Stances de la Fontaine d’Hélène (Helen 2:72b)

Ronsard heads these ‘stanzas on Helen’s fountain’ with the stage-direction “Pour chanter ou reciter à trois personnes“, ‘for singing or reciting by three people’ – though in fact the third (the poet himself) only appears at the very end.

I. Ainsi que ceste eau coule et s’enfuyt parmy l’herbe, Ainsi puisse couler en ceste eau le souci, Que ma belle Maistresse, à mon mal trop superbe, Engrave dans mon cœur sans en avoir mercy.   II. Ainsi que dans ceste eau de l’eau mesme je verse, Ainsi de veine en veine Amour qui m’a blessé, Et qui tout à la fois son carquois me renverse, Un breuvage amoureux dans le cœur m’a versé.   I. Je voulois de ma peine esteindre la memoire : Mais Amour qui avoit en la fontaine beu, Y laissa son brandon, si bien qu’au lieu de boire De l’eau pour l’estancher, je n’ay beu que du feu.   II. Tantost ceste fontaine est froide comme glace, Et tantost elle jette une ardante liqueur. Deux contraires effects je sens quand elle passe, Froide dedans ma bouche, et chaude dans mon cœur.   I. Vous qui refraischissez ces belles fleurs vermeilles, Petits freres ailez, Favones et Zephyrs, Portez de ma Maistresse aux ingrates oreilles, En volant parmy l’air, quelcun de mes souspirs.   II. Vous enfans de l’Aurore, allez baiser ma Dame : Dites luy que je meurs, contez luy ma douleur, Et qu’Amour me transforme en un rocher sans ame, Et non comme Narcisse en une belle fleur.   I. Grenouilles qui jazez quand l’an se renouvelle, Vous Gressets qui servez aux charmes, comme on dit, Criez en autre part vostre antique querelle : Ce lieu sacré vous soit à jamais interdit.   II. Philomele en Avril ses plaintes y jargonne, Et tes bords sans chansons ne se puissent trouver : L’Arondelle l’Esté, le Ramier en Automne, Le Pinson en tout temps, la Gadille en Hyver.   I. Cesse tes pleurs, Hercule, et laisse ta Mysie, Tes pieds de trop courir sont ja foibles et las : Icy les Nymphes ont leur demeure choisie, Icy sont tes Amours, icy est ton Hylas.   II. Que ne suis-je ravy comme l’enfant Argive ? Pour revencher ma mort, je ne voudrois sinon Que le bord, le gravois, les herbes et la rive Fussent tousjours nommez d’Helene, et de mon nom !   I. Dryades, qui vivez sous les escorces sainctes, Venez et tesmoignez combien de fois le jour Ay-je troublé vos bois par le cry de mes plaintes, N’ayant autre plaisir qu’à souspirer d’Amour ?   II. Echo, fille de l’Air, hostesse solitaire Des rochers, où souvent tu me vois retirer, Dy quantes fois le jour lamentant ma misere, T’ay-je fait souspirer en m’oyant souspirer ?   I. Ny Cannes ny Roseaux ne bordent ton rivage, Mais le gay Poliot, des bergeres amy : Tousjours au chaud du jour le Dieu de ce bocage, Appuyé sur sa fleute, y puisse estre endormy.   II. Fontaine à tout jamais ta source soit pavée, Non de menus gravois de mousses ny d’herbis : Mais bien de mainte Perle à bouillons enlevée, De Diamans, Saphirs, Turquoises et Rubis.   I. Le Pasteur en tes eaux nulle branche ne jette, Le Bouc de son ergot ne te puisse fouler : Ains comme un beau Crystal, tousjours tranquille et nette, Puissees-tu par les fleurs eternelle couler.   II. Les Nymphes de ces eaux et les Hamadryades, Que l’amoureux Satyre entre les bois poursuit, Se tenans main à main, de sauts et de gambades, Aux rayons du Croissant y dansent toute nuit.   I. Si j’estois un grand Prince, un superbe edifice Je voudrois te bastir, où je ferois fumer Tous les ans à ta feste autels et sacrifice, Te nommant pour jamais la Fontaine d’aimer.   II. Il ne faut plus aller en la forest d’Ardeine Chercher l’eau, dont Regnaut estoit si desireux : Celuy qui boit à jeun trois fois ceste fonteine, Soit passant ou voisin il devient amoureux.   I. Lune qui as ta robbe en rayons estoillée, Garde ceste fonteine aux jours les plus ardans : Defen-la pour jamais de chaud et de gelée, Remply-la de rosée, et te mire dedans.   II. Advienne apres mille ans qu’un Pastoureau desgoise Mes amours, et qu’il conte aux Nymphes d’icy pres, Qu’un Vandomois mourut pour une Saintongeoise, Et qu’encores son ame erre entre ces forests.   Le Poete. Garsons ne chantez plus, ja Vesper nous commande De serrer nos troupeaux, les Loups sont ja dehors. Demain à la frescheur avec une autre bande Nous reviendrons danser à l’entour de tes bords.   Fontaine, ce-pendant de ceste tasse pleine Reçoy ce vin sacré que je renverse en toy : Sois ditte pour jamais la Fontaine d’Heleine, Et conserve en tes eaux mes amours et ma foy.

I. Just as this water flows and runs off amidst the grass, So let flow in this water the care Which my fair mistress, to my too magnificent harm, Engraves in my heart without any mercy.   II Just as in this water I pour some of the same water, So from vein to vein Love who has hurt me, And who all at once overturns his quiver for me, Has poured into my heart his drink of love.   I I wished to extinguish the memory of my pain: But Love who had drunk in the fountain Left there his brand so firmly that, instead of drinking Of the water to quench it, I have drunk only fire.   II Sometimes this fountain is cold as ice, And sometimes it throws up a burning liquid: Two opposite effects I feel as it passes, Cold within my mouth, and warm in my heart.   I You who refresh these fair crimson flowers, Little winged brothers, Fauns and Zephyrs, Bear to the ungrateful ears of my mistress, Flying through the air, some one of my sighs.   II You children of the Dawn, go and kiss my lady: Tell her that I am dying, recount my sadness to her, And how Love is transforming me into a soul-less rock, Not, like Narcissus, into a fair flower.   I You frogs who gossip as the year renews itself, You tree-frogs who act as charms, as they say, Shout your ancient quarrels in some other place: May this sacred place be forbidden to you forever.   II Let Philomela [the nightingale] in April chatter her lament there, Let your banks never be found song-less: The swallow in summer, the pigeon in autumn, The chaffinch at all times, the robin in winter.   I Stop weeping, Hercules, leave your Mysia, Your feet from too much running are now week and tired: Here the nymphs have chosen their home, Here are your Loves, here is your Hylas.   II Why am I not in love like the Argive child? To avenge my death, I would wish only That the shore, the gravel, the grass and the banks Should always be named after Helen and my own name!   I Dryads who live beneath the holy bark, Come and bear witness, how many times a day Have I troubled your woods with the cry of my laments, Having no other pleasure than to sign of Love?   II Echo, daughter of the Air, solitary inhabitant Of the rocks, where often you see me retiring, Say how many times a day, lamenting my wretchedness, Have I made you sigh as you see me sigh?   I Neither sticks nor reeds border your banks, But rather the gay iris, friend of shepherdesses; Always in the heat of the day the god of this wood, Playing on his flute, can sleep there.   II Fountain, may your spring be forever paved Not with small gravel-stones from the foaming water, nor grass; But rather with many a pearl lifted by the waves, With diamonds, sapphires, turquoises and rubies.   I May the shepherd throw no branches in your waters, May the buck not be able to tread in you with his spurs; So, like a fine crystal, always calm and clear, May you be able to flow eternal among the flowers.   II The Nymphs of these waters and the Hamadryads Whom the amorous Satyr pursues in the woods, Holding one another’s hands, in leaps and gambols Dance all night in the rays of the crescent moon.   I If I were a great prince, I would want to build you A proud edifice, where I would make every year Altars and sacrifices smoke at your festival, Naming you forever the Fountain of Love.   II We need no longer go to the forest of Ardenne To seek the water for which Rinaldo was so eager: He who when young drinks thrice from this fountain, Be he passer-by or neighbour, will fall in love.   I O moon, who have your robe spangled in moonbeams, Protect this fountain in the hottest days; Defend it forever from heat and ice, Fill it with dew, and admire yourself in it.   II May it happen that, after a thousand years , a shepherd acts out My love-affairs, and recount to the Nymphs nearby How a man of Vendôme died for a lady from Saintonge, And how still his soul wanders in these forests.   The Poet Boys, sing no more, already the Evening Star commands us To draw up our troop, the wolves are now out. Tomorrow in the freshness [of morning], with another band We shall return to dance around your banks.   Fountain, now from this full glass Receive this sacred wine which I pour into you; Be called forever the Fountain of Helen, And preserve in your waters my love and my faithfulness.

 

 

 I find the ‘tone’ of this poem a little hard to read: yes, it is obviously another nature poem, or rather one of those ‘nature filled with myth’ poems, where everything is imbued with the flavour of classical mythology. Yet overall it seems to jar slightly with the surrounding love poems, at least to me.

