Helen 2:71

Ceste fleur de Vertu, pour qui cent mille larmes

Je verse nuict et jour sans m’en pouvoir souler,

Peut bien sa destinée à ce Grec egaler,

A ce fils de Thetis, à l’autre fleur des armes.

 

Le Ciel malin borna ses jours de peu de termes:

Il eut courte la vie ailée à s’en-aller :

Mais son nom qui a fait tant de bouches parler,

Luy sert contre la mort de pilliers et de termes.

 

Il eut pour sa prouësse un excellent sonneur:

Tu as pour tes vertus en mes vers un honneur,

Qui malgré le tombeau suivra ta renommee.

 

Les Dames de ce temps n’envient ta beauté,

Mais ton nom tant de fois par les Muses chanté,

Qui languiroit d’oubly, si je ne t’eusse aimée.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            That flower of virtue, for which I pour night and day

                                                                            A hundred thousand tears without being able to sate myself,

                                                                            Could easily achieve an equal destiny with that Greek,

                                                                            That son of Thetis, the other flower of arms.

 

                                                                            Malign heaven limited his days to a short term;

                                                                            His winged life was quick to run away;

                                                                            But his name which made so many tongues speak

                                                                            Served him as a pillar and column against death.

 

                                                                            He had an excellent singer of his prowess;

                                                                            You have honour for your virtues in my verse,

                                                                            Which will preserve your renown despite the tomb.

 

                                                                            The Ladies of today do not envy your beauty

                                                                            But your name, sung so often by the Muses,

                                                                            Which would languish in oblivion if I had not loved you.

 

 

 

 

What sort of Valentine would Ronsard send? In all honesty, probably something like Sonnet 58 – but it’s fun to think he might have sent this instead. Yes, it says Helen is very desirable, very unapproachable, and her name will go down in history (it has). Yes it praises her virtues, even if it’s a little diffident about her beauty. But the real praise here is reserved for Ronsard himself – without whom, whatever short-term fame she might have (and that comment about her beauty suggests even that would be limited), she would not gain immortality.

 

A few notes. The opening octet is about Achilles, son of Thetis, immortalised by Homer in the Iliad. (Blanchemain, or Richelet, explains – does it need this? – that the phrase ‘winged to run away’ in line 6 means that his life was ‘ready to flee [or fly]’.)

A word that probably does need a word or two is the last one in lines 5 & 8 – “termes”. Surprisingly, perhaps, we can use the same word in English both times, as Ronsard did – but I haven’t, for clarity. The ‘term’ in line 8 is a Greek word, interchangeable with ‘herm’. The ‘herm’ was a statue – perhaps originally associated with Hermes the messenger-god – set up in the streets of Greek cities to turn aside misfortune. Hence it can be a ‘column against death’, an apotropaic to turn away death.

 

Only the upper body was carved as a statue, with the remainder being a four-sided pillar narrowing towards the foot. Many – as was often the case with classical apotropaics, had male genitals carved on the flat face of the pedestal at the appropriate height. In effect, a bust on a pedestal, except that it was all one continuous piece of work. (Richelet says, ‘Terms, or rather Herms, are statues of men or women without arms or legs, ending in a downwards point’.)

 

The herms are most famous for causing the downfall of one Athenian politician, Alcibiades, who famously got very drunk with his friends and went out knocking the genitals off a whole lot of the statues. As this damaged their effectiveness as preventers of trouble, and as this was at a critical state of the war between Athens and Sparta, Alcibiades was exiled and eventually condemned to death. [There is of course the possibility that he had nothing to do with this act of ‘sabotage’ and the accusation was politically convenient for his enemies.]

 

All that aside, and back to Ronsard’s main point – yes, it’s a proud poem, ‘Helen without me you will be forgotten’, but it is also a very accurate poem. But maybe not the ideal Valentine wish.

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:62

Ma Dame, je ne meurs abandonné d’espoir :

La playe est jusqu’à l’oz : je ne suis celuy mesme

Que j’estois l’autre jour, tant la douleur extréme

Forçant la patience, a dessus moy pouvoir.

 

Je ne puis ny toucher gouster n’ouïr ny voir :

J’ay perdu tous mes Sens, je suis une ombre blesme :

Mon corps n’est qu’un tombeau. Malheureux est qui aime,

Malheurueux qui se laisse à l’Amour decevoir !

 

Devenez un Achille aux playes qu’avez faites,

Un Telefe je suis, lequel s’en va perir :

Monstrez moy par pitié vos puissances parfaites,

 

Et d’un remede prompt daignez moy secourir.

Si vostre serviteur cruelle vous desfaites,

Vous n’aurez le Laurier pour l’avoir fait mourir.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            My Lady, I am dying abandoned by hope.

                                                                            My wound is to the bone. I am not even he

                                                                            Whom I was the other day, my extreme sorrow

                                                                            Beyond bearing has such power over me.

 

                                                                            I cannot touch, taste, hear or see :

                                                                            I have lost all my senses, I am a pallid shade ;

                                                                            My body is just a tomb. Unhappy he who loves,

                                                                            Unhappy he who allows himself to be deceived by love !

 

                                                                            Become an Achilles through the wounds you have given :

                                                                            I am your Telephus, who is going to die of them.

                                                                            Pity me and show your perfect power,

 

                                                                            Deign to help me with a prompt remedy.

                                                                            If you cruelly destroy your servant,

                                                                            You will not gain laurels for having killed him.

 

 

That last couplet is rather fun: a twist on the usual ‘killing me’ line, pointing out that no-one gets honoured for killing their own servant … The poem as a whole is interesting partly for showing how far our modern perception of the classics is from that of the past: Achilles we share, but Telephus?

 

The Trojan War is familiar to us, and the part of Achilles in it; and we are familiar with the ‘core’ Greek tragedies. But that the story of Telephus was a major preoccupation of the tragedians we are largely unaware – all three wrote (now lost) plays on the theme. And that familiarity with the tale extended to the renaissance, and not just in France: Shakespeare references Telephus in Henry VI part two.

 

So who was Telephus? The son of Heracles , he was wounded by Achilles in a preliminary to the Trojan War ; the wound would not heal, but the Delphic Oracle told him “your assailant will heal you”, a line which obsessed the Greeks and Romans. It turned out that he was to be healed by Achilles’ spear, not by Achilles himself, and the weapon that hurts & heals became a popular theme with  Roman poets – Horace, Ovid, Propertius and others all use it, often in this context of love poetry. Shakespeare’s use [Henry VI, Part 2, act 5.1.100–101] is witness to wider usage: “Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear / Is able with the change to kill and cure”.

