil éternel.   Nulle humaine priere Ne repousse en arriere Le bateau de Charon, Quand l’ame nue arrive Vagabonde en la rive De Styx et d’Acheron.   Toutes choses mondaines Qui vestent nerfs et veines La mort égale prend, Soient pauvres ou soient princes ; Car sur toutes provinces Sa main large s’estend.   La puissance tant forte Du grand Achille est morte, Et Thersite, odieux Aux Grecs, est mort encores ; Et Minos qui est ores Le conseiller des dieux.   Jupiter ne demande Que des bœufs pour offrande ; Mais son frere Pluton Nous demande, nous hommes, Qui la victime sommes De son enfer glouton.   Celuy dont le Pau baigne Le tombeau nous enseigne N’esperer rien de haut, Et celuy que Pegase (Qui fit soucer Parnase) Culbuta d’un grand saut.   Las ! on ne peut cognaistre Le destin qui doit naistre, Et l’homme en vain poursuit Conjecturer la chose Que Dieu sage tient close Sous une obscure nuit.   Je pensois que la trope Que guide Calliope, Troupe mon seul confort, Soustiendroit ma querelle, Et qu’indonté par elle Je donterois la mort.   Mais une fiévre grosse Creuse déjà ma fosse Pour me banir là bas, Et sa flame cruelle Se paist de ma mouelle, Miserable repas.   Que peu s’en faut, ma vie, Que tu ne m’es ravie Close sous le tombeau, Et que mort je ne voye Où Mercure convoye Le debile troupeau !   [Et ce Grec qui les peines Dont les guerres sont pleines Va là bas racontant, Poëte qu’une presse Des épaules espaisse Admire en l’écoutant.]   A bon droit Prométhée Pour sa fraude inventée Endure un tourment tel, Qu’un aigle sur la roche Luy ronge d’un bec croche Son poumon immortel.   Depuis qu’il eut robée La flame prohibée, Pour les dieux despiter, Les bandes incogneues Des fiévres sont venues Parmi nous habiter.   Et la mort despiteuse, Auparavant boiteuse, Fut légère d’aller ; D’ailes mal-ordonnées Aux hommes non données Dedale coupa l’air.   L’exécrable Pandore Fut forgée, et encore Astrée s’en-vola, Et la boîte féconde Peupla le pauvre monde De tant de maux qu’il a.   Ah ! le meschant courage Des hommes de nostre âge N’endure pas ses faits ; Que Jupiter estuye Sa foudre, qui s’ennuye Venger tant de mesfaits !

Guy, our best years rush by Like streams flowing In their everlasting race ; Death, as the sequel, Brings us with it Eternal exile.   No human prayer Can push back Charon’s boat When the naked soul arrives A wanderer at the river Styx and Acheron.   All wordly things Equipped with nerves and veins Death takes equally, Be they poor men or princes ; For over all the empires Its wide hand extends.   The strength, though great, Of mighty Achilles is dead ; And Thersites, hated By the Greeks, is dead too ; And Minos too, who was once Advisor to the gods.   Jupiter requires only Cattle as an offering ; But his brother Pluto Requires us, us men, Who are the victims Of his greedy hell.   He, whose tomb the Pau [Po] Bathes, teaches us To hope for nothing from on high, And he too, whom Pegasus (Who disquieted Parnassus) Knocked down with his great leap.   Alas ! we cannot know The fate which must come to us, And man in vain seeks To conjecture what thing Our wise God keeps hidden Beneath dark night.   I thought that the troop Whom Calliope leads, The troop which is my sole comfort, Would support my complaint And that, untamed by them, I would tame death.   But a great fever Is already digging my grave To banish me down there, And its cruel flame Is feeding on my marrow, A wretched repast.   How little is needed, mt life, For you to be taken from me, Shut in beneath my tomb, And for me to see death Where Mercury brings The feeble troop !   [And that Greek who Continually recounts down there The pains with which war is filled, The poet whom a crowd Of wide shoulders Admires as they listen.]   Rightly does Prometheus For that trick he contrived Endure such torment, As, on his rock, an eagle With its crooked beak gnaws His immortal guts.   Since he stole away The forbidden fire To spite the gods, The unknown bonds Of fevers have come To live among us ;   And resentful death, Before that limping slowly, Has become light on his feet. With clumsy wings Not granted to man Daedalus cut through the air.   Cursed Pandora Was forged and, still A star, flew off While the fruitful box Peopled this poor world With all the evils it had.   Ah, the paltry courage Of the men of our age Cannot endure their deeds ; May Jupiter hold back His thunderbolts, bored with Avenging so many misdeeds !