 

We begin with the familiar lovers’ opposites – pain and happiness together, hot and cold, ice and fire. The ungrateful mistress is invoked (and mythological messengers sent to visit her). But by the end this is a fountain sanctified to Helen, rather than simply reflecting the opposites.

 

The tale of Narcissus is beautifully transformed – Helen’s obduracy makes her lover a hard rock, rather than a soft flower. But then the nature poetry takes over – oddly, at first, with frogs, but then with a large cast of carefully-identified birds appropriate to the seasons. Then suddenly Hercules is invoked (he is presumably also the ‘Argive child’, being a native of that city), and we’re back to the spurned lover – though quite why his death should be memorialised by naming the fountain after Helen is not obvious.

 

Echo, of course, is also known for laments: but then the context suddenly shifts to the sanctification of the fountain – its rocks replaced by precious jewels, its waters undisturbed by sticks or animals. The reference to Rinaldo (Regnaut in the French version) recalls the entire plot of ‘Orlando furioso’, which opens with Rinaldo drinking from an enchanted fountain and falling in love with Angelica, and ends with the spell lifted by drinking from another magic fountain. (As Richelet explains, ‘Ariosto in his first canto says that in this forest there are two fountains so different in effect that whoever drinks from the one falls in love, and from the other loses his love’.) And then the heavens are called on to protect the newly-sanctified spring, before the poet sacrifices wine as a sign of its holiness.

 

Something of a developing train of thought, then …

 

Gilbert Gadoffre makes the point that Ronsard is not like the seventeenth-century poets, ‘mathematicians and logicians’ who structure their poems accordingly; he is a poet of nature, whose poems grow like nature, developing almost in random directions as the moment takes them. I think this is a helpful way to look at this poem and it’s shifting focus. 

 

Worth adding, too, that for Gadoffre this is the high point of French poetry before about 1650: “With this poem he gives us the most miraculously beautiful stanzas before Racine in the French repertoire.”

 

Blanchemain has a number of variants, beginning with the title: “Stances sur la fontaine…” (though it has no impact on the translation). In the first stanza of the third pair, we have “Portez vers ma Maistresse aux ingrates oreilles”, so that instead of carrying sighs ‘to the ungrateful ears of my mistress’ they are to be carried ‘to my mistress with her ungrateful ears’. In the second stanza of the next pair, “Et ses bords …” seems odd: Helen’s fountain has been ‘you’ so far, so whose are ‘her banks’? Presumably still the same fountain?

 

No such problem at the start of the pair of stanzas featuring Rinaldo: “Si j’estois grand monarque …”, a ‘great monarch’ instead of a great prince. And then in the second of these stanzas, “Celuy qui boit à jeun trois fois à la fonteine”, ‘He who when young drinks thrice at the fountain’. 

 

 

 

 

Poems 2.2 – to Jehan du Thier

 

A Jehan du Thier, Seigneur de Beau-regard, Secretaire d’Estat   Qui fait honneur aux Rois, il fait honneur à Dieu : Les Princes et les Rois tiennent le plus grand lieu « Apres la Deité ; et qui revere encore « Les serviteurs d’un Roy, le Roy mesme il honore. Il est vray, mon du Thier, qu’un homme comme toy Donne plus de travail à celebrer, qu’un Roy; Car la gloire des Rois en sujet est fertille, Et ne travaille guere une plume gentille, Ny un espoir gaillard, s’il a reçeu tant d’heur Que de ne s’efforcer de chanter leur grandeur.   D’un theme si fecond en abondance viennentt Propos desur propos, qui la Muse entretiennent, Comme en hyver les eaux qui s’escoulent d’un mont, Et courans dans le mer file-à-file s’en-vont : Mais pour louer un moindre il faut de l’artifice, A fin que la vertu n’aparoisse estre vice.   Si est-ce, mon du Thier, que les plus grands honneurs Qui sont communs en France à nos plus grands Seigneurs, Te sont communs aussi, et si je l’osois dire, De toy seul à bon droit on les devroit escrire Comme propres à toy : mais ces Dieux de la Court Me happent à la gorge, et me font taire court.   Comme on voit bien souvent aux mines dessous terre Soyent d’argent soyent de fer de grands pilliers de pierre, Qui sont veus soustenir la mine de leurs bras, Et ahanner beaucoup, et si n’ahannent pas ; Ce sont d’autres pillers qui loin du jour se tiennent Dedans des coings à part, qui tout le faix soustiennent : Ainsi les grands Seigneurs, soit en guerre ou en paix, En credit eslevez, semblent porter le faix Des affaires de France avec l’espaule large, Et toutesfois c’est toy qui en portes la charge.   S’il arrive un paquet d’Itale, ou plus avant, Soit de Corse ou de Grece, ou du bout de Levant, Ils le dépliront bien, mais il te faudra mettre En ton estude apres pour respondre à la lettre. Car ainsi que le Ciel ne soustient qu’un Soleil, France n’a qu’un du Thier qui n’a point de pareil, Ou soit pour sagement les Estrangers semondre, Ou soit pour cautement à leurs paquets respondre ; Car soit en stile bas, ou en stile hautain, Les Graces du François s’escoulent de ta main.   Nul homme ne se vante estre heureux en la prose, Que pour certain exemple aux yeux ne se propose Tes escrits et ton stile, et pour exerciter Sa main, il ne travaille à te contre-imiter.   On dit que Geryon, qui tripla les conquestes De la masse d’Hercule, avoit au chef trois testes : Tu en as plus de mille, aumoins mille cerveaux Que tu empesches tous à mille faits nouveaux. Car soit que le Soleil abandonne la source De son hoste Ocean, et appreste à la course Son char à qui l’Aurore a de sa belle main Attellé les chevaux, et rangez sous le frain : Ou soit qu’en plein midy ses rayons il nous darde, Et à plomb dessous luy toutes choses regarde : Ou soit qu’en devalant plein de soif et d’ahan Il s’aille rebaigner és flots de l’Ocean, Et que son char en garde aux Dieux marins il baille, Ton esprit n’a repos qui sans cesse travaille Et ta langue, et ta main : l’esprit en inventant, La main en escrivant, et la langue en dictant Quelque lettre à tes clercs, ou tout seul tu dechiffres Dedans ta chambre à part les enigmes des chiffres Que te baille un courrier nouvellement venu, A fin que le secret du Roy ne soit cognu.   Icy un Alleman des nouvelles t’apporte, Icy un Espagnol se tient devant ta porte ; L’Anglois, l’Italien, et l’Ecossois aussi Font la presse à ton huis et te donnent souci : L’un cecy, l’un cela diversement demande : Puis il te faut signer ce que le Roy commande, Qui selon les effets de divers argumens Te baille en moins d’un jour mille commandemens, De petits, de moyens et de grand importance.   Encor’ as-tu le soing des grands tresors de France : Tailles, tributs, empruns, decimes et impos, Ne laissent ton esprit un quart d’heure en repos, Qui se plaist d’achever mille choses contraires, Et plus est vigoureux, tant plus il a d’affaires. Or ainsi qu’un poisson se nourrist en son eau, Et une Salemandre au brasier d’un fourneau, Tu te plais en ta peine, et ta verde vieillesse Se nourrist du travail qui jamais ne te laisse.   Quand tu vas au matin aux affaires du Roy, Une tourbe de gens fremist toute apres toy, Qui deçà qui delà tes costez environnent, Et tous divers propos à tes oreilles sonnent : L’un te baille un placet, l’un te va conduisant Pour luy faire donner au Roy quelque present, L’autre (qui a de prés ton oreille approchée) Demande si sa letter a esté despeschée : L’un est fasché d’attendre, et n’a repos aucun Que tousjours ne te suive et te soit importun : L’autre plus gracieux te fait la reverence, Et l’autre te requiert l’avoir en souvenance : Bref la foulle te presse, et demeine un grand bruit Tout à l’entour de toy, comme un torrent qui fuit Bouillonnant par le fond des pierreuses valées, Quand dessous le Printemps les neiges sont coulées.   Tu n’as si tost disné, qu’il ne te faille aller Au Conseil, pour ouyr des affaires parler : Puis au coucher du Roy, puis selon ta coustume Presque toute la nuict veiller avec la plume. Et pource nostre Roy d’un favorable accueil Te prise et te cherist, et te porte bon œil, Comme à celuy qui prend en France plus de peine : Si fait Montmorency, et Charles de Lorraine : Non seuls, mais tout le peuple, et ceux qui ont l’esprit De sçavoir discerner combien vaut ton escrit : Et moy par-dessus tous, qui de plus pres admire Ta vertu qui me fait ceste lettre t’escrire. Quand un homme s’esleve aupres de ces grands Dieux, Mesprisant les petits, devient audacieux, Et s’enflant tout le cœur d’arrogance et de gloire, Se mocque de chacun, et si ne veut plus croire Qu’il soit homme sujet à supporter l’assault De Fortune qui doit luy doner un beau sault : Mais certes à la fin une horrible tempeste De la fureur d’un Roy luy saccage la teste : Et plus il se vouloit aux Princes égaler, Et plus avec risée on le fait devaler, Par la tourbe incognuë, à fin qu’il soit exemple D’un orgueil foudroyé, à l’œil qui le contemple.   Mais toy, qui as l’esprit net d’envie et d’orgueil, Qui fais aux vertueux un honneste recueil, Qui te sçais moderer en la fortune bonne, Qui es homme de bien, qui n’offenses personne, De jour en jour tu vois augmenter ton bon-heur, Tu vois continuer ta gloire et ton honneur, Loin de l’ambition, de fraude et de feintise : Et c’est l’occasion pour laquelle te prise Le peuple qui tousjours ne cesse d’espier Les vices des Seigneurs, et de les descrier, « Et se plaist en cela ; car de la chose faite « Par les grands, bien ou mal, le peuple est la trompette ; Et toutefois il t’aime, et dit que nostre Roy N’a point de serviteur plus diligent que toy.   Tu ne rouilles ton cœur de l’execrable vice De ceste orde furie et harpie Avarice, Qui les tresors du monde attire dans sa main : Car puis qu’il faut mourir ou ce soir ou demain, Que sert d’amonceller tant d’escus en un coffre ? Las ! puis que la Nature ingrate ne nous offre Que l’usufruict du bien, que sert de desirer Tant de possessions, que sert de deschirer Le ventre de la terre, et hautement construire Un Palais orgueilleux de marbre et de porfire ? Où peut estre (ô folie !) il ne logera pas Par la mort prevenu : où apres le trespas Quelque prodigue enfant de cest avare pere, Jeune, fol, desbauché, en fera bonne chere, Vendra, jou’ra, perdra, et despendra le bien Par son pere amassé, qui ne luy couste rien ? « Car tout l’avoir mondain, quelque chose qu’on face « Jamais ferme n’arreste à la troisiesme race : « Ains fuit comme la bale, alors qu’au mois d’Esté « Le grain bien loin du van parmy l’aire est jetté. Mais sur tout, mon du Thier, jaloux je porte envie A ceste liberté nourrice de ta vie, Aux bons mots que tu dis, à ton esprit naïf, Si prompt et si gentil, si gaillard et si vif, Qui doctement adonne aux vers sa fantaisie, Te faisant amoureux de nostre Poësie.   Tu n’es pas seulement Poëte tresparfait, Mais si en nostre langue un gentil esprit fait Epigramme ou Sonet, Epistre ou Elegie, Tu luy as tout soudain ta faveur eslargie, Et sans le decevoir tu le mets en honneur Aupres d’un Cardinal, d’un Prince, ou d’un Seigneur, Cela ne peut sortir que d’un noble courage, Et d’un homme bien nay ; j’en ay pour tesmoignage Et Salel, et tous ceux qui par les ans passez Se sont pres du feu Roy par la Muse avancez.   Or je ne veux souffrir que les vistes carrieres Des ans, perdent le bien que tu me fis n’agueres : Et si ne veux souffrir qu’un acte grand et beau Que tu fis à deux Grecs, aille sous le tombeau, Deux pauvres estrangers, qui bannis de la Grece, Avoient prins à la Cour de France leur addresse, Incognus, sans appuy, pleins de soin et d’esmoy, Pensans avoir support ou d’un Prince, ou d’un Roy. Mais ce fut au contraire. Ô Princes, quelle honte D’un peuple si sacré (helas !) ne faire conte ! Ils estoyent delaissez presque à mourir de fain, Honteux de mendier le miserable pain, Quand à l’extrémité portant un tresor rare, S’addresserent à toy : c’estoit du vieil Pindare Un livret incognu, et un livre nouveau Du gentil Simonide esveillé du tombeau. Toy lors, comme courtois, benin et debonnaire, Ne fis tant seulement depescher leur affaire, Mais tu recompensas avec beaucoup d’escus Ces livres, qui avoyent tant de siecles veincus, Et qui portoyent au front de la marge pour guide Ce grand nom de Pindare et du grand Simonide, Desquels tu as orné le sumptueux chasteau De Beau-regard, ton œuvre, et l’en as fait plus beau Que si des Asiens les terres despouillées En don t’eussent baillé leurs medailles rouillées.   Pourquoy vay-je contant, moy François, les bienfaits Qu’à ces Grecs estrangers, liberal, tu as faits, Et je ne conte pas ceste faveur honneste Que je receu du Roy n’aguere à ta requeste ? Si je la celebrois, le vulgaire menteur, Babillard et causeur m’appelleroit flateur, Et diroit que tousjours ma Muse est favorable Vers ceux qui m’ont receu d’un visage amiable, Comme toy, mon du Thier, à qui certes je suis Deteur de tant de bien que payer ne te puis, Si pour estre payé tu ne prens ceste Muse Que j’envoye chez toy pour faire mon excuse. Tu ne la mettras pas (s’il te plaist) à mespris : La Muse fut jadis vers les Rois en grand pris : Des peuples elle fut autre-fois adorée, Et de toy par sus tous maintenant honorée.   Elle avecques Phœbus hardiment ose entrer Dedans ton cabinet, à fin de te montrer Ces vers mal-façonnez qu’humblement je te donne, Et (avecques les vers) le cœur et la personne.

