Helen 2:57

De Myrte et de Laurier fueille à fueille enserrez

Helene entrelassant une belle Couronne,

M’appella par mon nom : Voyla que je vous donne,

De moy seule, Ronsard, l’escrivain vous serez.

 

Amour qui l’escoutoit, de ses traicts acerez

Me pousse Helene au cœur, et son Chantre m’ordonne :

Qu’un sujet si fertil vostre plume n’estonne :

Plus l’argument est grand, plus Cygne vous mourrez.

 

Ainsi me dist Amour, me frappant de ses ailes :

Son arc fist un grand bruit, les fueilles eternelles

Du Myrte je senty sur mon chef tressaillir.

 

Adieu Muses adieu, vostre faveur me laisse :

Helene est mon Parnasse : ayant telle Maistresse,

Le Laurier est à moy je ne sçaurois faillir.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            With myrtle and laurel closely twined leaf by leaf

                                                                            Helen was weaving a fair crown,

                                                                            And she called me by my name : « This is what I give you:

                                                                            Of me alone, Ronsard, you shall write.”

 

                                                                            Love, who heard her, with his sharp blows

                                                                            Drives Helen into my heart, and ordains me her Singer;

                                                                            “May a subject so fertile not silence your pen:

                                                                            The greater the topic, the greater the swan you will die as.”

 

                                                                            So said Love to me, striking me with his wings;

                                                                            His bow made a great noise, the eternal leaves

                                                                            Of myrtle I felt rustling on my head.

 

                                                                            Farewell Muses, farewell, your favour has left me.

                                                                            Helen is my Parnassus; having such a mistress,

                                                                            The Laurel is mine and I cannot fail.

 

 

 

Here Ronsard takes one metaphor, that of the Muses on Parnassus, and twists it into another metaphor we are quite familiar with – though rarely this literally – the beloved as the poet’s muse. Here Helen weaves him a crown of myrtle, representing poetry, and laurel, representing victory; and crowning him her ‘champion’ insists he look to her, not the Muses, for inspiration. And in the last lines that is what he does, encouraged by Love (Cupid) who endorses the choice emphatically. Parnassus does not just represent the home of the Muses (hence Helen is the ‘home’ of his new muse), Ronsard also wants us to think of how poets sought inspiration: as Richelet tells us, “those who wished to become poets would go and sleep on this mountain”, and I have no doubt Ronsard wants us (and Helen) to get the message about sleeping together…

 

I suspect “calling me by my name” in line 2 is significant, the kind of magic spell which is more potent for naming names specifically. In line 8 the ‘swan’ who dies is of course the poet – “you will die the greater poet for singing of Helen”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.223

Mets en oubly, Dieu des herbes puissant,

Le mauvais tour que non loin d’Hellesponte

Te fit m’amie, et vien d’une main pronte

Guarir son teint de fiévres pallissant.

 

Tourne en santé son beau corps perissant !

Ce te sera, Phebus, une grand’honte,

Si la langeur sans ton secours surmonte

L’œil, qui te tient si long temps languissant.

 

En ma faveur si tu as pitié d’elle,

Je chanteray comme l’errante Dele

S’enracina par ton commmandement :

 

Que Python fut ta premiere conqueste,

Et comme Dafne aux tresses de ta teste

Donna l’honneur du premier ornement.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Forget, God of powerful herbs,

                                                                            The wicked trick which, not far from the Hellespont,

                                                                            My beloved did you, and come with ready hand

                                                                            To cure her complexion, pallid with fever.

 

                                                                            Return to health her fair but perishing body !

                                                                            It would be great shame on you, Phoebus,

                                                                            If this weakness, without your help, overcame

                                                                            Those eyes which kept you for so long weak-kneed.

 

                                                                            If to please me you have pity on her

                                                                            I shall sing how the wandering Delos

                                                                            Rooted itself at your command ;

 

                                                                            That Python was your first conquest,

                                                                            And how Daphne gave to the tresses of your head

                                                                            The glory of their first ornament.