 

(Wagner fans will readily see the similarities with the theme of the Holy Spear in ‘Parsifal’ which hurts and heals Amfortas.)

 

[For much more on the topic, see the vast Wikipedia article – an indication of the Telephus story’s lasting popularity through the centuries.]

 

Ronsard’s classicism of course runs deep: I like the second stanza whose details map onto the Virgilian underworld depicted in the Aeneid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Garnier’s tribute to Ronsard

It is SO long since I posted anything here: I hope to get going again & finish off Helen 2 at least. Meanwhile, it felt right to include Garnier’s tribute to the dead Ronsard – not least because my own attempt to preserve his memory has faltered …

This elegy was originally published in Binet’s memorial volume, Discours de la Vie de Pierre de Ronsard, in 1586. It was picked up and anthologised in 1778, in volume 8 of the Annales poétiques, ou Almanach des Muses, after which it reappeared several times elsewhere, copied from that anthology,and can now be found in several places on the web. But the 1778 anthologisers quietly abbreviated Garnier’s text – removing approximately 50% of it! So the versions found elsewhere are likewise abbreviated and I think this is the first time the full original text has been reproduced online.

Elégie sur le trespas de feu Monsieur de Ronsard   A monsieur des Portes Abbé de Thiron     Nature est aux humains sur tous autres cruelle, On ne voit animaux En la terre et au ciel, ny en l’onde infidele, Qui souffrent tant de maux.   Le rayon eternel de l’essence divine, Qu’en naissant nous avons, De mille passions noz tristes jours épine Tandis que nous vivons :   Et non pas seulement vivants il nous torture, Mais nous blesse au trespas, Car pour prevoir la mort, elle nous est plus dure Qu’elle ne seroit pas.   Si tost que nostre esprit dans le cerveau raisonne, Nous l’alons redoutant, Et sans cette frayeur que la raison nous donne, On ne la craindroit tant.   Nous creignons de mourir, de perdre la lumiere Du Soleil radieus, Nous creignons de passer sur les ais d’une biere Le fleuve stygieus.   Nous creignons de laisser noz maisons delectables, Noz biens et noz honneurs, Ces belles dignitez, qui nous font venerables Remarquer des seigneurs.   Les peuples des forests, de l’air et des rivieres, Qui ne voyent si loing, Tombent journellement aux mortelles pantieres Sans se gesner de soing.   Leur vie est plus heureuse, et moins sujette aus peines, Et encombres divers, Que nous souffrons chetifs en noz ames humaines, De desastres couverts.   Ores nous poind l’amour, Tyran de la jeunesse, Ores l’avare faim De l’or injurieus, qui fait que chacun laisse La vertu pour le gain.   Cetuy-cy se tourmente apres les grandeurs vaines, Enflé d’ambition, De cetuy-la l’envie empoisonne les veines Cruelle passion.   La haine, le courroux, le depit, la tristesse, L’outrageuse rancœur, Et la tendre pitié du foeble qu’on oppresse, Nous bourellent le cœur.   Et voila nostre vie, ô miserables hommes ! Nous semblons estre nez Pour estre, cependant qu’en ce monde nous sommes, Tousjours infortunez.   Et enquore, où le ciel en une belle vie Quelque vertus enclost, La chagrineuse mort qui les hommes envye Nous la pille aussi tost.   Ainsi le verd email d’une riante prée Est soudain effacé, Ainsi l’aymable teint d’une rose pourprée Est aussi tost passé.   La jeunesse de l’an n’est de longue durée, Mais l’Hyver aux dois gours, Et l’Esté embruny de la torche etherée Durent [orig : durant] presque toujours.   Mais las ! ô doux Printems, vostre verdeur fanie Retourne en mesme point, Mais quand nostre jeunesse une fois est finie Elle ne revient point.   La vieillesse nous prend maladive et facheuse, Hostesse de la mort, Qui pleins de mal nous pousse en une tombe creuse D’où jamais on ne sort.   Des Portes, que la Muse honore et favorise Entre tous ceux qui ont Suivy le saint Phebus, et sa science aprise Dessur le double mont.   Vous voyez ce Ronsard, merveilles de nostre age, L’honneur de l’Univers, Paitre de sa chair morte, inevitable outrage, Une source de vers.   De rien vostre Apollon, ny les Muses pucelles Ne luy ont profité, Bien qu’ils eussent pour luy les deux croppes jumelles De Parnasse quitté :   Et qu’ils eust conduits aux accords de sa Lire Dans ce François sejour, Pour chanter de noz Roys, et leurs victoires dire, Ou sonner de l’amour.   C’est grand cas, que ce Dieu, qui des enfance l’aime, Afranchit du trespas Ses divines chansons, et que le chantre mesme N’en affranchisse pas.   Vous en serez ainsi : car bien que vostre gloire, Espandue en tous lieux, Ne descende estoufée en une tombe noire Comme un peuple otieux,   Et que voz sacrez vers, qui de honte font taire Les plus grands du metier, Nous facent choir des mains, quand nous en cuidons faire, La plume et le papier.   Si verres vous le fleuve où tout le monde arrive, Et payrez le denier Que prend pour nous passer jusques à l’autre rive L’avare Nautonnier.   Que ne ressemblons nous aus vagueuses rivieres Qui ne changent de cours ? Ou au branle eternel des ondes marinieres Qui reflotent toujours ?   Et n’est-ce pas pitié, que ces roches pointues, Qui semblent depiter, De vents, de flots, d’oraige, et de foudres batues, L’ire de Jupiter,   Vivent incessament, incessament demeurent Dans leurs membres pierreux, Et que des hommes, tels que ce grand Ronsard, meurent Par un sort rigoureux ?   O destin lamentable ! un homme qui approche De la divinité Est ravy de ce monde, et le front d’une roche Dure un eternité.   Qui pourra desormais d’une alaine assez forte Entonner comme il faut La gloir de mon Roy, puisque la muse est morte Qui le chantoit si haut ?   Qui dira ses combats ? ses batailles sanglantes ? Quand jeune, Duc d’Anjou, De sa main foudroya les troupes protestantes Aux plaines de Poictou ?   Des portes qui sera-ce ? une fois vostre Muse, Digne d’estre en son lieu, Fuyant l’honneur profane aujourdhuy ne s’amuse Qu’au loüanges de Dieu.   Et qui sera-ce donc ? quelle voix suffisante, Pour sonner gravement Joyeuse nostre Achil, dont la gloire naissante S’acroist journellement ?   Qui dira son courage, indomtable à la peine, Indomtable à la peur, Et comme il appareille avec une ame humaine Un magnanime cœur ?   Comme il est de l’honneur, du seul honneur avare, D’autres biens liberal, Cherissant un chacun, fors celuy qui s’egare Du service royal ?   Ne permette Clion et Phebus ne permette Que Ronsard abattu Par l’ennuyeuse mort, ne se treuve Poëte Qui chante sa vertu.   Adieu, mon cher Ronsard, l’abeille en vostre tombe Face tousjour son miel, Que le baume Arabic à tout jamais y tombe, Et la manne du ciel.   Le Laurier y verdisse avec le lierre Et le Mirthe amoureus, Riche en mille boutons, de toutes parts l’enserre Le Rosier odoreus :   Le tin, le baselic, la franche Marguerite, Et nostre Lis François, Et cette rouge fleur, où la pleinte est escrite Du malcontent Gregeois.   Les Nymphes de Gâtine, et les Nayades sainctes, Qui habitent le Loir, Le venant arroser de larmettes epreintes, Ne cessent de douloir.   Las ! Cloton a tranché le fil de vostre vie D’une piteuse main, La voyant de vieillesse et de goutes suyvie, Torturage inhumain.   Voyant la povre France en son corps outragee Par le sanglant effort De ses enfans, qui l’ont tant de foys ravagee, Soupirer à la mort :   Le Souysse aguerry, qui aus combats se loüe, L’Anglois fermé de flots, Ceux qui boivent le Pau, le Tage et la Danoüe, Fondre dessus son dos.   Ainsi que le Vautour, qui de griffes bourelles Va sans fin tirassant De Promethé le foye, en patures nouvelles Coup sur coup renaissant.   Les meurtres inhumains se font entre les freres, Spectacle plein d’horreur, Et deja les enfans courent contre leurs peres D’une aveugle fureur :   Le cœur des Citoyens se remplit de furies, Les Paysans ecartez Meurent comme une haye : on ne voit que turies Par les chams desertez.   Et puis alez chanter l’honneur de nostre France En siecles si maudits, Attendez-vous qu’aucun vos labeurs recompense Comme on faisait jadis ?   La triste povreté noz chansons accompaigne, La Muse, les yeus bas, Se retire de nous, voyant que lon dedaigne Ses antiques ebats.   Vous estes donque heureus, et vostre mort heureuse, O Cigne des François, Ne lamentez que nous, dont la vie ennuyeuse Meurt le jour mile fois.   Vous errez maintenant aux campaignes d’Elise, A l’ombre des Vergers, Où chargent en tout tems, asseurez de la Bise, Les jaunes Orengers :   Où les prez sont toujours tapissez de verdure, Les vignes de raisins, Et les petits oyseaus, gasoüillans au murmure Des ruisseaus cristalins.   Là le Cedre gommeus odoreusement sue, Et l’arbre du Liban, Et l’Ambre, et Myrrhe, au lit de son Pere receüe, Pleure le long de l’an.   En grand’ foule acourus, autour de vous se pressent Les heros anciens, Qui boyvent le nectar, d’ambrosie se paissent, Aux bords Elisiens :   Sur tous le grand Eumolpe, et le divin Orphee, Et Line, et Amphion, Et Musee, et celuy, dont la plume eschauffee Mist en cendre Ilion.   Le loüengeur Thebain, le chantre de Mantoüe, Le Lyrique latin, Et aveques Seneque, honneur grand de Cordoüe, L’amoureus Florentin :   Tous vont battant des mains, sautellent de liesse, S’entredisant entre eux, Voyla celuy, qui donte et l’Itale et la Grece En poëmes nombreus :   L’un vous donne sa lyre, et l’au[t]re sa trompette, L’autre vous veut donner Son Myrthe, son Lierre, ou son Laurier profette, Pour vous en couronner.   Ainsi vivez heureuse, ame toute divine, Tandis que le destin Nous reserve aus malheurs de la France, voysine De sa derniere fin.