He who pays honour to Kings, pays honour to God. Princes and Kings hold the highest place After the deity; and he who reveres also The servants of a King, honours the King himself. It is true my dear du Thier, that a man like you Is harder to celebrate than a King; For the glory of Kings is a fertile subject, And barely troubles a noble pen Or a lively hope, if it has received such good fortune, To make any effort if it is to sing their greatness.   On so fertile a theme, in abundance comes Idea upon idea, which the Muse takes up As in winter the streams which flow from a mountain Rush on, running into the sea endlessly; But to praise a lesser man, you need skill Lest his virtue appear to be vice.     So it is, my dear du Thier, that the greatest honours Which are shared in France by our greatest Lords, Are also shared by you, and if I dared say it To you alone ought we rightly ascribe them, As in-born in yourself; but these gods of the Court Clutch at my throat and quickly make me shut up!       As you often see in mines under ground, Whether silver or iron mines, great pillars of stone Which you can see hold up the mine with their arms And labour hard, yet do not labour; And there are other pillars which, far from the light, stand Within corners far off, which hold up the whole mass of stone; So great Lords, whether in war or peace, High in worth, seem to carry the mass Of France’s affairs on their wide shoulders, And yet it is you who bears the burden of them.         If there arrives a packet from Italy, or further afield, Maybe Corsica or Greece, or the ends of the Levant, They will neatly open it, but you will have to take it To your study afterwards to reply to the letter. For just as the heavens maintain only one Sun, France has only one du Thier who has no equal, Whether for wisely dealing with foreigners Or for cunningly replying to their packets; For both in the low style and the high, The grace of good French flows from your hand.   No man boasts of being happy in prose Who does not set before his eyes as a clear example Your writings and your style, and while exercising His handwriting, does not work to imitate you.   They say that Geryon, who tripled the conquests Of Hercules with his massive [body], was topped by three heads; You have more than a thousand, or at least a thousand brains All of which you engage in a thousand novel acts. For whether the sun is leaving the origin Of his home the Ocean, and hastening to its course His chariot to which Aurora with her own fair hand Harnessed the horses, drawn up beneath the reins; Or whether at midday he is firing his rays upon us And seeing everything [lying] directly beneath him; Or whether stooping to drink, thirsty and worn out, He is off to bathe again in the waves of the Ocean, And handing his chariot to the care of the sea-gods, Your mind has no rest, working ceaselessly, Like your tongue, and your hand; the mind in inventing, The hand in writing, the tongue in dictating Some letter to your clerks; or you decipher, alone And apart in your room, the riddles of the codes Which some new-come messenger has handed over, That the secrets of the King may not be known.   Here a German brings you news, Here a Spaniard stands before your door; English, Italian and Scots also Crowd at your door and give you trouble; One here, one there makes various requests; Then you must sign what the King commands, He who, weighing the effects of various arguments, Hands you in under a day a thousand commandments Of small, middling and great importance.   As well, you have charge of the great treasures of France: Duties, tributes, loans, tithes and taxes Do not leave a quarter-hour of rest for your mind Which delights in completing a thousand different things, And the more vigorous it is the more business it has. Indeed. just as a fish is fed by the water it swims in, And a salamander by the heat of a furnace, You are happy in your work, and your youthful old age Is fed on the work which never leaves you.   When you go in the morning to the King’s business A mob of people bustle along after you Hemming you in on this side and that And calling into your ears all sorts of plans; One hands you a petition, another tries to get you To let him make some present to the King, Another, approaching close to your ear, Asks if his letter has been hurried forward; One is angry at waiting, and never rests from Always following you and making demands; Another more graciously makes his bow to you, And another begs you to keep him in mind; In brief, the crowd presses on you and makes a great noise All around you, like a torrent rushing Bubbling through the bottom of stony valleys When in Spring the snows have melted.   You have barely dined when you must go To the Council, to hear them talk about business; Then to the King’s bed-time, then as is your custom You stay awake almost all night with your pen. And so our King gives you a favourable Greeting and cherishes you, and looks well on you, As on he who makes the greatest efforts in France; So does Montmorency, and Charles of Lorraine; Nor them alone, but all the people, and those who have minds Which can understand how much your writing is worth; And myself above all, who from close by admire Your virtue, which makes me write you this letter. When a man raises himself up to these great gods, Despising the little folk, becoming over-bold, His heart puffed up with arrogance and glory, He scorns everyone yet cannot believe That he is a man, subject to the attacks Of Fortune which may yet give him a nasty surprise; In the end, for sure, a terrible storm Of the King’s anger will ravage his head; And the more he considers himself the equal of princes, The more he’ll be made to swallow the laughter Of the nameless throng, that he might be an example Of pride struck down, to any eye that considers him.       But you, who have a mind free of envy and pride, Who make a noble object of contemplation for the virtuous, Who know how to act moderately when fortune is good, Who are a noble man, who attacks no-one, From day to day you find your happiness increased, Your glory and honour prolonged, Far from ambition, fraud and deception; And that’s the reason why the people Prize you, the people who never cease spying out The vices of Lords, and identifying them, And enjoy that: for “Of the things done By the great, good or bad, the people is the clarion”; And still they love you, and say that our King Has no servant more diligent than you.     Your heart is not blighted by execrable vice Of that filthy, mad and rapacious Avarice Which draws the treasures of the whole world into its hand; For since one must die, maybe tonight or tomorrow, What’s the use of piling up so much cash in a chest? Ah, since ungrateful Nature offers us only The use while we live of her goods, why desire So many possessions, why tear open The earth’s belly, and loftily build A proud Palace of marble and porphyry, In which perhaps (o folly!) you will not live, Taken first by death, and in which after your death Some spendthrift child of the miserly father – Young, foolish, debauched – will drink well, Will spend, play, lose and fritter away the goods Heaped up by his father, which cost him nothing? For “all worldly goods, whatever you make, Never remains to the third generation; It slips away like chaff, when in summer months The grain is thrown through the air, far from the winnowing basket.” But above all, my dear du Thier, I jealously desire That freedom, the nursemaid of your life, The fine words you speak, your uncomplicated spirit So quick and noble, so jolly and lively, Which learnedly gifts your verse with its imagination Making you like that Poetry of ours.   You are not only a most perfect Poet, But if in our tongue a noble spirit writes An epigram or sonnet, epistle or elegy, You immediately extend your favour to him And without deceiving him put him in a position of honour Close to a Cardinal, a Prince or a Lord; That cannot come from anything but a noble courage, And a well-born man; as witness of this I have Salel, and all those who in past years Were close to the late King, advanced by their Muse.     I do not want to allow the brief passage Of a few years to forget the good that you’ve done me lately; But also I do not want to allow a great and beautiful act To pass into the grave, which you did for two Greeks, Two poor strangers who, banished from Greece, Brought to the French Court their plea, Unknown and without influence, full of care and concern, Hoping to gain support from a Prince or a King. But they got the opposite. O princes, what shame For a people so blessed, alas, to pay no attention! They were left practically to die of hunger, Shamefully to beg for their wretched bread, When in their extremity bringing a rare treasure They addressed themselves to you: it was an unknown book Of old Pindar, and a new book Of noble Simonides awoken from the tomb. You then, like a courteous, benign and good-natured man, Not only made sure to hasten on their business But also repaid them with plenty of money For those books, which had outlasted so many centuries And which bore on their front edge as guide The great name of Pindar and great Simonides, With which you have adorned the sumptuous house At Beau-Regard, your own work, and with them made it more beautiful Than if the despoiled lands of the Asians Had given you as a gift their blighted decorations.   Why am I pleased, me a Frenchman, at the good deeds Which you did for these Greek visitors liberally, And yet don’t value that generous favour Which I received from the King lately at your request? If I celebrated that, the vulgar liar, Gossiper and chatterer would call me a flatterer And say that my Muse is always favourable To those who have received me with friendly face Like you, my dear du Thier, to whom I am certainly A debtor for so many benefits I cannot repay you – Unless to be paid you accept this Muse Whom I am sending you to make my excuses. You will not scorn her, please; That Muse was previously greatly prized by Kings, And by nations she was in past times adored, And is by you above all honoured now.   She with Phoebus bravely dares enter Your study, in order to show you These poorly-formed verses which humbly I give you, And, with the verses, my heart and person.

