Tag Archives: Helen

Helen 2:8

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Je plante en ta faveur cest arbre de Cybelle,
Ce Pin, où tes honneurs se liront tous les jours :
J’ay gravé sur le tronc nos noms et nos amours,
Qui croistront à l’envy de l’escorce nouvelle.
 
Faunes qui habitez ma terre paternelle,
Qui menez sur le Loir vos danses et vos tours,
Favorisez la plante et luy donnez secours,
Que l’Esté ne la brusle, et l’Hyver ne la gelle.
 
Pasteur, qui conduiras en ce lieu ton troupeau,
Flageolant une Eclogue en ton tuyau d’aveine,
Attache tous les ans à cest arbre un tableau,
 
Qui tesmoigne aux passans mes amours et ma peine :
Puis l’arrosant de laict et du sang d’un agneau,
Dy, Ce Pin est sacré, c’est la plante d’Helene.
 
 
                                                                            I’m planting this tree of Cybele for you,
                                                                            This pine on which your glories will be read every day ;
                                                                            I have carved on the trunk our names and our love
                                                                            Which will get bigger despite the new bark.
 
                                                                            You fauns who inhabit my family’s lands,
                                                                            Who dance and trip upon the Loir,
                                                                            Make this plant your favourite and give it your aid
                                                                            So that summer does not burn nor winter freeze it.
 
                                                                            And you, shepherd who steer your flock to this place
                                                                            Fluting an eclogue on your oat-stalk pipe,
                                                                            Fix a picture to this tree every year
 
                                                                            To witness to passers-by of my love and my pain ;
                                                                            Then, pouring on it milk and the blood of a lamb,
                                                                            Say, “This pine is sacred, it is Helen’s tree.”
 
Nothing very radical here, one might think, though the presence of fauns on the Loir is unusual and a reminder that, for Ronsard, classical mythology was not confined to the Greek landscape – the deities and heroes were also very present for him in his contemporary landscape.
 
Blanchemain offers two footnotes, both of which simply remind us that the Loir, and Ronsard’s ancestral home, are in the Vendôme …
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Helen 2:7

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Ha que ta Loy fut bonne, et digne d’estre apprise,
Grand Moise, grand Prophete, et grand Minos de Dieu,
Qui sage commandas au vague peuple Hebrieu,
Que la liberté fust apres sept ans remise !
 
Je voudrois grand Guerrier, que celle que j’ay prise
Pour Dame, et qui se sied de mon cœur au milieu,
Voulust qu’en mon endroit ton ordonnance eust lieu,
Et qu’au bout de sept ans m’eust remis en franchise.
 
Sept ans sont ja passez qu’en servage je suis ;
Servir encor sept ans de bon cœur je la puis,
Pourveu qu’au bout du temps de son cœur je jouïsse.
 
Mais ceste Grecque Helene ayant peu de souci
Des statuts des Hebrieux, d’un courage endurci
Contre les loix de Dieu n’affranchit mon service.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Ah, how good and worth being learned is your Law,
                                                                            Great Moses, great prophet, great judge from God,
                                                                            Who wisely instructed the wandering Hebrew people
                                                                            That liberty would be given back to them after seven years.
 
                                                                            I wish, great warrior, that she whom I’ve chosen
                                                                            As my Lady, and who sits in the midst of my heart,
                                                                            Would agree that your command applied in my case,
                                                                            And at the end of seven years had given me back my freedom.
 
                                                                            Seven years have now passed while I’ve been in servitude;
                                                                            I could happily serve another seven years
                                                                            Provided that, at the end of that time, I’d won her heart.
 
                                                                            But this Greek Helen has little regard for
                                                                            The statutes of the Hebrews, and with hardened courage
                                                                            Contravening the laws of God she does not free me from my service.
 
 
 
It’s quite unusual for Ronsard to build a poem around Biblical rather than classical stories: so much so that we might wonder if there was a special reason to demonstrate his orthodoxy. Of course, the religious wars in France were rumbling on for much of his adult life, and there is a great quantity of poetry and prose by Ronsard defending the Catholic side against its Protestant attackers. But to link the poems to Helen with this background seems faintly absurd.
 