Elegy on the death of the late M.de Ronsard   To M. Desportes, abbot of Thiron     Nature is to men above all others cruel, We do not see animals On earth or in the skies, or in the treacherous seas, Suffering so many ills.   The eternal ray of the divine essence Which we receive at birth With a hundred passions troubles our sad days While we live.   And not only while we live does it torture us, But injures us at our death, For foreseeing death is to us harder Than the event itself will be.   As soon as our spirit reasons within our brains, We begin to fear it, And without this terror which reason gives us We would not be so frightened of it.   We are frightened of dying, of losing the light Of the radiant Sun, We are frightened of crossing, on the planks of a bier, The Stygian river;   We are frightened of leaving our delightful homes, Our goods and our honours, Those fine dignities which make us respected And noticed by lords.   The inhabitants of the forests, the air and the rivers Who do not see so far, Fall daily to death-dealing snares Without troubling themselves with worries.   Their life is happier, and less subject to the troubles And various burdens Which we weakly suffer in our human souls, Overcome by disasters.   Sometimes love afflicts us, that tyrant of our youth, Sometimes the greedy hunger For harmful gold, which makes everyone abandon Virtue for gain.   This man torments himself seeking empty greatness, Puffed up with ambition, That man’s veins are poisoned by envy, That cruel passion.   Hatred, anger, spite, sorrow, Hurtful bitterness, And tender pity for the weak who are oppressed Bubble away in our hearts.   And that’s our life, o wretched men! We seem to be born To be, while we are in this world, Always unfortunate.   And even when heaven includes Some happiness in a good life, Sorrowful death which envies men Steals it from us soon enough.   Just so the fresh mosaic of a gay meadow Is suddenly wiped away, Just so the lovely tint of a crimson rose Is soon enough past.   The year’s youth does not last long, But Winter with his stiff fingers And Summer scorched by the heavenly flame Last almost forever.   Alas, sweet Spring, your faded freshness Returns to the same state [each year] But when once our youth is finished It does not return.   Old age takes us, sickly and disagreeable, Death’s hostess, And, full of ills, pushes us into a dug grave From which none ever escapes.   Desportes, whom the Muse honours and favours Among all those of us who have Followed holy Apollo and learned his wisdom Upon the double mount:   You see this Ronsard, the marvel of our age, The glory of the world, Feeding with his dead flesh – an inescapable indignity – A stream of worms.   Nothing have your Apollo and his maiden Muses Profited him, Although for him they abandoned The twin mounts of Parnassus,   And although they have spent time, to the harmonies of his lyre, In this France of ours, To sing of our Kings and announce their victories, Or to celebrate love.   It’s very clear that the god who loved him from infancy Excepted from death His divine songs, and yet could not except from it The singer himself.   It will be the same for you: for although your glory, Spreading to every place, Will not descend, smothered, into a dark tomb Like unproductive folk’s,   And though your sacred verse, which for shame makes The greatest in the business fall silent, Makes the pen and paper fall from our hands, When we wish to use them:   Yet still you will see the river where every man arrives, And you will pay the penny Which the greedy Boatman takes That we may pass to the other side.   Why are we not like the rippling waters Which don’t change their course? Or the eternal movement of the sea’s waves Which break and break again?   Isn’t it a pity that those sharp rocks Which seem to despise The winds, the tides, storms and battering of lightning, The anger of Jupiter,   Live on eternally, remain eternally In their stony forms, And that men like the great Ronsard die By harsh fate?   O grievous destiny! A man who approaches The divine Is stolen from this world, and a rock-face Lasts an eternity.   Who will be able henceforth with so strong a voice To thunder as they should Of my King’s glory, since the muse is dead Who sang it so loudly?   Who shall sing of his combats? Of his bloody battles? Who when young, as the Duke of Anjou, Overthrew with his might the protestant troops On the plains of Poitou …   Deportes, who will it be? Once, perhaps, your muse Was worthy to be in his place; But fleeing worldly honours today she employs herself Only in the praise of God.   So who will it be? What voice sufficient To celebrate gravely Our joyous Achilles, whose budding glory Grows daily?   Who shall speak of his courage, unconquered by strife, Unconquered by fear, And how it equipped with a human soul A magnanimous heart?   How it is hungry for honour, for honour alone, Liberal with other good things, Cherishes everyone, even those who fall away From the king’s service?   Do not permit, Clio, and Apollo do not permit That Ronsard, defeated By grievous death, should not find a Poet To sing of his worth.   Farewell, my dear Ronsard, may the bees always Make their honey on your tomb, May balm from Arabia forever fall there With manna from heaven.   May the laurel flourish there, along with ivy And lovers’ myrtle, Rich with a thousand buds, and on all sides may The perfumed rose-bush embrace it,   And thyme, basil, the simple daisy, Our lily of France, And that red flower on which is written the plaint Of the unhappy Greek.   May the nymphs of Gastine and the holy water-nymphs Who live in the Loir Having just poured out and expressed their tears for you Not cease from grieving.   Alas! Clotho has cut the thread of your life With her pitying hand, Seeing it accompanied by old age and gout, Those inhuman tortures,   And seeing our poor France, wounded in her body By the bloody struggles Of her children, who have so many times ravaged her, Sighing for death;   And Switzerland at war, giving itself over to strife, England enclosed by the seas, And those who drink from the Po, Tagus and Danube Drowning beneath their waters;   Just like the vulture, which with its executioner’s claws Endlessly rakes The liver of Prometheus, in new pastures Renewing blow on blow,   Inhuman murders take place between brothers, A horrific sight, And now children rush upon their fathers In blind madness;   The hearts of city-dwellers are filled with Furies, The country-folk, swept aside, Die in their rows; we see nothing but killings Throughout the deserted countryside.   And yet you go on singing of the honour of our France In times so accursed: Do you expect anyone to reward your labours As they did in the past?   Wretched poverty accompanies our songs; The Muse, her eyes lowered, Leaves us, seeing that we disdain Her former amusements.   So, you are fortunate, and your death fortunate, O Swan of the French, Lament only for us, whose troubled lives Die a thousand times every day.   You now wander in the fields of Elysium, In the shade of the orchards Where at all times, secure from cold northerly winds, The tawny orange-trees are laden;   Where the meadows are always carpeted in green, The vines with grapes, And the little birds go chattering to the murmur Of crystalline streams.   There the cedar sweats its perfumed gum, And the tree of Lebanon Weeps both amber and myrrh, received at its father’s bed, All year long.   Running up in a great crowd, around you press The ancient heroes Who drink nectar and feed on ambrosia On the banks of Elysium,   Above all great Eumolpe and godlike Orpheus And Linus and Amphion And Musaeus, and he whose burning pen Set fire to Troy;   The Theban praise-singer, the poet of Mantua, The Latin lyricist And, with Seneca the great glory of Cordoba, The Florentine love-poet,   All of them clapping their hands, leaping with joy, Saying to one another, “There he is, the man who surpassed Italy and Greece In many a poem”.   One of them gives you his lyre, another his trumpet, Another tries to give you His myrtle, his ivy, or his prophetic laurel To crown you with them.   So, live on happily, godlike soul, While fate keeps us back For the misfortunes of France, close To her final end.