 

A huge panegyric today. Though the sentiments are as fawning as usual in this genre of poetry, the poetry itself is wonderfully muscular and flexible.

 

Inevitably there are a few classical references, but Ronsard carefully explains them as he goes.  I could add that Geryon was a three-headed monster slain by Hercules, but Ronsard has already made that clear. (Blanchemain adds that this stanza was suppressed, but only in posthumous editions.) Pindar and Simonides? No-one seems to be able to identify the ‘poor Greeks’ bringing gifts, nor therefore the gifts they brought. Pindar and Simonides were both highly-regarded in Hellenistic Greece as lyric poets, though their works survive in fragments so to some extent we need to accept their judgement: new manuscripts of theirs would indeed be highly-prized by scholars.

 

In the stanza before the Greeks bearing gifts, Ronsard calls to witness ‘Salel’: this is Hugues Salel, abbé de Saint-Cheron. He is known for undertaking the first translation of the Iliad into French – sadly incomplete, but finished by Amadis Jamyn – at the request of François I (who is the ‘late king’ referred to a line or two later).

 

Inevitably there are a few variants between editions. Here are Blanchemain’s, which are (as you can see) minor:

 

In the first stanza,

 

Il est vray, mon Du Thier, qu’un seigneur comme toy

Donne plus de travail à celebrer qu’un Roy;

Car la gloire des Roys en sujet est fertille,

Et ne travaille guère une plume gentille,

Ny un esprit gaillard, s’il a reçeu tant d’heur

Que de ne s’effrayer de chanter leur grandeur

 

 

                                                                                         It is true my dear du Thier, that a lord like you

                                                                                         Is harder to celebrate than a King;

                                                                                         For the glory of Kings is a fertile subject,

                                                                                         And barely troubles a noble pen

                                                                                         Or a lively mind, if it has received such good fortune,

                                                                                         To have any fear if it is to sing their greatness.

 

 

In the Geryon stanza:

 

Il s’aille rebaigner aux flots de l’océan

Et que son char en garde aux Dieux marins il baille,

Ton esprit n’a repos, qui sans cesse travaille

Et ta langue et ta main : l’esprit en inventant,

La main en escrivant, et la langue en dictant

Quelque lettre à tes clercs ; ou secret tu dechiffres

Dedans ta chambre à part les enigmes de chiffres …

 

 

                                                                                         He is off to bathe again in the waves of the Ocean,

                                                                                         And handing his chariot to the care of the sea-gods,

                                                                                         Your mind has no rest, working ceaselessly,

                                                                                         Like your tongue, and your hand; the mind in inventing,

                                                                                         The hand in writing, the tongue in dictating

                                                                                         Some letter to your clerks; or you decipher, hidden

                                                                                         And apart in your room, the riddles of codes …

 

A couple of stanzas later,

 

Ainsi comme un poisson se nourrit en son eau,

Et une salemandre au brasier d’un fourneau,

Tu te plais en ta peine …

 

                                                                                         So as a fish is fed by the water it swims in,

                                                                                         And a salamander by the heat of a furnace,

                                                                                         You are happy in your work …

 

 

A couple of stanzas further on, in the stanza about Council meetings after dinner,

 

Quand un homme s’éléve auprés de ces grands Dieux,

Il devient bien souvent superbe, audacieux, …

 

                                                                                         When a man raises himself up to these great gods,

                                                                                         He very often becomes proud, over-bold, …

 

 

Then, at the end of the stanza about the Greeks bringing Pindar and Simonides,

 

Toy lors comme Courtois, benin et debonnaire,

Tu ne fis seulement dépescher leur affaire ;

Mais tu recompensas avec beaucoup d’escus

Ces livres qui avoient tant de siecles vaincus,

Et qui portoient au front de la marge pour guide

Ce grand nom de Pindare, et du grand Simonide,

Desquels tu as orné le somptueux chasteau

De Beauregard, ton œuvre, et l’en as fait plus beau

Que si Rome fouillant ses terres despouillées

En don t’eust envoyé ses medailles rouillées.

 

 

                                                                                        You then, like a courteous, benign and good-natured man,

                                                                                        Not only made sure to hasten on their business

                                                                                        But also repaid them with plenty of money

                                                                                        For those books, which had outlasted so many centuries

                                                                                        And which bore on their front edge as guide

                                                                                        The great name of Pindar and great Simonides,

                                                                                        With which you have adorned the sumptuous house

                                                                                        At Beau-Regard, your own work, and with them made it more beautiful

                                                                                        Than if Rome, ransacking its despoiled lands

                                                                                        Had sent you as a gift their blighted decorations.

 

 

And then finally in the penultimate stanza,

 

Debteur de tant de bien que payer ne le puis …

 

                                                                                        A debtor for so many benefits I cannot repay them …

 

 

 

 [ PS  my 500th post! ]

 

 

 

Poems 1.18 – The Marigold / Worries

Although the poem is about the marigold, the French word also means ‘cares’ or ‘worries’ – particularly in Ronsard, the troubles of a lover. Here there is a subtext throughout, a message to his lady about the pain she causes him. The title in Blanchemain’s version, ‘the marigold in the garden’, sets the expectation of a rather less ambiguous poem, perhaps.