 

 

Plenty of mythological reference here, as Ronsard begs Apollo, god of healing (‘powerful herbs’), to cure his beloved.Cassandre’s Trojan namesake, the priestess, was originally ‘cursed’ with prophetic madness by Apollo after she refused his advances (or, worse, led him on and then tricked him). Python links to the oracular side of Apollo as well, being the dragon-deity associated with the oracle at Delphi, defeated by Apollo so that the Delphic oracle became his – and was served by a ‘Pythian’ priestess.According to Ronsard, Delos (the island) rooted itself at Apollo’s command: more generally, legend has it that the wandering island was eventually fixed in its position – equidistant from the mainland to north and west, the Greek islands on the coast of Turkey in the east, and Crete to the south – by Poseidon, and subsequently became Apollo’s birthplace. And Daphne picks up the theme of ‘becoming rooted’, as she was the nymph turned into a laurel tree to avoid Apollo’s advances. (Whence the laurel wreath as a symbol of victory in competition is associated with Apollo.)

Note that the two mythical girls in the poem are both failed conquests of Apollo, who received terrible punishments!

In lines 7-8 I have tried to find a parallel for “langueur … languissant” and settled on ‘weak’ words: I’m not sure Ronsard would approve of ‘weak at the knees’ though!

Blanchemain’s version has a variant in lines 11-12:

 

                         … comme l’errante Dele
S’enracina sous ta voix, et comment

Python sentit ta premiere conqueste
 

                                                                                       … how the wandering Delos

                                                                            Rooted itself at your call, and how

                                                                            Python felt your first conquest

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode retranch. 4

 

O Pucelle plus tendre Qu’un beau bouton vermeil Que le rosier engendre Au lever du soleil, D’une part verdissant De l’autre rougissant !   Plus fort que le lierre Qui se gripe à l’entour Du chesne aimé, qu’il serre Enlassé de maint tour, Courbant ses bras épars Sus luy de toutes parts,   Serrez mon col, maistresse, De vos deux bras pliez ; D’un neud qui tienne et presse Doucement me liez ; Un baiser mutuel Nous soit perpetuel.   Ny le temps, ny l’envie D’autre amour desirer Ne pourra point ma vie De vos lèvres tirer ; Ains serrez demourrons, Et baisant nous mourrons.   En mesme an et mesme heure, Et en mesme saison, Irons voir la demeure De la palle maison, Et les champs ordonnez Aux amans fortunez.   Amour par les fleurettes Du printemps eternel Voirra nos amourettes Sous le bois maternel ; Là nous sçaurons combien Les amans ont de bien.   Le long des belles plaines Et parmy les prez vers, Les rives sonnent pleines De maints accords divers ; L’un joue, et l’autre au son Danse d’une chanson.   Là le beau ciel décueuvre Tousjours un front benin, Sur les fleurs la couleuvre Ne vomit son venin, Et tousjours les oyseaux Chantent sur les rameaux ;   Tousjours les vens y sonnent Je ne sçay quoy de doux, Et les lauriers y donnent Tousjours ombrages moux ; Tousjours les belles fleurs Y gardent leurs couleurs.   Parmy le grand espace De ce verger heureux, Nous aurons tous deux place Entre les amoureux, Et comme eux sans soucy Nous aimerons aussi.   Nulle amie ancienne Ne se dépitera, Quand de la place sienne Pour nous deux s’ostera, Non celles dont les yeux Prirent le cœur des dieux.

O maid more tender Than a fair crimson bud To which the rosebush gives birth At the rising of the sun, Partly growing fresh and youthful, Partly blushing redder!   Stronger than the ivy Which climbs around Its beloved oak, which it hugs Wound in many a twist, Curving its wide-spread arms Above it on all sides,   Embrace my neck, mistress, With your two bent arms; In a knot which holds and squeezes Sweetly bind me; May our shared kiss Be everlasting.   Neither time, nor the longing To enjoy some other love Can in any way pull my life Back from your lips; So let’s stay embracing And we’ll die kissing.   In the same year, the same hour, The same season, We’ll go and see the dwellings Of that pale house, And the fields ordained For happy lovers.   Love with the flowers Of eternal springtime Will see our love-dalliance In our maternal woods; There we shall discover how many Good things lovers enjoy.   Along the fair plains And among the green meadows, The rivers play their music, full Of many varied harmonies; One plays, and the other Dances to the sound of the song.   There the fair sky constantly Shows a mild brow; The grass-snake does not vomit His venom on the flowers; The birds are always Singing in the branches;   The winds there are always making Some sweet sound; The laurels there always give Their moist shade; The beautiful flowers there always Retain their colours.   Amid the great space Of this happy orchard We shall both take our place Among the lovers, And like them without a care We too shall make love.   No ancient lover Will be vexed When from her spot For us two she will remove herself, Not even those whose eyes Captured the hearts of the gods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Am. 1:227d)