 

(In verse 15, I have amended one word slightly, to form a proper sentence – though Garnier may have been deliberately leaving the sentence hanging.)

 

As one would expect, Garnier’s tribute ranges over the areas Ronsard himself wrote about – the King and the civil wars, classical myth, nature, love poetry, Ronsard’s home on the Loir … So there are plenty of relatively obscure references perhaps worth amplifying:

 – the dedication is to Ronsard’s “successor”, Philippe Desportes – a lesser poet, but one whose fame eclipsed Ronsard’s in the latter portion of his life;

 – verse 5, the “Stygian river”, the Styx, is the river between the living world and Hades, across which Charon the ferryman or boatman (verse 25) takes all dead souls;

 – verses 18 & 20, Parnassus (the ‘double mount’, at right – photo credit Rens van der Sluijs) is the traditional home of the Muses. Ovid called it ‘biceps’, that is ‘two-headed’, and between its twin peaks was Delphi, the ‘omphalos’ (navel, centre) of the world;

 – verse 33, ‘Achilles’ (the great soldier) means of course the King

 – verse 37, Clio is usually the Muse of history, but sometimes also the Muse of lyre-playing: both seem appropriate here;

 – verse 40, the ‘unhappy Greek’ is not Narcissus but Hyacinthus, whose flower bears the Greek letters AIAI (‘alas’, ‘woe’);

 – verse 41, the Gastine & Loir are familiar as part of Ronsard’s beloved estates;

 – verse 42, Clotho is one of the Fates who determine the length of a man’s life – though note that Clotho is normally the Fate who spins the thread of life, Atropos the one who cuts it …

 – verse 45, the story of Prometheus eternally having his liver torn out by the eagle (or vulture) by day only for it to re-grow overnight, is well-known;

 – verse 53, I confess I have no idea what the end of line 3 (“received at its father’s bed”) is referring to … Ideas welcome. Amber and myrrh (like frankincense too) are resinous – and therefore associated with the resin-rich cedars of Lebanon, though myrrh in particular comes form small thorn-trees not huge cedars;

 –  verse 55-56 list many of the greatest poets of the past, legendary and historical.