Le Souci   Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant et qui me plaist aussi : Non les soucis dont Amour me fait guerre, Mais les Soucis estoiles de la terre : Ains les Soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans et dorez sur le front.   La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit : L’Oeillet apres qu’Apollon contraingnit Joüer au disque, et qui le fist occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephire, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu.   Ces deux, Souci, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy : Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy.   Soit que ma Dame autrefois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’ame inclinée A voir, sentir et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur : Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison : Car de couleur ta couleur je ressemble, Tu es, Souci, mon frere ce me semble.   Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis.   Printemps, Hyver, tu gardes ta verdure : Printemps, Hyver, le soin d’amour me dure.   Double est ta fleur, ta fleur est simple aussi, Mon cœur est simple, et vit tousjours ainsi : Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma Maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé.   Quand le Soleil ton amoureux s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, desfait : mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se resveillant, tu t’esveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessilles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul Soleil te donnant mort et vie.   Quand je ne voy mon beau Soleil levé, De toutes parts un sommeil agravé Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne.   Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, des yeux du cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’esclairant me reluist dedans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux Astres attaché.   On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens : Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude Maistresse, Qui froide et lente et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle : Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle.   Adieu Souci, si Cherouvrier passant Par son jardin voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’Hyver surpasse, Que l’Aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir : Soir et matin fay le moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes resemble, Qui presque vit et presque meurt ensemble : Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps.   Si en naissant ce grand Maistre qui donne Heur et malheur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une ame par l’oreille : Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de tant de beaux accords.   En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse Musique J’ay l’autre ardeur, la vérve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme mon souci, Ou s’il n’est vray, je me console ainsi.   Donq si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois : mais ne pouvant chanter, De l’autre ardeur il me faut contenter.

The Marigold   I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares with which Love makes war on me But the flowery stars of the earth, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows.   The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine [Venus of Mt Eryx] And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which Apollo made Play at the discus and whom Zephyr made him kill Without considering his lover, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans.   These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not.   Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because in my colour your colour I resemble You are, marigold, my brother, it seems.   You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away.   In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me.   Double is your flower, but single too ; My heart is single, and lives always thus ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled.   When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life.   When I do not see my own Sun arise, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one.   But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my heart’s eyes I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars.   They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her.   Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time.   If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of so many fine harmonies.   Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my cares – Or so I console myself, even if it is not true.   So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With that other passion I must content myself.

 

We met Guillaume Cherouvrier a while back in one of Ronsard’s more cynical poems, so it is good to find him here as the recipient of something far less cynical!  You may recall he was a member of the Royal Chapel, hence the reference to ‘his music’ near the end of the poem.

 

Tethys in the middle of the poem is the sun’s ‘hostess’ because she is a sea-nymph, and of course the sun spends his nights in the sea. Adonis, near the beginning, is more usually associated with the blood-red anemone, though it’s obvious why the rose could also fit; he links closely to Venus (who loved him) but not especially to her cult on Mt Eryx in Sicily.  The three lines about the carnation are confusing, not least because you need to know the story to be able to work out who is doing what to whom! The carnation here replaces the hyacinth: Hyacinth was loved by Apollo, but also by Zephyr who, while Apollo and Hyacinth were throwing the discus, blew it off course so that Apollo’s throw killed Hyacinth. So here the meaning is that Apollo made Hyacinth play, Zephyr made Apollo kill him, sacrificing his own love to spite Apollo. (Apollo transformed the blood of Hyacinth into a flower, marked with his tears or the blood depending on the version of the myth and the flower it represents!)

 

I should just mention the ‘double / single’ antithesis in the middle of the poem. Ronsard’s words are “double / simple”, so that each time something is ‘single’ it is also ‘simple’. I have reluctantly chosen ‘single’, so that the antithesis works, but I feel that the other meaning, of simplicity, is really the one that should come through!

 

Let’s have a look at the variant texts offered by Blanchemain: 

 

Le Souci du Jardin   Au Sieur Cherouvrier Excellent musicien   Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant, et qui me plaist aussi ; Non les soucys qui tout le cœur nous serre, Mais les Soucis, estoilles d’un parterre, Ains les soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans, et dorez sur le front.   La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit ; L’œillet après qu’Apollon contraingnit Jouer au disque, et qui le fit occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephyre, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu.   Ces deux, Soucy, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette, Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy ; Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy.   Soit que ma dame autresfois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’âme inclinée A voir, sentir, et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur ; Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison ; Car de couleur, Soucy, je te ressemble, Tu es, Soucy, mon frere, ce me semble.   Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis.   Printemps, hyver, tu gardes ta verdure ; Printemps, hyver, le soin d’amour me dure.   Double tu es et simple. Quant à moy J’ay simple cœur et j’ay simple la foy ; Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé.   Quand le soleil, ton amoureux, s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, défait ; mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se réveillant, tu t’éveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessiles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul soleil te donnant mort et vie.   Quand je ne voy les yeux de mon soleil, De toutes parts un aggravé sommeil Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne.   Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, d’yeux et de cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’éclairant me reluit dans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux astres attaché.   On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens ; Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude maistresse, Qui froide et lente, et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle ; Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle.   Adieu, Souci ! si Cherouvrier, passant Par son jardin, voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’hyver surpasse, Que l’aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir ; Soir et matin fay-le-moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes ressemble, Qui presque vit, et presque meurt ensemble ; Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps.   Si en naissant ce grand maistre qui donne Heur et mal-heur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une âme par l’aureille ; Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de mes divers accords.   En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse musique, J’ay l’autre ardeur, la verve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme ma langueur, Me fait gaillard et me tient en vigueur.   Doncq’ si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel, qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois ; mais ne pouvant chanter, D’escrire en vers il me faut contenter.

The garden Marigold   To my lord Cherouvrier An excellent musician   I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares which grip our whole heart But the flowery stars of a lawn, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows.   The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which forced Apollo Play at the discus and made him kill Without considering it the amorous Zephyr, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans.   These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not.   Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because my colour resembles yours, marigold, You are, marigold, my brother, it seems.   You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away.   In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me.   Double you are and single too ; as for me, I have a single heart and my faithfulness is single too ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled.   When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life.   When I do not see the eyes of my own sun, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one.   But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my eyes and heart I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars.   They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her.   Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time.   If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of my varied harmonies.   Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my pining, Makes me jolly and keeps me vigorous.   So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With writing in verse I must content myself.

 

Note that the variant of line 3 is placed by Blanchemain in a footnote and his ‘preferred’ text retains the same line 3 as in Marty-Laveaux. In mid-poem I find the text “dans l’ame” odd – it scans but only painfully, and the revised version (“dedans l’ame”) works so much more easily!

 

 

 

Poems 1.20 – the Nightingale

 

LE ROSSIGNOL chantant et faisant son nid dedans un genèvre   Gay Rossignol honneur de la ramée, Qui jour et nuit courtise ton aimée Par mon jardin hoste de sa verdeur, Quarante jours desgoisant ton ardeur Et t’esclatant d’une voix qui gringote Ores en haute ores en basse note, A bec ouvert d’un siffletis trenchant, Hachant coupant entrerompant ton chant De cent fredons, tu donnes à ta femme Un doux martel, amoureux de ma Dame.   Tu n’aurois point tant de faveur sinon Que les vieux Grecs t’ont nommé d’un beau nom : Mais bien de deux, t’appellent ce me semble, D’un mesme mot, Chantre et Poëte ensemble.   Et je dirois, si j’estois un bragard, Que Rossignol vient du nom de Ronsard.   Mais ce n’est moy qui ma Musique vante : Soit bien soit mal, Rossignolet, je chante Ainsi que toy pour me donner plaisir, Quand j’ay Madame argent et le loisir. Quoy ? qui t’esmeut de courtiser sans cesse Et d’enchanter Genévre ma Maistresse ?   En ce Genévre où tu chantes de nuit, Dessous l’escorce une pucelle vit, A qui l’amour la peur et l’avanture Ont fait changer de face et de nature.   Un jour ce Dieu tout bouquin par le front La poursuivoit d’un pied de chévre pront. Elle courant d’une fuite legere Ainsi pria Diane bocagere : Ou me transforme, ou bien fay moy mourir : La seule mort me pourra secourir Ains que l’ardeur de ce Bouquin je sente.   A-peine eut dit, qu’elle fut une plante : Ses doigts longuets, ses bras veneux et beaux, Comme ils estoyent, se changent en rameaux. Son pied devint une morne racine, Et une escorce entourna sa poitrine. Puis ses cheveux de crainte reboursez Espars se sont en fueilles herissez, Et la palleur qu’elle avoit en sa fuite, Vit sur l’escorce et tousjours y habite.   Un jour lassé de la chasse des loups, Seul à l’escart je m’endormi dessous L’ombre fatal de ce Genévre, et elle En corps humain m’apparut toute telle Qu’elle fut lors que le Bouc amoureux La poursuivoit par un taillis ombreux, Tant il avoit de flames dedans l’ame Pour la beauté d’une si jeune Dame. Depuis ce jour jamais je n’ay cessé D’avoir le cœur de son amour blessé, Et de languir pour un si beau visage.   Et toutefois brave de ton ramage Chantant sifflant et faisant mille tours, Tu veux tout seul jouyr de mes amours, Que de bon cœur, Rossignol, je te laisse : Car tu vaux mieux que ne fait ma Maistresse.   Et qui plus est, comme on voit un mary Plein de finesse entre Dames nourri, Faire secret l’amour à sa voisine : Quand il n’a pas une femme trop fine, La persuade avec un beau parler, De la hanter, visiter et d’aller Boire et manger souvent avecques elle, A fin d’avoir (par une ruse telle) Plus de moyen d’œillader les beaux yeux Qui de son cœur se font victorieux.   Ainsi rival ta femme tu ameines Dedans cest arbre, où d’un nid fait de laines Mousses, duvets, ses petits elle pond, Esclost, escouve, et qui apres se font Ainsi que toy au retour des fueillages Quarante jours Sereines des bocages.   Quoy ? Rossignol, la voix ne te defaut ! Et par despit tu t’efforces plus haut !   Puis qu’autrement ma verve poëtique Ne peut gaigner ton ramage rustique, Va, Rossignol, je laisse seul pour toy L’arbre amoureux qui n’a souci de moy, L’arbre gentil, et toutefois farouche, Qui fait saigner aussi tost qu’on le touche.   Tandis, Girard, que la fiévre me tient Reins, teste, flanc, la Muse m’entretient, Et de venir à mon lit n’a point honte.   Or des propos que sa bouche me conte Je t’en fais part, à fin qu’à l’advenir De ton Ronsard te puisses souvenir.