 

This Ode is dedicated to Guy Pacate, prior of Sougé – a small village in the Loir region. Even today it consists of little more than one street and a church. Pacate had been one of the little group around Daurat in the 1540s, including Ronsard, du Bellay and Denisot, from which sprang the Pléiade. Among them he was apparently known for his learning and his gift for Latin poetry; though beyond their circle he seems obscure.  Perhaps it is relevant that, in the posthumous editions of Ronsard the dedication was to Jean Daurat himself, rather than this little-known satellite of his.

 

It’s certainly relevant that Pacate knew his classics: there is an array of classical references here rarely seen in such number in Ronsard’s poems! But at the same time Ronsard contrives an inward-looking reflection on death rather than a grand, public poem, suitable to the relative obscurity of the dedicatee.

 

Stanza 2 refers to the journey to the afterlife: souls would come down to the river Styx where they awaited Charon’s boat to ferry them over to Hades. (Mercury guided souls to the underworld – stanza 10.)

 

Stanza 4 contrasts Achilles with Thersites, the former the hero of the Iliad, the latter an annoying, cowardly tell-tale also on the Greek side; and adds Minos, once a king on earth, but tricked and killed in his bath by his daughters.

 

In stanza 6, Pau is famous as the birthplace of “noste Enric” (‘our Henry’), Henry IV of France; and earlier was the base of Gaston Fébus, whose Renaissance court paralleled that of Italian city-states. But this Pau is in fact the Po in north Italy, reputed to be where Phaethon fell when struck down by Jupiter’s thunderbolt. The second half of the stanza is about Perseus; other editions have “sourcer” rather than the (unique?) “soucer” which I have treated as if it were “soucier”: “Qui fit sourcer Parnase” would mean something like “who made a spring come from Parnassus”, the spring being the Hippocrene spring which was created when Pegasus stamped his foot, and which became sacred to the Muses.

 

The troop of Calliope in stanza 8 is the Muses – Calliope is the muse of epic poetry. In stanza 11, the poet is no doubt Homer; we have met Prometheus (stanzas 12-13), punished by the gods for bringing fire to man, regularly. In stanza 14 I have to admit the presence of Daedalus confuses me: there is no link to Pandora, nor did his flight lead to his own death. I assume that Ronsard is offering a simile – like Daedalus taking wing, death too became swifter.

 

Finally, in the penultimate stanza, Pandora is ‘forged’ because she the first woman, was made by Vulcan on Jupiter’s instructions. The story of the evils contained in Pandora’s box is well-known.

 

 

 

 

 

To Cassandre – Ode 2:5

La Lune est coustumiere Renaistre tous les mois ; Mais, quand nostre lumiere Sera morte une fois, Longtemps sans réveiller Nous faudra sommeiller.   Tandis que vivons ores, Un baiser donne moy ; Donne-m’en mille encores : Amour n’a point de loy ; A sa grand’ deité Convient l’infinité.   Ah ! vous m’avez, maistresse De la dent entamé La langue chanteresse De vostre nom aimé. Quoi ! est-ce là le prix Du labeur qu’elle a pris,   Elle qui voz louanges Dessus le luth vantoit, Et aux peuples estranges Vos mérites chantoit, Ne faisant l’air si non Bruire de votre nom.   De vos tetins d’yvoire (Joyaux de l’Orient) Elle chantoit la gloire, Et de votre œil friant, Pour la récompenser La faut-il offenser ?   Las ! de petite chose Je me plains durement : La playe en l’ame enclose Me cuit bien autrement, Que ton œil m’y laissa Le jour qu’il me blessa.

The moon is accustomed To being reborn every month; But when our light Is once dead, For long without waking We’ll have to sleep.   While we live, though, Give me a kiss, Give me a thousand more; Love has no rules, Infinity suits His great godhood.   Ah, mistress, you have Injured with your teeth, The tongue which sings Of your beloved name; So what? That is the price Of the task it undertook,   [The tongue] which extolled Your praises on the lute, And sang to unknown peoples Your merits Making the air Resound with your name.   It sang of the glory Of your ivory breasts, The jewels of the Orient, And of your dainty eyes; To repay [my tongue] for this, Must you hurt it?   Alas, of little things I complain harshly; The wound hidden in my soul Burns me very differently From when your eyes left me it On the day when they wounded me.

Who is the ‘she’ of the middle of the poem? Dominique (see comment below) has corrected my bad translation — I must have been having a bad day at the ‘office’! — and so I have fixed the translation above. Thank you, Dominique!

 

Blanchemain offers us also a variant text, replacing stanza 4 (‘which extolled your praises on the lute’) with two stanzas as follows:

 

 

Elle par qui vous estes

Déesse entre les dieux,

Qui vos beautez parfaites

Celebroit jusqu’aux cieux,

Ne faisant l’air sinon

Bruire de vostre nom,

 

De vostre belle face,

Le beau logis d’amour,

Où Venus et la Grace

Ont choisi leur sejour,

Et de vostre œil, qui fait

Le soleil moins parfait.

