Amours 1.229

J‘alloy roulant ces larmes de mes yeux,

Or’ plein de doute ore plein d’esperance,

Lors que Henry loing des bornes de France

Vengeoit l’honneur de ses premiers ayeux :

 

Lors qu’il trenchoit d’un bras victorieux

Au bord du Rhin l’Espagnole vaillance,

Ja se traçant de l’aigu de sa lance

Un beau sentier pour s’en aller aux cieux.

 

Vous sainct troupeau, mon soustien et ma gloire,

Dont le beau vol m’a l’esprit enlevé,

Si autrefois m’avez permis de boire

 

Les eaux qui ont Hesiode abreuvé,

Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé

Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I have been continually pouring these tears from my eyes,

                                                                            Now full of doubt, now of hope,

                                                                            While Henri, far from the bounds of France,

                                                                            Has avenged the honour of his first ancestors ;

 

                                                                            While he has broken with his victorious arm

                                                                            Spain’s valour, on the banks of the Rhine,

                                                                            Marking out with the point of his lance

                                                                            A fair path to raise himself to the heavens.

 

                                                                            Oh holy troop, my support and my glory,

                                                                            Whose lovely flight has lifted my spirits,

                                                                            If previously you have allowed me to drink

 

                                                                            The waters which generously you gave Hesiod,

                                                                            May this my plaint be for ever engraved

                                                                            In the holiest place in Memory’s temple. 

 

 

Simplicity, as Ronsard closes his first book of sonnets. And also a glance at the ‘real world’ around him: for this was not a time of peace and love in European politics! The Italian wars were a major feature of Henri II’s reign, all the way through the 1550s, and early victories led ultimately to the embarrassing Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis… The Spanish on the Rhine are, incidentally, the Habsburgs – for that family controlled Austro-Germanic Europe as well as Iberian Europe.

 

So, Ronsard acknowledges that love poetry may not seem the right thing at this time, while gently swinging the balance back towards the pre-eminence of poetry at the end. (Hesiod claimed inspiration from drinking at the fountain of the ‘holy troop’ of Muses on Mt Helicon.)

 

Blanchemain’s version shows considerable variation in the sestet: the opening octet was not changed.

 

 

Vous sainct troupeau qui desus Pinde errez,

Et qui de grâce ouvrez et desserrez

Vos doctes eaux à ceux qui les vont boire

 

Si quelquefois vous m’avez abreuvé,

Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé

Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire

 

 

                                                                                        Oh holy troop who wander upon Pindus

                                                                                       And who by grace open and release

                                                                                       Your learned waters to those who come to drink them,

 

                                                                                       If sometimes you have given me to drink

                                                                                       May this my plaint be for ever engraved

                                                                                       In the holiest place in Memory’s temple.

 

 

 

  Note how in this earlier version Ronsard does not refer back to Hesiod, but simply offers his own name as proof enough of the Muses’ generosity! There remains one other variant of the later version at the top of the page: in line 12, where yet another great poet enters: “L’eau dont amour a Petrarque abreuvé…” (‘The waters which love generously gave to Petrarch…’)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 1.228

Mon Des-Autels, qui avez dés enfance

Puisé de l’eau qui coule sur le mont,

Où les neuf Sœurs dedans un antre font

Seules à part leur saincte demeurance :

 

Si autrefois, l’amoureuse puissance

Vous a planté le myrte sur le front,

Enamoure de ces beaux yeux qui sont

Par vos escrits l’honneur de nostre France :

 

Ayez pitié de ma pauvre langueur,

Et de vos sons adoucissez le cœur

D’une qui tient ma franchise en contrainte.

 

Si quelquefois en Bourgoigne je suis,

Je flechiray par mes vers, si je puis,

La cruauté de vostre belle Saincte.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                            My dear Des Autels, you who have since childhood

                                                                            Drawn from the waters which flow on the mount

                                                                            Where the nine sisters, within a cave, make

                                                                            Alone and apart their holy residence ;

 

                                                                            If once the power of love

                                                                            Placed laurels upon your brow,

                                                                            Enamoured of those fair eyes which are

                                                                            Through your writings the credit of our France ;

 

                                                                            [Now] have pity on my weak pining

                                                                            And with your music soften the heart

                                                                            Of the one who holds my liberty in chains.