The Nightingale singing and making its nest in a juniper-bush   Happy nightingale, the branch’s pride, Who court your beloved day and night In my garden, the guest of its greenery, For forty days singing of your passion And crying out with a voice which chirps Now with a high, now with a low note, Your beak open in a piercing whistle, Chopping, cutting off and interrupting your song With a hundred twitterings, you give your wife A sweet jealousy, beloved of my Lady.   You’d not have such favour if The ancient Greeks had not given you a fine name ; Indeed with two, it seems to me, thay named you In a single word, Singer and Poet together.   And I would say – if I were a braggart – That ‘Rossignol’ [Nightingale] comes from the name ‘Ronsard’.   But it’s not myself my poems boast of : For good or bad, nightingale, I sing Like you to give myself pleasure, Since I have my Lady, money and leisure-time. What or who [ moved ] you to court unceasingly And to enchant my mistress, the Juniper ?   In that juniper where you sing at night, Beneath the bark there lives a maiden Whose form and nature have been changed By love, fear and mischance.   One day that god with horns on his brow Was pursuing her on his swift stag’s-foot. As she ran with light fleeing steps, She prayed thus to Diana, goddess of the woods : « Transform me, or let me die : Death alone can help me Such is this Horned God’s passion I feel. »   She had barely spoken when she became a plant : Her fingers long and thin, her arms veined and fair As they were, changed into branches. Her feet became a sad root, And bark encircled her breast. Then her hair, standing up in fear, Was spread out in bristling leaves And the pallor she had in her flight Lived on in the bark, and still remains there.   One day, tired from hunting wolves, Alone and apart i fell asleep beneath The fatal shade of this juniper, and she Appeared to me in human form just as She had been when the amorous Horned God Pursued her through a shady copse, Such a fire had he in his soul Because of so young a lady’s beauty. Since that day i have never ceased To bear a wound in my heart for her love, And to pine for so pretty a face.   And yet bold in your plumage, Singing, whistling and turning a thousand times, You want to be the only one enjoying that love of mine Which I happily resign to you, nightingale ; For you are worth more than my mistress !   And what is more, as one sees a married man Full of cunning, fostered among the ladies, Making secret love to his neighbour ; if he has a wife who is not too clever, He persuades her with fine words To visit and see her frequently, to go To eat and drink often with her, So that hem ay have (by such a ruse) More means of looking into the fair eyes Which have conquered his heart ;   Just so you are bringing your own wife as a rival To this tree, where in a nest made of wool, Moss, feathers she lays her little ones, Hatches, broods them, and after that becomes Like you, when the leaves come back, For forty days the Sirens of the woods.   May your voice not fail you, nightingale ! In envious competition, force yourself higher !   As otherwise my poetic inspiration Cannot beat your rustic plumage, Go on, nightingale – I leave for you alone The tree I love which has no care for me, The noble tree yet still timid Which bleeds as soon as it is touched.   Yet, Girard, while the fever grips my Guts, head, body, my Muse converses with me And is not ashamed to come to my bed. So, the words which her mouth relates I share with you, that in the future You may remember your Ronsard.

 

It’s the story of Daphne, pursued by Apollo, and turned into a laurel tree, which inspires this tale of a nymph turned into a juniper tree. As far as I know there isn’t a classical myth regarding the juniper, just Ronsardian invention.

 

As a footnote, it is possible there was a real lady Genèvre, with whom Ronsard flirted – though probably some time earlier than the late 1560s when he wrote this. There are two Elegies to her (though neither is especially ‘elegiac’ in tone); and she may have been the wife of Blaise de Vigenère, diplomat, scholar, alchemist and the “perfect incarnation of erudite genius in the Renaissance”.  His name may be familiar as the inventor (or rather improver) of the Vigenère cypher, which is an excellent simple cypher still useable today. But in his time he was known as translator of a range of Roman and Greek works, and author of works on alchemy (or perhaps chemistry) and comets, among others. Perhaps it would be appropriate for Ronsard to disguise his wife under a ‘cipher’, in the form of an anagram: Vigenère –> Genièvre.

 

The poem is dedicated to Jehan Girard, a friend of Robert Garnier (the tragedian, whom we’ve met before) and a councillor in Le Mans – not the Jehan Girard who  was printing protestant books in Geneva a decade or two earlier!

 

Back to the poetry. It’s odd that something which looks so much like an oocasional poem should have attracted so much revision by Ronsard. But let’s remember that what appears a little playful address to a bird, is in fact closely modelled on episodes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and aspires to similar heights. Blanchemain’s (early) version is set out below in full, so much variation is there. Note that this version carries a dedication to Claude Binet, poet and Ronsard’s first biographer.  But this is not the first time we’ve seen Ronsard adapt an earlier dedication to another subject later in life, reflecting the changing patterns or networks of influence and patronage over time.

 

 

LE ROSSIGNOL chantant et faisant son nid dedans un genévre de son jardin   A Claude Binet     Gay Rossignol honneur de la ramée, Qui jour et nuict courtises ton aimée Dans mon jardin desgoisant tes amours Au mois d’avril le père des beaux jours, Et t’esclatant d’une voix qui gringote Ores en haute, ores en basse note, A gorge ouverte, à pleins poulmons trenchant, Hachant coupant entre-rompant ton chant De cent fredons, tu donnes à ta femme Un doux martel. Amoureux de ma Dame, Tu m’es rival, d’où vient cela ? sinon Que les vieux Grecs t’ont nommé d’un beau nom : Mais bien de deux, t’appellant ce me semble, D’un mesme mot, Chantre et Poëte ensemble. Et je dirois, si j’estois un bragard, Que Rossignol vient du nom de Ronsard.   Mais ce n’est moy dont ma Muse se vante : Soit bien soit mal, Rossignolet, je chante Ainsi que toy pour me donner plaisir, Quand j’ay maistresse, argent et le loisir. Quoy ? qui t’esmeut de caresser sans cesse De tes fredons Genévre ma Maistresse ?   En ce Genévre où tu chantes de nuit, Dessous l’escorce une pucelle vit, A qui l’amour la peur et l’avanture Ont fait changer de face et de nature.   Un jour ce Dieu, qui a cornes au front La poursuivoit d’un pied de chévre pront. Elle courant, ayant recours aux larmes, Ainsi pria : « Diane, par tes charmes Ou me transforme, ou bien fay moy mourir : La seule mort me pourra secourir Ains que l’ardeur de ce Bouquin je sente. »   A-peine eut dit, qu’elle fut une plante : Ses doigts longuets, ses bras veineux et beaux, A longs fourchons se fendent en rameaux ; Son pied devint une morne racine, Et une escorce entourna sa poitrine. Ses longs cheveux de crainte rebroussez, Espars se sont en fueilles herissez, Et la palleur qu’elle avoit en sa fuite, Vit sur l’escorce et tousjours y habite.   Un jour lassé de la chasse des loups, Seul à l’escart je m’endormi dessous L’ombre fatal de ce Genévre, et elle En corps humain m’apparut toute telle Qu’elle fut lors que le Bouc amoureux La poursuivoit par un taillis ombreux, Tant il avoit de flames dedans l’ame Pour la beauté d’une si jeune Dame. Depuis ce jour jamais je n’ay cessé D’avoir le cœur de son amour blessé, Et de languir pour un si beau visage.   Et toutefois hautain de ton ramage Chantant sifflant et faisant mille tours, Tu veux tout seul jouyr de mes amours, Que de bon cœur, Rossignol, je te laisse : Car ton fredon merite ma Maistresse.   Et qui plus est, comme on voit un mary Plein de finesse entre Dames nourri, Faire secret l’amour à sa voisine : Quand il n’a pas une femme trop fine, La persuade avec un beau parler, De la hanter, visiter et d’aller Boire et manger souvent avecques elle, A fin d’avoir (par une ruse telle) Plus de moyen d’œillader les beaux yeux Qui de son cœur se font victorieux.   Ainsi rival ta femme tu ameines Dedans cest arbre, où d’un nid fait de laines Mousses, duvet, ses petits elle pond, Esclost, escouve, et abeche, qui sont Un an après, au retour des fueillages Quarante jours Sereines des bocages.   Quoy ? Rossignol, la voix ne te defaut ! Et par despit tu t’efforces plus haut !   Puis qu’autrement ma verve poëtique Ne peut gaigner ton ramage rustique, Va, Rossignol, tu auras seul pour toy L’arbre amoureux qui n’a souci de moy, L’arbre gentil, et toutefois farouche, Qui fait saigner aussi tost qu’on le touche.   Tandis, Binet, que la fiévre me tient Reins, teste, flanc, la Muse m’entretient, Et de venir à mon lit n’a point honte.   Or des propos que sa bouche me conte Je t’en fais part, à fin qu’à l’advenir De ton Ronsard te puisse souvenir.