     – Eumolpe (or Eumolpos – which means ‘beautiful song’) was founder of the Eleusininan mysteries in ancient Athens;

     – ‘godlike Orpheus’ is still well-known to us if only for carelessly losing Eurydice after charming Cerberus, the hell-dog, and Hades himself with his song;

     – Linus, sometimes viewed as Orpheus’s brother, was the inventor of lyric song and/or the harp;

     – Amphion, one of the founders of Thebes, was taught music by the god Hermes himself – and has a modern poetic form named after him;

     – Musaeus, lawgiver of Athens, was also was held to have been one of the great poets by Athenians – Socrates in the Apology links his name with three others in this list: “What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer?”;

     – Homer indeed is the next on the list, he “whose burning pen Set fire to Troy”;

     – the “Theban praise-singer” is Hesiod, associated with Mt. Helicon in Boeotia.

Bringing us from legendary to historical poets, “the poet of Mantua” is Virgil and the “Latin lyricist” is Horace. Seneca, although we think of him as Roman, was indeed born in Spain, in Cordoba; and last in the list and the only ‘modern’, the love-poet from Florence is of course Petrarch.

 

Amours 2:59

Amour voulut le corps de ceste mousche prendre,

Qui fait courir les bœufs en esté par les bois,

Puis il choisit un trait de ceux de son carquois,

Qui piquant sçait le mieux dedans les cœurs descendre.

 

Il eslongna ses mains, et feit son arc estendre

En croissant, qui se courbe aus premiers jours du mois,

Puis me lascha le trait contre qui le harnois

D’Achille ny d’Hector ne se pourroit defendre.

 

Apres qu’il m’eut blessé en riant s’en-vola,

Et par l’air mon penser avec luy s’en-alla.

Penser va-t’en au Ciel, la terre est trop commune.

 

Adieu Amour adieu, adieu penser adieu :

Ny l’un ny l’autre en moy vous n’aurez plus de lieu :

Tousjours l’un me maistrise, et l’autre m’importune.

 

 

 

                                                                            Love decided to take on the body of that fly

                                                                            Which makes cattle run through the woods in the summer,

                                                                            Then he chose an arrow from those in his quiver,

                                                                            A sharp one which is best at sinking into the heart.

 

                                                                            He stretched out his hands, and made his bow stretch

                                                                            Like the moon curving in the first days of the month,

                                                                            Then he released at me his arrow, against which the armour

                                                                            Of Achilles or Hector could not defend.

 

                                                                            After he’d wounded me he flew off laughing

                                                                            And my thoughts went off into the air with him.

                                                                            Thoughts, go off to heaven, the earth is too common.

 

                                                                            Farewell Love, farewell; farewell thoughts, farewell.

                                                                            Neither the one nor the other of you will any longer have a place in me.

                                                                            Always one is telling me what to do, the other begging me.

 

 

 

An entirely gratuitous Iliad reference in the second quatrain, Achilles and Hector being the heroes on each side of the Trojan War; but here representative purely of any armoured figure. And, although beginning with the image of the gadfly, Ronsard ignores it after the opening couplet. So, in the end, a relatively standard presentation of the image of love and his arrows – the main interest therefore being in the final tercet with its unusual outcome!

 

Blanchemain sees this poem as a ‘madrigal’, i.e. it has an extra line (4-4-3-4 instead of 4-4-3-3). Apart from a minor adjustment in line 3 (“Puis il choisit un trait sur tous ceux du carquois…”, ‘Then he chose an arrow from all those in his quiver’), he offers a completely different, but much more ‘standard’ (and less surprising) ending. Here’s the second jalf of the poem again in his version:

 

Apres qu’il m’eut blessé en riant s’en-vola,

Et par l’air mon penser avec luy s’en-alla ;

Mais toutesfois au cœur me demoura la playe,

 

Laquelle pour néant cent fois le jour j’essaye

De la vouloir guerir ; mais tel est son effort

Que je voy bien qu’il faut que maugré moy je l’aye,

Et que pour la guerir le remede est la mort.

 

 

                                                                            After he’d wounded me he flew off laughing

                                                                            And my thoughts went off into the air with him.

                                                                            But still the wound remained in my heart,

 

                                                                            Which I fruitlessly try a hundred times a day

                                                                            To get it cured; but such is its strength

                                                                            That I well see I’ll have to keep it despite myself,

                                                                            And that the remdey for curing it is death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elégie à Janet, Peintre du Roy – Elegy, to Janet the King’s artist (Am. 1:228b)

Today, nearly 200 lines of charming verse – twice!

Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.   Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Serrez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent.   Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est l’eau de la marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort.   Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée.   Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose.   Mais las! Janet, helas je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : L’un soit piteux et larmoyant à voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Pres de la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné.   Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose.   Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc ny court, ny aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.   Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant.   Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche.   Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans.   Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine.   Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre.   Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette.   Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main egale à celle de l’Aurore.   Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’u, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si lon peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite.   Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, entre-ouvert et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.   Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font qu’à l’heure à se rougir au bout.   Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere.   Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet favoris du Soleil.   Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye.   Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour A pleine chair, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice.   Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees.   Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis.   Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy.

Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair.   First, make her hair in waves, Tied up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them.   Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the waters of the sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep.   Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man.   Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing.   But ah, Janet, ah ! I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Let one be pitiful to see, in tears, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears beside the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her.   Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase.   But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, not short nor aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound.   Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink.   In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart.   Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his verse could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within.   Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea.   Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow.   Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long.   Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands equal to the Dawn’s.   I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect.   As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, half-uncovered, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver.   Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder by the moment at the tip.   Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera.   A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, the Sun’s favourite.   What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through.   Her thighs should be made like towers Full-fleshed, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building.   Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae.   Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes.   Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me.

 

We’ve met the painter Janet – a.k.a. François Clouet, known as Janet (‘Johnny’) as his father had been – before.