 

                                                                            And if sometime I am in Burgundy

                                                                            I shall turn aside with my verse, if I can,

                                                                            The cruelty of your fair Saint. 

 

 

 

Amidst the chansons and elegies which conclude the first book, there are a couple of final sonnets. This is one of them, a quick tribute to Ronsard’s friend Guillaume Des Autels, “gentilhomme Charrolois”. He was a cousin of Pontus de Tyard and, through the literary circle around him in Lyons became a sometime member of the Pleiade. Indeed, most of Des Autels’ poetry comes from the 1550s, when he was in his twenties. His birthplace is uncertain, though clearly in or near the city of Charolles in Burgundy; the date of his death likewise unknown. Des Autels always referred to his beloved as ‘his Saint’ in his verse, echoed here by Ronsard. Ronsard’s book of “Discours” opens with an elegy to Des Autels, one of several tributes to his fellow-poet.

 

The nine sisters of the opening stanza are of course the Muses, whose home was on Mount Helicon; though they are normally associated with the springs and sacred grove there, not a cave. The Corcyrian cave on mount Parnassus is, however, sacred to the Muses; and there is a stray reference in Pausanias to a rck ‘worked like a cave’ in the grove on Helicon. Perhaps Ronsard amalgamated the two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                             

 

 

Poems 2.2 – to Jehan du Thier

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In the first stanza,

 

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

Donne plus de travail à celebrer qu’un Roy;

Car la gloire des Roys en sujet est fertille,

Et ne travaille guère une plume gentille,

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

Que de ne s’effrayer de chanter leur grandeur

 

 

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

                                                                                         Is harder to celebrate than a King;

                                                                                         For the glory of Kings is a fertile subject,

                                                                                         And barely troubles a noble pen

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

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

 

 

In the Geryon stanza:

 

Il s’aille rebaigner aux flots de l’océan

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

Ton esprit n’a repos, qui sans cesse travaille

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

La main en escrivant, et la langue en dictant

Quelque lettre à tes clercs ; ou secret tu dechiffres

Dedans ta chambre à part les enigmes de chiffres …

 

 

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

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

                                                                                         Your mind has no rest, working ceaselessly,

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

                                                                                         The hand in writing, the tongue in dictating

                                                                                         Some letter to your clerks; or you decipher, hidden

                                                                                         And apart in your room, the riddles of codes …

 

A couple of stanzas later,

 

Ainsi comme un poisson se nourrit en son eau,

Et une salemandre au brasier d’un fourneau,

Tu te plais en ta peine …

 

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

                                                                                         And a salamander by the heat of a furnace,

                                                                                         You are happy in your work …

 

 

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

 

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

Il devient bien souvent superbe, audacieux, …

 

                                                                                         When a man raises himself up to these great gods,

                                                                                         He very often becomes proud, over-bold, …

 

 

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

 

Toy lors comme Courtois, benin et debonnaire,

Tu ne fis seulement dépescher leur affaire ;

Mais tu recompensas avec beaucoup d’escus

Ces livres qui avoient tant de siecles vaincus,

Et qui portoient au front de la marge pour guide

Ce grand nom de Pindare, et du grand Simonide,

Desquels tu as orné le somptueux chasteau

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

Que si Rome fouillant ses terres despouillées

En don t’eust envoyé ses medailles rouillées.

 

 

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

                                                                                        Not only made sure to hasten on their business

                                                                                        But also repaid them with plenty of money

                                                                                        For those books, which had outlasted so many centuries

                                                                                        And which bore on their front edge as guide

                                                                                        The great name of Pindar and great Simonides,

                                                                                        With which you have adorned the sumptuous house

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

                                                                                        Than if Rome, ransacking its despoiled lands

                                                                                        Had sent you as a gift their blighted decorations.

 

 

And then finally in the penultimate stanza,

 

Debteur de tant de bien que payer ne le puis …

 

                                                                                        A debtor for so many benefits I cannot repay them …

 

 

 

 [ PS  my 500th post! ]

 

 

 

Odes 1.3

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.175

Je ne suis point, Muses, accoustumé

De voir vos sauts sous la tarde serée :

Je n’ay point beu dedans l’onde sacrée,

Fille du pied du cheval emplumé.