The story of Moses leading the children of Israel out of Egypt is well-known (from phrases like “Let my people go!”, “the Promised Land”, to films like “The Ten Commandments”). What is also well-known is that, after offending God at Mt Sinai when Moses was receiving the Ten Commandmnets, the tribes of Israel were condemned to wander in the desert for 40 years before entering the Promised Land. How odd, then, that Ronsard should choose the ‘magic’ number 7 instead. It is of course the number of perfection in Catholic numerology: so perhaps Ronsard is contrasting that perfection with the imperfection of his love? It may even be that 7 years really did fit his relationship with Helen – but we saw in poem 5 that he also claimed it was 5 years… (Again being faintly absurd, is it relevant that in poem 5 it’s 5 years; and in poem 7 it’s 7 years…?)
 
Other incidental notes: in line 2, note that Moses is indeed a ‘Judge’, the first of the Biblical judges (there is of course a whole book about his successors); but perhaps this is also a reference to classical mythologies, where Minos rules in the Underworld as ‘judge’ of the dead, with the suggestion here that helen will pay for her misdemeanours one way or another!
 
Blanchemain’s authorised text contaions only one variant:  at the beginning of line 13, the younger Ronsard has “De la loy des Hebrieux”, repeating ‘law’ from line 1 instead of finding a synonym as his older self did. But Blanchemain also footnotes another, larger, variant in lines 3-4:
 
 
Qui, grand legislateur, commandas à l’Hebrieu
Qu’après sept ans passez liberté fust acquise.
                                                                            The great legislator who instructed the Hebrew [people]
                                                                            That after seven years had passed their freedom would be gained.
 
This offers an alternative view of the Biblical ‘7 years’: no longer ‘wandering’ in the desert, Moses might here be talking to the Israelites at the beginning of his campaign for freedom, before the plagues of Egypt. But it must be said there is (as far as I know) no suggestion elsewhere that the 10 plagues of Egypt spanned 7 years …
 
 
 
 
 

Helen 2:5

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N’oubliez, mon Helene, aujourd’huy qu’il faut prendre
Des cendres sur le front, qu’il n’en faut point chercher
Autre part qu’en mon cœur que vous faites seicher,
Vous riant du plaisir de le tourner en cendre.
 
Quel pardon pensez vous des Celestes attendre?
Le meurtre de vos yeux ne se sçauroit cacher :
Leurs rayons m’ont tué, ne pouvant estancher
La playe qu’en mon sang leur beauté fait descendre.
 
La douleur me consume, ayez de moy pitié.
Vous n’aurez de ma mort ny profit ny louange :
Cinq ans meritent bien quelque peu d’amitié.
 
Vostre volonté passe et la mienne ne change.
Amour qui voit mon cœur voit vostre mauvaistié :
Il tient l’arc en la main, gardez qu’il ne se vange.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Don’t forget, my Helen, that today we’re supposed to put
                                                                            Ashes on our brow – ashes you need seek nowhere
                                                                            Else but in my heart which you’ve dried out,
                                                                            Laughing at the pleasure of turning it to ashes.
 
                                                                            What pardon do you think to gain from those in heaven ?
                                                                            The murder in your eyes cannot hide itself ;
                                                                            Their rays have killed me, being unable to staunch
                                                                            The wound which their beauty brought down into my blood.
 
                                                                            Sadness consumes me, have pity on me.
                                                                            You’ll gain from my death neither profit nor praise;
                                                                            Five years deserve some small amount of pity.
 
                                                                            Your desire passes away, but mine does not change.
                                                                            Love who sees my heart sees your wickedness;
                                                                            He holds his bow in his hand, watch out that he doesn’t take revenge.
 
 
Easter seems an appropriate time, even if Ash Wednesday is long past, for this one!
 
As usual Ronsard takes the germ of an idea (ashes) and elaborates it into another poetic exploration of the ashes of a lover’s heart. (Note that here it is five years of pining;  a couple of poems later (in sonnet 7), it is seven years… It might be a sign of the poems being written over a period, but more likely it’s poetic licence on Ronsard’s part.)
 
No variants to report in Blanchemain’s version.