 

At the end of book 1, in two long Elegies, Ronsard puts on a firework display of classical names and references. But the two are done very differently: the Elegy to Muret (learned classicist and poet) is full of very obscure and learned references to Achilles; this poem (to Clouet) is full of readily-accessible classical references which point to well-known representations in art and (sometimes) literature, appropriate to a non-specialist like Clouet – and us! Let’s skim through them:

 – Zephyrs, that is to say just ‘gentle breezes’

 – Apelles is the ‘type’ of a great painter

 – Mars and Venus simply personify war and love

 – Ariadne & Theseus on Dia, another well-known image of the lady abandoned as her lover sails into the rising sun

 – Penelope and her husband Odysseus, famously separated for 20 years by his involvement in the Trojan War (Iliad) and then his adventures on the way home (Odyssey)

 – Homer, the ‘type’ of a great poet for his Iliad and Odyssey

 – the Graces, simply personifying ‘grace’ here

 – Juno and Minerva, ‘types’ for beauty because of their competition with Venus for the title of most beautiful in the ‘Judgement of Paris’

 – Dawn’s hands, because Homer always refers to ‘rosy-fingered Dawn’

 – Venus was born (and sometimes lived in) Cythera, with her son Cupid or Love; his brother is usually Anteros, the go of requited (as opposed to unrequited) love – not a god of games or jokes, as Ronsard seems to imply here. But clearly games and happiness in love are what is really going on here

 – the ‘maids of Laconia’ are those hardy Spartan lasses who used to do fighting and hunting like the Spartan boys. The city of Amyclae and the river Eurotas are in Sparta (the Peloponnese)

 – Thetis, a sea-goddess, leading Nereid and mother of Achilles, was surnamed ‘Silver-footed’ in classical times, and her feet are regularly used as a ‘type’ of beauty.

 

Overall, a lovely easy-going poem: Ronsard of course uses the form of the body to create expectation through the poem – we know he’s leading up to the breasts, and later the ‘part he dares not mention’, and that in itself gives the poem a certain sense of rise and fall.

 

The earlier version of course differs in detail, but also includes a whole extra ‘paragraph’ early in the description, later removed:

 

Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.   Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Nouez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent.   [Fais-lui le front en bosse revoûté, Sur lequel soient d’un et d’autre côté Peints gravement, sur trois sièges d’ivoire A majesté, la vergogne at la gloire.]   Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est la calme marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort.   Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée.   Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose.   Mais las! mon Dieu, mon Dieu, je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : Ou que l’un soit pitoyable a le voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Voyant la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné.   Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose.   Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc gresle, long, aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.   Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant.   Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche.   Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans.   Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine.   Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre.   Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette.   Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main pareille à celle de l’Aurore.   Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’eu, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si l’on peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite.   Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, profond et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.   Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font alors que se rougir au bout.   Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere.   Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet entr’ouvert au Soleil.   Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye.   Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour En grelissant, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice.   Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees.   Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis.   Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy.

Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair.   First, make her hair in waves, Knotted up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them.   [Make her brow projecting in an arc On which should be, on each side, Painted gravely modesty and glory In majesty on three ivory thrones.   Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the calm sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep.   Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man.   Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing.   But ah, my God, my God, I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Or, let one be pitiful to see, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears watching the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her.   Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase.   But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, slender, long, aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound.   Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink.   In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart.   Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his vere could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within.   Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea.   Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow.   Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long.   Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands like the Dawn’s.   I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect.   As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, deep, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver.   Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder at the tip.   Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera.   A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, half-open to the Sun.   What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through.   Her thighs should be made like towers Becoming slenderer, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building.   Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae.   Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes.   Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me.

 

 

 

 

Élégie à Cassandre (Am. 1.227b)

 

Mon œil, mon cœur, ma Cassandre, ma vie, Hé! qu’à bon droit tu dois porter d’envie A ce grand Roy, qui ne veut plus souffrir Qu’à mes chansons ton nom se vienne offrir. C’est luy qui veut qu’en trompette j’echange Mon luth, afin d’entonner sa louange, Non de luy seul mais de tous ses ayeux Qui sont là hault assis au rang des Dieux.   Je le feray puis qu’il me le commande : Car d’un tel Roy la puissance est si grande, Que tant s’en faut qu’on la puisse eviter, Qu’un camp armé n’y pourroit resister.   Mais que me sert d’avoir tant leu Tibulle, Properce, Ovide, et le docte Catulle, Avoir tant veu Petrarque et tant noté, Si par un Roy le pouvoir m’est oté De les ensuyvre, et s’il faut que ma Iyre Pendue au croc ne m’ose plus rien dire ?   Doncques en vain je me paissois d’espoir De faire un jour à la Tuscane voir, Que nostre France, autant qu’elle, est heureuse A souspirer une pleinte amoureuse : Et pour monstrer qu’on la peut surpasser, J’avois desja commencé de trasser Mainte Elegie à la façon antique, Mainte belle Ode, et mainte Bucolique.   Car, à vray dire, encore mon esprit N’est satisfait de ceux qui ont escrit En nostre langue, et leur amour merite Ou du tout rien, ou faveur bien petite.   Non que je sois vanteur si glorieux D’oser passer les vers laborieux De tant d’amans qui se pleignent en France : Mais pour le moins j’avoy bien esperance, Que si mes vers ne marchoient les premiers, Qu’ils ne seroient sans honneur les derniers. Car Eraton qui les amours descœuvre, D’assez bon œil m’attiroit à son œuvre.   L’un trop enflé les chante grossement, L’un enervé les traine bassement, L’un nous depeint une Dame paillarde, L’un plus aux vers qu’aux sentences regarde, Et ne peut onq tant se sceut desguiser, Apprendre l’art de bien Petrarquiser.   Que pleures-tu, Cassandre, ma douce ame ? Encor Amour ne veut couper la trame Qu’en ta faveur je pendis au métier, Sans achever l’ouvrage tout entier.   Mon Roy n’a pas d’une beste sauvage Succé le laict, et son jeune courage, Ou je me trompe, a senti quelquefois Le trait d’Amour qui surmonte les Rois.   S’il l’a senti, ma coulpe est effacee, Et sa grandeur ne sera corroucee Qu’à mon retour des horribles combas, Hors de son croc mon Luth j’aveigne à-bas, Le pincetant, et qu’en lieu des alarmes Je chante Amour, tes beautez et mes larmes. « Car l’arc tendu trop violentement, « Ou s’alentit, ou se rompt vistement.   Ainsi Achille apres avoir par terre Tant fait mourir de soudars en la guerre, Son Luth doré prenoit entre ses mains Teintes encor de meurdres inhumains, Et vis à vis du fils de Menetie, Chantoit l’amour de Brisëis s’amie : Puis tout soudain les armes reprenoit, Et plus vaillant au combat retoumoit.   Ainsi, apres que l’ayeul de mon maistre Hors des combats retirera sa dextre, Se desarmant dedans sa tente à part, Dessus le Luth à l’heure ton Ronsard Te chantera : car il ne se peut faire Qu’autre beauté luy puisse jamais plaire, Ou soit qu’il vive, ou soit qu’outre le port, Leger fardeau, Charon le passe mort.