 

De tes beaux rais vivement allumé,

Je fu Poëte : et si ma voix recrée,

Et si ma lyre en t’enchantant t’agrée,

Ton œil en soit, non Parnasse, estimé.

 

Certes le Ciel te devoit à la France,

Quand le Thuscan, et Sorgue, et sa Florence,

Et son Laurier engrava dans les cieux :

 

Ore trop tard, beauté plus que divine,

Tu vois nostre age, helas ! qui n’est pas digne

Tant seulement de parler de tes yeux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I am not at all accustomed, Muses,

                                                                            To watch you leaping in the late evening ;

                                                                            I have not drunk from the sacred waters,

                                                                            Springing from the foot of the winged horse.

 

                                                                            Excited and aroused by your fair eyes, [my love],

                                                                            I became a poet ; and if my voice entertains,

                                                                            And my lyre as it sings to you pleases you,

                                                                            Your eyes, not Parnassus, deserve the praise.

 

                                                                            Surely heaven owed France your presence,

                                                                            Since the Tuscan [Petrarch] had engraved in the heavens

                                                                            The Sorgue, his Florence, and his laurels.

 

                                                                            Yet too late, more-than-divine beauty,

                                                                            You see our age which, alas, is not worthy

                                                                            Even just to speak of your eyes.

 

 

 

Here Ronsard stakes his claim to be firmly in the line of the great poets: though typically he does it while undermining the traditional classical image and placing himself in the petrarchan line of love poets. So (first quatrain) he denies inspiration from the Muses – whose Hippocrene spring on Mount Helicon was created when Pegasus struck the ground with his hoof –  while (second quatrain) deriving it from his lady-love – or, as we might say in English, his ‘muse’… In English the transition from “vous / Muses” to “tu / Cassandre” is not obvious, so I have added a few words at the end of line 5 to make the translation clear. Parnassus, like Helicon, is home to the Muses.

 

In the sestet, the focus moves forward to the Italian renaissance, with Petrarch as the comparator. Though mostly associated with Florence, Petrarch lived for many years in Avignon (seat of the anti-Popes), and the Sorgue flows through Avignon. His ‘laurels’ are both the laurels won by the greatest poets (hence ‘poet laureate’), and a reference to Laura, his lady and ‘muse’. The final tercet point to the length of time between Petrarch and Ronsard – some two centuries – and another hint of a classical theme with the ‘golden age’ descending to a later ‘silver age’ and so forth, the later ages clearly not as great or as worthy as the former.

 

Blanchemain’s version offers variants in the octet:

 

 

Je ne suis point, Muses, accoustumé

Voir vostre bal sous la tarde serée ;

Je n’ay point beu dedans l’onde sacrée,

Fille du pied du cheval emplumé.

 

De tes beaux rais chastement allumé,

Je fu poëte ; et si ma voix recrée,

Et si ma lyre aucunement agrée,

Ton œil en soit, non Parnasse, estimé

 

 

                                                                            I am not at all accustomed, Muses,

                                                                            To watch your dance in the late evening ;

                                                                            I have not drunk from the sacred waters,

                                                                            Springing from the foot of the winged horse.

 

                                                                            Chastely aroused by your fair eyes, [my love],

                                                                            I became a poet ; and if my voice entertains

                                                                            And my lyre pleases a little,

                                                                            Your eyes, not Parnassus, deserve the praise.

 

 

Worth noting that in line 7, “agrée” teeters between both ‘to please’ and ‘to harmonise’ – whereas in the revised version at the top of this post there is less room for ambiguity, though perhaps “harmonises with you” is just about implied…

 

 

 

 

 

Mascarades 12

This is another of Ronsard’s poems to be recited by two singers, alternately; or rather, as he specifies, two ‘players of the lyre’.