 

 

                                                                 [The tongue] by which you are

                                                                 A goddess among the gods,

                                                                 Who laud your perfect

                                                                 Beauty to the skies,

                                                                 Making the air simply

                                                                 Resound with your name,

 

                                                                 With your fair face:

                                                                 The fair home of love,

                                                                 Where Venus and Grace

                                                                 Have chosen to stay,

                                                                 And with your eyes, which make

                                                                 The sun less perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

To his mistress (Odes 2:7)

 

Cassandre ne donne pas Des baisers, mais des appas Qui seuls nourrissent mon ame, Les biens dont les dieux sont fous, Du nectar, du sucre dous, De la cannelle et du bâme,   Du thym, du lis, de la rose Parmy ses lévres desclose, Fleurante en totes saisons, Et du miel tel qu’en Hymette La desrobe-fleur avette Remplit ses douces maisons.   O dieux ! que j’ay de plaisir Quand je sen mon col saisir De ses bras en mainte sorte ! Sur moy se laissant courber, Peu à peu la voy tomber Dans mon sain à demi-morte ;   Puis, mettant la bouche sienne Tout à plat dessus la mienne, Me mord, et je la remors. Je luy darde, elle me darde Sa languette fretillarde ; Puis en ses bras je m’endors.   D’un baiser doucement long, Ell’ me suce l’ame adonc, Puis en souflant la repousse, La ressuce encore un coup, La ressouffle tout à coup Avec son haleine douce.   Tout ainsi les colombelles, Tremoussant un peu des ailes, Havement se vont baisant, Après que l’oiseuse glace A quitté la froide place Au printemps doux et plaisant.   Helas ! mais tempere un peu Les biens dont je suis repeu, Tempere un peu ma liesse ; Tu me ferois immortel. Hé ! je ne veux estre tel Si tu n’es aussi déesse.

Cassandre does not give Kisses, but charms Which alone nourish my soul – The good things for which the gods are mad, Nectar, sweet sugar, Cinnamon and balm,   Thyme, lily, rose Blooming on her lips, Flowering in all seasons, And honey like that with which on Hymettus The flower-thieves, the bees, Fills their sweet homes.   O gods ! what pleasure I get When I feel my neck seized By her arms so very often! Letting herself curve on me Little by little I see her fall On my breast half-dead.   Then, placing her mouth Flat on mine, She bites me, and I bite back, I nibble her and she my Frisky tongue; Then in her arms I fall asleep.   With a sweet long kiss She sucks out my soul thus, Then breathing out she pushes it back, Sucks it out once again, Breathes it back all at once With her sweet breath.   Just so doves, Fidgeting their wings a little, Careworn, go on kissing After the lazy ice Has left its cold place In sweet and pleasant spring.   Oh, moderate a little The good things with which I am fed, Moderate my happiness a little! You will make me immortal – But I don’t want to be Unless you are also a goddess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Estienne Pasquier (Odes 4:29)

Tu me fais mourir de me dire Qu’il ne faut sinon qu’une lyre Pour m’amuser, et que tousjours Je ne veux chanter que d’amours.   Tu dis vray, je le te confesse ; Mais il ne plaist a la déesse Qui mesle un plaisir d’un souci Que je vive autrement qu’ainsi.   Car quand Amour un coup enflame De son feu quelque gentille ame, Impossible est de l’oublier Ni de ses rets se deslier.   Mais toy, Pasquier, en qui Minerve A tant mis de biens en reserve, Qui as l’esprit ardent et vif, Et nay pour n’estre point oisif ;   Eleve au ciel par ton histoire De nos rois les faits et la gloire, Et pren sous ta diserte voix La charge des honneurs françois ;   Et desormais vivre me laisse Sans gloire au sein de ma maistresse, Et parmy ses ris et ses jeux Laisse grisonner mes cheveux.

You kill me by saying That I only need a lyre To amuse me, and that always I want only to sing of love.   You tell the truth, I admit it to you, But it doesn’t please the goddess Who mixes pleasure with pain That I should live any other way than this.   For when love ignites a shaft Of his fire in some noble soul, It is impossible to forget him Or to escape his nets.   But you, Pasquier, in whom Minerva Has reserved so many good things, You have a spirit ardent and lively, Born to be in no way idle.   Raise to heaven through your history The deeds and glory of our Kings, And take charge, with your eloquent voice, Of the honours of France;   And let me live henceforth Without glory on the breast of my mistress, And among her smiles and her games Let my hair grow grey.

Estienne Pasquier is a figure we’ve met before: here, Belleau notes ‘Advocate general of the Chambre des Comptes in Paris, of whom we can offer no better evidence than his own [poetical] works provide, and our poet in this place who has truly pinpointed his talent’. It’s a nice self-denying poem by Ronsard, praising his friend for his high-flown, learned poetry (Minerva is the goddess of wisdom), while putting himself down as a mere love-poet.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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.