The Nightingale singing and making its nest in a juniper-bush in his garden   To Claude Binet     Happy nightingale, the branch’s pride, Who court your beloved day and night In my garden, singing of your passion In the month of April, father of fine days, And crying out with a voice which chirps Now with a high, now with a low note, Your throat open, whistling fit to burst, Chopping, cutting off and interrupting your song With a hundred twitterings, you give your wife A sweet jealousy. Beloved of my Lady, You are my rival – why is that ? unless because The ancient Greeks gave you a fine name ; Indeed two, naming you, it seems to me, In a single word, Singer and Poet together. And I would say – if I were a braggart – That ‘Rossignol’ [Nightingale] comes from the name ‘Ronsard’.   But it’s not myself my Muse boasts of : For good or bad, nightingale, I sing Like you to give myself pleasure, Since I have a mistress, money and leisure-time. What or who inspired you to caress unceasingly With your chirping my mistress, the Juniper ?   In that juniper where you sing at night, Beneath the bark there lives a maiden Whose form and nature have been changed By love, fear and mischance.   One day that god who has horns on his brow Was pursuing her on his swift stag’s-foot. As she ranhaving recourse to tears, She prayed thus : « Diana, by your charms Transform me, or let me die : Death alone can help me Such is this Horned God’s passion I feel. »   She had barely spoken when she became a plant : Her fingers long and thin, her arms veined and fair Split into long-forked branches. Her feet became a sad root, And bark encircled her breast. Her long hair, pulled back in fear, Was spread out in bristling leaves And the pallor she had in her flight Lived on in the bark, and still remains there.   One day, tired from hunting wolves, Alone and apart i fell asleep beneath The fatal shade of this juniper, and she Appeared to me in human form just as She had been when the amorous Horned God Pursued her through a shady copse, Such a fire had he in his soul Because of so young a lady’s beauty. Since that day i have never ceased To bear a wound in my heart for her love, And to pine for so pretty a face.   And yet proud of your plumage, Singing, whistling and turning a thousand times, You want to be the only one enjoying that love of mine Which I happily resign to you, nightingale ; For your chirping is worthy of my mistress.   And what is more, as one sees a married man Full of cunning, fostered among the ladies, Making secret love to his neighbour ; if he has a wife who is not too clever, He persuades her with fine words To visit and see her frequently, to go To eat and drink often with her, So that hem ay have (by such a ruse) More means of looking into the fair eyes Which have conquered his heart ;   Just so you are bringing your own wife as a rival To this tree, where in a nest made of wool, Moss, down, she lays her little ones, Hatches, broods and cuddles those who are A year later, when the leaves come back, For forty days the Sirens of the woods.   May your voice not fail you, nightingale ! In envious competition, force yourself higher !   As otherwise my poetic inspiration Cannot beat your rustic plumage, Go on, nightingale – you shall have for yourself alone The tree I love which has no care for me, The noble tree yet still timid Which bleeds as soon as it is touched.   Yet, Binet, while the fever grips my Guts, head, body, my Muse converses with me And is not ashamed to come to my bed.   So, the words which her mouth relates I share with you, that in the future It may remind you of your Ronsard.

 

 

 

 

 

Stances lyriques (Lyric stanzas) – from the Poèmes retranchées

This one comes with variant subtitles:  in Marty-Laveaux it is simply “pour un banquet” (‘for a banquet’); but the Blanchemain version is helpfully headed “Stances promptement faites pour jouer sur la lyre, un joueur respondant à l’autre, au baptesme du fils de Monsieur de Villeroy, en faveur de Monsieur de l’Aubespine à présent” (‘Stanzas written to be played on the lyre, one player responding to the other, at the baptism of the son of M. de Villeroy …’).  Here then is a prime example of Ronsard’s concern to make his poetry adaptable to music. Many of his ‘withdrawn’ items were withdrawn simply because their rhyme-schemes no longer fitted the more advanced ideas he developed – principally, about metrical regularity in the use of masculine & feminine endings (broadly, alternating 10-syllable and 11-syllable lines, which clearly has an impact on the way a composer sets the text).

I Joueur Autant qu’au Ciel on voit de flames Dorer la nuict de leur clartez, Autant voit-on icy de Dames Orner ce soir de leurs beautez.   II Joueur Autant que l’on voit une prée Fleurir en jeunes nouveautez Autant ceste troupe sacrée S’enrichit de mille beautez.   I La Cyprine et les Graces nuës, Se desrobant de leur sejour, Sont au festin icy venuës, Pour de la nuict faire un beau jour.   II Ce ne sont pas femmes mortelles Qui vous esclairent de leurs yeux, Ce sont Déesses eternelles, Qui pour un soir quittent les Cieux.   I Quand Amour perdroit ses flaméches Et ses dards trempez de soucy, Il trouveroit assez de fléches Aux yeux de ces Dames icy.   II Amour qui cause nos detresses Par la cruauté de ses dards, Fait son arc de leurs blondes tresses, Et ses fléches de leurs regards.   I Il ne faut point que l’on desire Qu’autre saison puisse arriver, Voicy un Printemps qui souspire Ses fleurs au milieu de l’Hyver.   II Ce mois de Janvier qui surmonte Avril par la vertu des yeux De ces Damoiselles, fait honte Au Printemps le plus gracieux.   I Ce grand Dieu, Prince du tonnerre, Puisse sans moi l’air habiter, Il me plaist bien de voir en terre Ce qui peut blesser Jupiter.   II Les Dieux épris comme nous sommes, Pour l’amour quittent leur sejour : Mais je ne voy point que les hommes Aillent là-haut faire l’amour.   I A la couleur des fleurs écloses Ces Dames ont le teint pareil, Aux blancs Lys, aux vermeilles roses Qui naissent comme le Soleil.   II Leur blanche main est un yvoire, De leurs yeux les astres se font : Amour a planté sa victoire Sus la Majesté de leur front.   I Las ! que ne suis-je en ceste trope Un Dieu caché sous un Toreau ? Je ravirois encore Europe Au beau milieu de ce tropeau.   II Que n’ay-je d’un Cygne la plume, Pour joüir encore à plaisir De ceste beauté qui m’allume Le cœur de crainte et de desir ?   I Amour qui tout void et dispense, Ces Dames vueille contenter : Et si la rigueur les offense, Nouvel amy leur presenter.   II Afin qu’au changer de l’année, Et au retour des jeunes fleurs, Une meilleure destinée Puisse commander à leurs cœurs.

Just as we see the lights in heaven Gild the night with their brightness, So we see here ladies Adorn the evenings with their beauty.     Just as we see a meadow Flower with fresh newness, So this holy band Enriches itself with a thousand beauties.     The Cyprian goddess [Venus] and the naked Graces, Abandoning their homes, Have come here to the feast To make night into fair day.     These are not mortal women Who light you with their eyes, These are eternal goddesses Who have, for an evening, have left the heavens.     When love loses his fiery bolts And his darts drenched in pain, He will find enough arrows In the eyes of these ladies here.     Love who causes our distress Through the cruelty of his darts Makes his bow from their blond tresses And his arrows from their glances.     We need not wish That another season might arrive, Here is spring, breathing out Its flowers in the midst of winter.     This month of January, which is better Than April because of the power in the eyes Of these maidens, makes ashamed Even the most graceful spring.     That great god, prince of thunder, Can live in the sky without me; I am quite happy seeing on earth That beauty which can wound Jupiter.     The gods, smitten as we are, Leave their dwelling for love; But I never see men Going up there to make love!     Like the colour of blossoming flowers Is the hue these Ladies have, Like white lilies, like crimson roses, Which grow as the sun.     Their white hands are ivory, Of their eyes are the stars made; Love has founded his victory On the majesty of their brows.     Alas, why can’t I be among this troop A god hidden beneath [the likeness of] a bull? I would again steal away Europa From the fair midst of this troop.     Why can’t I have the feathers of a swan, To play again at my pleasure With this beauty which fires my Heart with fear and longing?     Love, who sees all and grants all, Wishes to please these Ladies; And if my strictness injures them He will present them a new lover.     If only, at the turn of the year And when the young flowers come back, A better fate Might control their hearts.