My eyes, my heart, my Cassandre, my life, Oh, how rightly you must be envious Of that great King who no longer wishes to suffer Your name to put itself forward in my songs. It is he who wishes that I should change my lute For a trumpet, to sing out his praises, And not only his own but those of his ancestors Who are seated above in the ranks of the gods.   I shall do it, as he commands it : For the power of such a King is so great That it is as hard to keep out of its way As for an armed force to resist it.   What use for me to have read so much of Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and the learned Catullus ; To have looked over and noted so much of Petrarch, If by a King the power is taken from me Of following them, and if my lyre must Hang from a hook and dare no longer speak ?   I have therefore vainly fed the hope Of one day seeing Tuscany, When our France, as much as it, is happy To sigh a lover’s plaint ; And, to show [Italy] can be surpassed I had already begun to set down Many an Elegy in the antique fashion, Many a fine Ode, many a Pastoral.   For to speak the truth, my soul is still Not satisfied with those who have written In our language, and their love deserves Either nothing at all, or very little favour.   Not that I am so vainglorious a boaster As to venture to surpass the laborious poetry Of so many lovers who have made their plaints in France ; But at least I have a fair hope That, even if my verse does not go first, It will not be dishonourably last. For Erato, who discloses love-affairs, Drew me with a clear eye to her work.   One puffed-up poet sings grossly of love, Another nervous one drags on in too mean a style ; One depicts a Lady who is lewd, Another takes more care over his verse than his meaning And can never, however he tries to conceal it, Learn the art of Petrarch-ising well.   Why do you weep, Cassandre, my sweet soul ? Love does not yet seek to cut off the warp and weft Which I have hung on my loom for you, Without completing the whole of my work.   My King has not sucked the milk of some Savage beast, and his youthful courage too, Unless I am mistaken, has sometimes felt The wound of Love which can overcome Kings.   If he has felt it, my [ error ] is erased And his greatness will not be angered If, on my return from terrible battles, I take my lute down from its hook And pluck it, and instead of loud war I sing of Love, your beauty, and my tears. « For the bow which is drawn too tightly Either weakens [slows] or quickly breaks. »   Just so Achilles, after having across the world Put so many soldiers to death in war, Took his golden lute in his hands – Still stained with inhuman massacres – And sitting opposite the son of Menetius Sang of his love for Briseis, his beloved ; Then as suddenly took up arms again And returned, more courageous, to battle.   And so, after my master’s ancestor Withdraws his hand from battle, Disarming himself within his tent away from the field, Upon his lute just then your Ronsard will sing To you ; for it cannot be That another beauty could ever please him While he is alive or when, beyond this harbour, Charon carries his light burden, dead.

 

 

The conclusion of the first book of Amours brings with it some weightier material to give it a firm feeling of ending – rather like Beethoven’s 5th, which iterates and reiterates the thumping C-major chords to emphasise that this really is the end of the piece, Ronsard feels (rightly) that he cannot simply end the long run of sonnets without something more definitely marking a conclusion. Perhaps there is, nonetheless, a sense of loss as Ronsard explains how he must stop writing love poetry to focus, by royal command, on his epic Franciad.

 

The Elegy to Cassandre is an elegy in the classical sense – a description of its form, rather than its mood (as we use it today to mean ‘something noble but sad, in remembrance’). Accordingly, it is full of classical (and neo-classical) references:

 – Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and Catullus are all Latin love-poets; and we might detect a glancing reference to one of Horace’s odes in the lines about ‘hanging his lyre on a hook’;

 – Petrarch is of course the shining example of (relatively) modern love-poetry, Tuscany his home;

 – Erato is the muse of lyric poetry;

 – in the Iliad Achilles sings of the slave-girl Briseis whom he loves (and who plays a pivotal role in the development of the action); his other (male) love is Patroclus, the son of Menoetius;

 – Charon is of course the boatman who ferries the dead across the river Styx.

 

Muret suggests that, in the last ‘stanza’, Ronsard is using the word “ayeul” (ancestor, grandfather) to refer to Francus, the mythical ancestor of the kings of France – and thus to the Franciad, the commission for which has drawn Ronsard forcibly away from writing love-poems.  (The ‘great king’ at the time of the publication of the Amours in the 1550s was Henri II; his direct ancestors were noble rather than royal, his father having come to the throne by virtue of his marriage to Louis XII’s daughter.)

 

 

The earlier Blanchemain version has only minor differences:

 – in stanza 3, the list of Roman poets is “Tibulle, / Gallus, Ovide, et Properce et Catulle,” – Cornelius Gallus was a lyric poet contemporary with the others;

 – in stanza 5, the line is “En nostre langue, et leur Muse merite” (‘and their Muse deserves’ instead of ‘their love’);

– towards the end, “Mon Roy n’a pas d’une tigre sauvage …” (a savage tiger’s milk rather than a savage beast’s).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 2

A ton frere Pâris tu sembles en beauté,

A ta sœur Polyxene en chaste conscience,

A ton frere Helenin en prophete science,

A ton parjure ayeul en peu de loyauté,

 

A ton père Priam en brave Royauté,

Au viellard Antenor en mielleuse eloquence,

A ta tante Antigone en superbe arrogance,

A ton grand frere Hector en fiere cruauté.

 

Neptune n’assit onc une pierre si dure

Dedans le mur Troyen, que toy pour qui j’endure

Un million de morts, ny Ulysse vainqueur

 

N’emplit tant Ilion de feux, de cris, et d’armes,

De souspirs, et de pleurs, que tu combles mon cœur,

Sans l’avoir mérité, de sanglots, et de larmes

 

 

 

 

                                                                            You are like your brother Paris in beauty,

                                                                            Your sister Polyxena in chaste conscience,

                                                                            Your brother Helenus in prophetic skill,

                                                                            Your perjured grandfather [Laomedon] in faithlessness,

 

                                                                            Your father Priam in regal pride,

                                                                            Old Antenor in honeyed speech,

                                                                            Your aunt Antigone in magnificent arrogance,

                                                                            Your great brother Hector in proud cruelty.