I Le Soleil et nostre Roy Sont semblables de puissance, L’un gouverne dessous soy Le Ciel et l’autre la France.   II L’un du Ciel tient le milieu, Des Astres clairté premiere ; Et l’autre comme un grand Dieu Aux terres donne lumiere.   I L’un n’est jamais offensé D’orages ny de tempeste : L’obscur est tousjours percé Des beaux rayons de sa teste.   II L’autre a tousjours combatu Les guerres et les envies Et fait sentir sa vertu Aux puissances ennemies.   I L’un est autheur de la paix Chassant le discord du monde, Illustrant de ses beaux rais La terre, le ciel et l’onde.   II Et l’autre ayant du discord La puissance rencontrée, A mis les guerres à mort, Et la paix en sa contrée.   I Tout Astre prend du Soleil Sa lumiere tant soit haute : Car c’est l’Astre nompareil Liberal sans avoir faute.   II Du Roy vient force et vigueur Honneur et grandeur royale, Et tout homme de bon cœur Cognoist sa main liberale.   I Le Soleil est couronné De feux qu’en terre il nous darde : Et tout Astre bien tourné Nostre bon Prince regarde   II  De nostre Roy la grandeur Pareil au Soleil ressemble, Qui jette plus de splendeur Que les estoiles ensemble.   I Bref le Soleil esclairant Par tout, qui point ne repose, De Charles n’est differant Seulement que d’une chose.   II C’est que le Soleil mourra Apres quelque temps d’espace, Et Charles au Ciel ira Du Soleil prendre la place.

The Sun and our King Are similar in power, The one governs beneath himself The Heavens, and the other France.     The one has the midst of heaven, The brightest of the stars, And the other like a great god Gives light to the earth.     The one is never struck By storms or tempests, The darkness is always pierced By the fair rays of his head;     The other has always fought War and Envy And made his virtue known To hostile powers.     The one is author of peace, Chasing discord from the world, Brightening with his fair rays Earth, heaven and sea;     And the other, having encountered The power of discord, Has put wars to death And peace in his country.     Every star takes from the Sun His light, however bright it is, For he is the unequalled Star, Liberal without fault;     From the King comes force and strength, Honour and royal grandeur, And every man with a good heart Knows his liberal hand.     The Sun is crowned With fires which he darts at us on earth, And every finely-turned Star Watches our good Prince;     The greatness of our King Seems equal to the Sun Who casts more splendour Than the stars together     In short, the Sun shining its light Everywhere, and never resting, Is no different from Charles Except only in one thing:     Which is, that the Sun will die After some time of space, And Charles will go to Heaven To take the Sun’s place.

 

Oddly, the sun dies ‘after some time of space’ rather than ‘after some space of time’ – for Ronsard, it’s driven by the scansion, but I’ve left the odd form in the English version as well; if French readers (perhaps) trip over their version, why shouldn’t English readers too? 🙂

 

Blanchemain’s version has some changes in the penultimate pair of stanzas:

 

 

I

… Et tout astre bien-tourné

Pour son guide le regarde

 

II

De notre Roy la bonté

Mille grand seigneurs assemble,

Qui jettent plus de clarté

Que les estoiles ensemble.

 

 

                                                              … And every finely-turned Star

                                                              Watches him as its guide;

 

 

                                                              The goodness of our King

                                                              Assembles a thousand great Lords

                                                              Who cast more light

                                                              Than the stars together.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnets diverses 1 – to King Henri II

Au Roy Henry II de ce nom    (To King Henry, second of that name)

 

Je vous donne le Ciel pour vos estrenes, SIRE.

Je ferois à la France, et à vous un grand tort,

A vous, sain et dispos, jeune, gaillard et fort ;

A la France qui seul pour son Roy vous desire ;

 

De vous donner la Mer : que vous vaudroit l’Empire

Des vagues et des vents ? De vous donner le sort

Qui survint à Pluton, que vous vaudroit le port

De l’Enfer odieux, des trois Mondes le pire ?

 

La France vous suffit, vous estes estrené :

Vos fils puisnez sont Ducs, Roy vostre fils aisné :

Et vos filles bien tost vous feront le grand-père

 

D’enfans, qui porteront le Sceptre en divers lieux,

Ainsi doresnavant vous serez dit le Père

Des Rois dont la grandeur vaut bien celle des Dieux

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If I give you the heavens as your new-year’s gift, Sire,

                                                                            I would do France and you a great wrong:

                                                                            You, as you are healthy and fit, young, merry and strong;

                                                                            France, as it wants you alone for its King.

 

                                                                            If I gave you the sea, what use to you would be the rule

                                                                            Of its waves and winds? If I gave you the lot

                                                                            Which fell to Pluto, what use to you would be the harbour

                                                                            Of hateful Hell, the worst of the three worlds?