 

 The ‘great god of the thunder’ (i.e. Jupiter) re-appears near the end of the poem as the bull who carried off Europa, and the swan that ravished Leda.

 

(Like most items “retranchées”, there is not much to report concerning variants: in this case, “fleurer” rather than ‘fleurir’ in the second verse (a variant conjugation for the verb) is about the only interest!)

 

To Jean Galland

Because I like it – and because it starts with a ‘G’ 🙂 – here is a « fragment que Ronsard n’a peu achever, prevenu de mort. » (a fragment Ronsard was unable to finish, overtaken by death).

 

Galland, ma seconde ame, Atrebatique race,

Encor que nos ayeux ay’nt emmuré la place

De nos villes bien loin, la tienne prés d’Arras,

La mienne prés Vendosme, où le Loir de ses bras

Arrouse doucement nos collines vineuses,

Et nos champs fromentiers de vagues limoneuses,

Et la Lise des tiens qui baignent ton Artois

S’enfuit au sein du Rhin, la borne des Gaulois :

Pour estre separé de villes et d’espaces,

Cela n’empesche point que les trois belles Graces,

L’honneur et la vertu, n’ourdissent le lien

Qui serre de si prés mon cœur avec le tien.

Heureux qui peut trouver pour passer l’avanture

De ce Monde un amy de gentille nature,

Comme tu es, Galland, en qui les Cieux ont mis

Tout le parfait requis aux plus parfaits amis.

Jà mon soir s’embrunit, et déja ma journée

Fuit vers son Occident à demy retournée,

La Parque ne me veut ny me peut secourir :

Encore ta carriere est bien longue à courir,

Ta vie est en sa course, et d’une forte haleine

Et d’un pied vigoureux tu fais jaillir l’areine

Sous tes pas, aussi fort que quelque bon guerrier

Le sablon Elean pour le prix du Laurier …

 

 

 

 

                                                                             Galland, my second soul, descended from the Atrebates,

                                                                             Although our ancestors had established the walls

                                                                             Of our towns far apart, yours near Arras

                                                                             And mine near Vendôme, where the Loir with its arms

                                                                             Gently waters our vine-bearing hills

                                                                             And our fields of wheat with its muddy waves,

                                                                             While the Lise with its [arms] which bathe your Artois

                                                                             Runs down to the bosom of the Rhine, the edge of Gaul;

                                                                             Though separated by towns and distance,

                                                                             That does not prevent the three fair Graces,

                                                                             Honour and virtue from weaving the bond

                                                                             Which binds my heart so closely with yours.

                                                                             Fortunate he who can find, to share the adventure

                                                                             Of this world, a friend of noble nature

                                                                             Like you, Galland, in whom the Heavens have placed

                                                                             Everything perfect required in the most perfect friends.

                                                                             Now my evening darkens, and my daytime

                                                                             Flees westward, half-passed,

                                                                             And Fate neither can nor will help me;

                                                                             But your career has long to run,

                                                                             Your life is set in its course, and with strong lungs

                                                                             And vigorous feet you make the sand leap

                                                                             Beneath your feet, as strongly as some fine warrior

                                                                             Might the sand of Elis to take the prize, the laurel-wreath …

 

 

 

Ronsard’s trusted friend Jean Galland was principal of the Collège de Boncourt in Paris, and after Ronsard’s death both organised an annual commemoration of the poet in the chapel there, and (together with Claude Binet) edited Ronsard’s late verse and put together the ‘Tombeau de Ronsard’, a (substantial) collection of poems in Ronsard’s honour. As well as his literary executor, Galland had been one of Ronsard’s closest companions, and had helped to nurse him in his decline – ‘without him he [Ronsard] could not live’, said Binet; Ronsard obviously loved him deeply. The Collège had other links with Ronsard’s circle: tragedies by Jodelle were performed there, and Muret taught Jodelle and Belleau there. In 1688 it was Pierre Galand, then principal, who merged the Collège with the Collège de Navarre.

 

This fragment is (obviously) very classicising, and stuffed with antique references.  The Atrebates were a tribe from the Pas-de-Calais area, who established an offshoot in southern England after Caesar’s conquest. The centre of the region is now Artois, its capital Arras, from which the river (now the Scarpe) heads east towards the Rhine and the border between Gaul and Germania.

 

Elis was a state in the south of ancient Greece: within it was Olympus, seat of the Olympic Games – so running on Elean sands is running in the Olympics.

 

A minor editorial note: Blanchemain has “Pour estre separés de villes et d’espaces” in line 9. The text above in effect says ‘though I am separated from you…’, while Blanchemain’s plural says ‘though we are separated…’ – I leave you to choose which you prefer.

 

 

 

 

Baiser (A kiss)

Ronsard closes his book of poems to Cassandre with a kiss:

Quand hors de tes lèvres décloses

(Comme entre deux fleuris sentiers)

Je sens ton haleine de roses,

Les miennes les avant portiers

Du baiser, se rougissent d’aise,

Et de mes souhaits tous entiers

Me font jouyr, quand je te baise.

Car l’humeur du baiser appaise,

S’escoulant au cœur peu à peu,

Ceste chaude amoureuse braise,

Dont tes yeux allumoient le feu.

 

 

                                                                               When from your unclosed lips

                                                                              (As between two flowery paths)

                                                                              I feel your rose-scented breath,

                                                                              My own lips, the door-keepers

                                                                              Of the kiss, redden easily,

                                                                              And all my longing

                                                                              Makes me happy when I kiss you.

                                                                              For the mood for kissing calms me,

                                                                              Flowing little by little to my heart,

                                                                              In whose warm and loving embers

                                                                              Your eyes could light a fire.

 

 

Though prominently placed, this poem post-dates the first collected edition – in fact it dates from 1572.  Blanchemain nevertheless includes it in his text; as so often with poems prominently placed, Ronsard came back and re-worked them in later editions, so Blanchemain’s early version begins rather differently:

 

 

Quand de ta lèvre à demi close,

(Comme entre deux fleuris sentiers)

Je sens ton haleine de rose,

Mes lèvres, les avant-portiers…

 

                                                                              When from your lips, half-closed,

                                                                              (As between two flowery paths)

                                                                              I feel your rose-scented breath,

                                                                              My lips, the door-keepers…

 

 

 

 

Another Peletier poem!

While breaking my rules and putting up another poet’s work, why not add a second? As a Latinist as well, I enjoyed Peletier’s thoughts on the value of the humanist renaissance of Latin poetry-writing!

A un poete qui n’escrivoit qu’en Latin.

 

J’escri en langue maternelle,

Et tasche a la metter en valeur :

Affin de la rendre eternelle,

Comme les vieux ont fait la leur :

Et soutien que c’est grand malheur

Que son propre bien mespriser

Pour l’autruy tant favoriser.

 

Si les Grecz sont si fort fameux,

Si les Latins sont aussi telz,

Pourquoy ne faisons nous come eux,
pour estre comme eux immortelz ?

Toy qui si fort exercé t’es,

Et qui en Latin escriz tant,

Qu’es tu sinon qu’un imitant ?

 

Croiz tu que ton Poeme approche

De ce que Virgile escrivoit ?

Certes non pas (tout sans reproche)

Du moindre qui du temps vivoit.

Mais le François est seul qui voit

Ce que j’escri : et si demeure

En la France, or j’ay peur qu’il meure.

 

Je respons, quoy que tu escrives

Pour l’envoyer en lointains lieux,

Sans ce que les tiens tu en prives,

On pense tousjours que des vieux

Le style vaut encores mieux :

Puis nostre langue n’est si lourde,

Que bien hault elle ne se sourde.

 

 

 

                                                                         To a poet who writes only in Latin

 

                                                                         I write in my mother tongue

                                                                         And try to give it value and power,

                                                                         So as to render it immortal

                                                                         As the ancients did theirs;

                                                                         I think it is a great pity

                                                                         For someone to scorn his own

                                                                         And to favour another’s so much.

 

                                                                         If the Greeks are so extremely well-known,

                                                                         If the Latins are known just as much,

                                                                         Why don’t we do as they did

                                                                         To be like them immortal?

                                                                         You who are so very skilled

                                                                         And who write so much in Latin,

                                                                         What are you, in the end, but an imitator?

 

                                                                         Do you believe that your poetry approaches

                                                                         That which Virgil wrote?

                                                                         Certainly not (I mean it without censure)

                                                                         No less than those who lived in his time.

                                                                         But Frenchmen are the only ones who see

                                                                         What I write: and so it remains

                                                                         In France alone – am I afraid that it might die?

 

                                                                         I reply, whatever you write

                                                                         To send to distant lands,

                                                                         You are depriving your own land of it;

                                                                         People always think that the style

                                                                         Of the ancients has such great value;

                                                                         But our own language is not so heavy

                                                                         That it too cannot rise so high.