 

                                                                            Neptune never placed a stone so hard

                                                                            In Troy’s walls as you, for whom I endure

                                                                            A million deaths, nor did conquering Ulysses

 

                                                                            Fill Ilium so full of fires, cries, arms,

                                                                            Sighs and laments, as you fill my heart –

                                                                            Which does not deserve it – with sobs and tears.

 

 

After that recent poem on reading Homer, another which demonstrates the effect of that reading! It’s possible that the family tree of the royal house of Troy may not be too familiar to you(!) so here’s a very useful quick summary:  several of the names above are highlighted to make navigation easy. The basic assumption is that ‘you’ (=Cassandre) are equivalent to the prophetess Cassandra of Troy.

 

Many of the references are not just to the characters but to the relevant myths:

 – Paris, so handsome that he was chosen to judge the goddesses’ beauty & gained Helen’s love;

 – Polyxena, whose calm wisdom encouraged Achilles (having captured her) to trust her with the information that led to his death, and who (in Euripides) nobly accepts her death as a sacrifice to Achilles’ ghost;

 – Helenus, Cassandra’s twin and also endowed with prophetic powers;

 – Laomedon, perjured because he persuaded Neptune to build Troy’s great walls (see line 9) but then refused to give the promised reward;

 – Priam, whose pride kept the war going (but who was capable of humbling himself before Achilles, to recover his son Hector’s body, in a truly noble/regal way);

 – Antenor, not a family member but Priam’s closest and wisest advisor (and an advocate for peace in the war);

 – Antigone, whose ‘arrogance’ is the centre of Sophocles’ play as her stubbornness leads to confrontation with the state and general tragedy;

 – Hector, generally considered a noble hero, but who of course has a long list of victims in the Iliad. Generally, Achilles not Hector is seen as the proudly cruel one!

 

Which leaves us only with the reference to Ulysses, who is responsible for the fall of Troy because he came up with the idea of the Trojan Horse.

 

Unusually for a poem that has been set aside, there is a variant in Blanchemain’s version at the beginning of the last line:

 

                          … que tu combles mon cœur,

De brasiers et de morts, de sanglots, et de larmes

 

                                                                                                    … as you fill my heart

                                                                            With fire and death, with sobs and tears.

 

 

 

 

Odes 4:5

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

      Tel qu’un petit Aigle sort,

         Fier et fort,

      De dessous l’aile à sa mere,

      Et d’ongles crochus et longs,

         Aux dragons

      Fait guerre sortant de l’aire

 

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

 

      Charante qui prend son nom

         D’Acheron,

      Leur sert de port et de guide,

      Les passant comme en bateau

         Par son eau

      Au rivage Acherontide.

 

      Ils sont trebuchez à bas,

         Le repas

      Des mastins, sans sepulture,

      Et sans honneur de tombeaux ;

         Les corbeaux

      De leur chair font leur pasture.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 142

De ton beau poil en tresses noircissant

Amour ourdit de son arc la ficelle :

Il fit son feu de ta vive etincelle,

Il fit son trait de ton œil brunissant.

 

Son premier coup me rendoit perissant :

Mais son second de la mort me rappelle,

Qui mon ulcere en santé renouvelle,

Et par son coup le coup va guarissant.

 

Ainsi jadis sur la poudre Troyenne,

Du soudart Grec la hache Pelienne,

Du Mysien mit la douleur à fin :

 

Ainsi le trait que ton bel œil me rue,

D’un mesme coup me guarist et me tue.

Hé quelle Parque a filé mon destin !

 

 

 

 

                                                                            From your lovely hair, dark in its braids,

                                                                            Love wove the string of his bow;

                                                                            He made his fire from your bright spark,

                                                                            He made his arrow from your brown eyes.

 

                                                                            His first blow brought me close to dying;

                                                                            But his second called me back from death,

                                                                            It restored to health my wound,

                                                                            And by its blow cured the blow.

 

                                                                            So of old on Trojan soil

                                                                            The Greek soldier’s Pelian axe

                                                                            Put an end to the sadness of the Mysian;

 

                                                                            And so the wound that your fair eyes flung on me

                                                                            With the same blow cured me and killed me.

                                                                            Ah, what Fate has spun my destiny!

 

 

In lines 1 & 4, the “-issant” ending implies that her hair is ‘darkening’, her eyes ‘getting browner’ – but I have used the simple adjective, as I don’t think that’s what Ronsard meant…  (Note – below – that at first Cassandre’s hair was blonde, but later in life Ronsard adjusts the colour to dark! )

 

The reference in lines 10-11 is pretty obscure – another of Ronsard’s learned asides – the more so as it refers to a Trojan War episode outside Homer. Blanchemain’s note tells us “The axe (hache=hatchet) of Achilles, son of Peleus, cured the wounds that it had made”. This is from a story that Achilles first landed at Mysia, some way down the coast from Troy, but mistook it for Troy and attacked it. The Mysian king, Telephus, was wounded by Achilles but the wound would not heal. The Delphic oracles told Telephus that what made the wound would heal it, so he sought Achilles’ help – and, touched by the spear [not the axe!] that made the wound, it was healed. Nowadays the mythical image that might come to mind is Wagner’s Parsifal myth! 

 

Today for a change we have a poem whose ending Ronsard left untouched, but whose beginning was re-crafted. There is a tiny change in line 12 – “Ainsi le trait de ton bel œil me rue” – which swings the meaning around a little to become ‘And so the wound from your fair eyes threw me down’. Otherwise the sestet is identical. Here are the two quatrains in Blanchemain’s version;  I admire the way he re-thought line 3 so completely with only a small change, building the very effective pairing of lines 3-4 in the version at the top.

 

 

 

De ton poil d’or en tresses blondissant

Amour ourdit de son arc la fiscelle ;

Il me tira de ta vive etincelle

Le doux fier trait qui me tient languissant.

 

Du premier coup j’eusse été perissant,

Sans l’autre coup d’une fleche nouvelle

Qui mon ulcere en santé renouvelle,

Et par son coup le coup va guarissant.

 

 

 

                                                                            From your golden locks in their blonde braids,

                                                                            Love wove the string of his bow;

                                                                            He drew for me from your bright spark

                                                                            The sweet noble wound which keeps me pining.

 

                                                                            From the first blow I had been close to dying,

                                                                            Without the other blow from a new arrow

                                                                            Which restored to health my wound,

                                                                            And by its blow cured the blow.