 

                                                                            France is enough for you; there, that is your gift:

                                                                            Your younger children are Dukes, your eldest a King;

                                                                            And your daughters will soon make you the grandfather

 

                                                                            Of children who will bear the Sceptre in various places;

                                                                            And hereafter you will be called the Father

                                                                            Of Kings, whose greatness is like that of the gods.

 

 

A couple of notes:  Pluto was alloted Hades, while Jupiter got the heavens and Neptune the seas to rule.  Ronsard alludes to all three in the opening stanzas. In line 10, the ‘eldest child’ is Francis, later Francis II of France briefly, who at the time was King Consort of Scotland through his marriage to Mary, Queen of Scots (there is a beautiful double-portrait in Catherine de Medici’s book of hours.) . His death at the end of 1560 left her (briefly Queen Consort of France) a widow still in her teens, and free to pursue the chaotic course of her Scottish career with Darnley and Bothwell.

 

There is one small but significant difference in Blanchemain’s version, at the very beginning:  “De vous donner le ciel …”. He obviously changed it to avoid beginning the 2 quatrains with the same words. But the change was not a great one otherwise: while the original opening (“De vous donner le ciel …”) clearly means ‘If I gave you the heavens…’, I have been a little naughty in translating the revised version (“Je vous donne…”) the same way. In fact, it seems to me that grammatically the new version should be saying something like:  ‘I give you the heavens, Sire. I would be doing you & France wrong to give you the sea.’ But that upsets the balance of the quatrains as well as making lines 5-6 mostly repetition. So I think we have to read Ronsard’s new version as saying ‘I give you the heavens. (But no – ) I would be doing you & France a great wrong…”

 

I have put this in the Sonnets diverses – which is where Blanchemain prints it – though Marty-Laveaux includes it among the various “sonnets retranchées” in his final volume.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Estienne Pasquier (Odes 4:29)

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

To the Queen of France, Mary Stuart (Sonnets diverses 5)

A la Royne de France, Marie Stuard

 

L’Angleterre et l’Escosse, et la Françoise terre,

Les deux ceintes de mer, et l’autre de montaignes,

Autour de ton berceau, ainsi que trois compaignes,

Le jour que tu nasquis eurent une grand’ guerre.

 

Le France te vouloit, l’Escosse et l’Angleterre

Te demandoient aussi, et semble que tu daignes

Favoriser la France, et que tu t’accompaignes

D’elle qui ton beau chef de ses villes enserre.

 

De ces trois le debat vint devant Jupiter,

Qui, juste, ne voulant ces trois sœurs depiter,

Par sentence ordonna, pour appaiser leur noise,

 

Que tu serois trois mois la Royne des Anglois,

Et trois mois ensuivant Royne des Escossois,

Et six mois Royne apres de la terre Françoise.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            England and Scotland, and the land of France,

                                                                            Two of them enclosed by the sea, the other by mountains,

                                                                            Around your cradle like three old campaigners

                                                                            Fought a great battle on the day you were born.

 

                                                                            France wanted you, England and Scotland

                                                                            Demanded you too, and thought you deigned

                                                                            To favour France, and would take into your company

                                                                            That which protected your fair head with its towns.

 

                                                                            The argument between these three came before Jupiter

                                                                            Who, being just and not wanting to vex the three sisters,

                                                                            Gave his judgement to calm their row:

 

                                                                            That you should be three months Queen of the English.

                                                                            The next three months Queen of the Scots,

                                                                            And the six months after Queen of France’s lands.

 

 

Here’s the ‘Auld alliance’ seen from the other side – Mary of course came to Scotland with French supporters and troops, and I recall one of Scott’s Border Ballads being about ‘the Queen’s Maries’ (four ladies called Marie, not Mary!).  More French than Scottish in many ways, Mary is often commemorated around Scotland in oddly-French place-names (Beauly, which was of course Beau-lieu, a ‘pretty place’, for instance). Despite Ronsard’s flattery she never managed to be Queen of England, of course, and there is perhaps an argument that England was hardly asking for her either 🙂

[This poem is collected by Marty-Laveaux in an Autre recueil de Sonnets, another of the recueils de pièces retranchées; Blanchemain prints it in the rather more handily-titled Sonnets diverses. I’m cataloguing it as a sonnet diverse.]