D’un gosier masche-laurier      J’oy crier Dans Lycofron ma Cassandre, Qui prophetize aux Troyens      Les moyens Qui les reduiront en cendre.   Mais ces pauvres obstinez      Destinez Pour ne croire à leur Sibylle, Virent, bien que tard, apres      Les feux Grecs Forcener parmy leur ville.   Ayant la mort dans le sein,      De la main Plomboient leur poitrine nue, Et tordant leurs cheveux gris,      De longs cris Pleuroient qu’ils ne l’avoient creuëe.   Mais leurs cris n’eurent pouvoir      D’esmouvoir Les Grecs si chargez de proye, Qu’ils ne laisserent sinon      Que le nom De ce qui fut jadis Troye.   Ainsi pour ne croire pas,      Quand tu m’as Predit ma peine future : Et que je n’aurois en don,      Pour guerdon De t’aimer, que la mort dure :   Un grand brasier sans repos,      Et mes os, Et mes nerfs, et mon cœur brûle : Et pour t’amour j’ay receu      Plus de feu, Que ne fit Troye incredule.

With her laurel-chewing throat      I hear calling In Lycophron my Cassandra, Prophesying to the Trojans      The way They’ll be reduced to ashes.   But those poor obstinate men,      Destined Not to believe their Sybil, Saw afterwards, though too late,      Greek fire Raging through their town.   With death in their hearts,      With their hands They sheathed their naked breasts in lead And tearing their grey hairs      With long cries They wept that they had not believed her.   But their cries had no power      To move The Greeks, so laden with loot That they left nothing      But the name Of what once was Troy.   So, for not believing      When you told me Of my future pain, And that I should gain only,      As trophy For loving you, the gift of harsh death,   A great fire ceaselessly      Burns My bones and nerves and heart, And for your love I’ve had      More fire Than made Troy astonished.

 

I’m uncomfortable with the opening line: Ronsard’s “masche-laurier” is hard to capture I feel  (EDIT – see below & Patrice’s useful clarification in the comments). But it would be a pity not to attempt the poem: it’s a marvellous one, I think, with the balance between 4 stanzas of Troy and two of Cassandre (or 2+2+2 if you prefer) and the clear link between the ‘ancient’ Cassandra and the ‘modern’, and the literal burning and the metaphorical.  Most of this is a straightforward and familiar recital of the Trojan legend, but Muret helps us with the odd reference to Lycophron:  ‘Lycophron, a native of Chalcis, was one of the seven poets who flourished in the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt, and who were called the Pleiade. This Lycophron wrote a poem called Cassandra, which alone has survived to this day, in which he depicts her predicting the evils which are to come to the town of Troy’.  Thus we see Ronsard managing to refer back to the original Pleaid of Alexandrian poets in the Hellenistic period of Greece, which gave its name to the ‘modern’ Pleiade of Ronsard, Baif and the others.

 

No variants to report from Blanchemain’s earlier version (!)

 

======

 

More on the opening line:  following Patrice’s hint, I have gone and looked up Lycophron. As often with Ronsard, the learned reference isn’t as difficult to locate as you might think: in fact, it’s in the 6th line of the 1500 line poem… The opening, in a Victorian translation I’ve borrowed from www.theoi.com, goes: “All will I tell truly that thou askest from the utter beginning, and if the tale be prolonged, forgive me, master. For not quietly as of old did the maiden loose the varied voice of her oracles, but poured forth a weird confused cry, and uttered wild words from her bay-chewing mouth, imitating the speech of the dark Sphinx.”  The Greek word is “Daphne-phagon” – laurel- or bay-eating – at the beginning of line 6 below

 

Further edit:  Ronsard also used this concept in Odes 1.11, strophe 5, where he writes of Phoebus (Apollo):

 

Lequel m’encharge de chanter

Son Du-Bellay, pour le vanter

Sur tous ses enfans qui ont bien

Masché du Laurier Delphien.

 

                                                           He who charged me to sing

                                                           Of his Du Bellay, to praise him

                                                           Above all those of his children who have

                                                           Well-chewed the Delphic laurel.

 

 

 

 

 

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’).

 

 

 

 

Ode 3:13 – to Joachim du Bellay

Nous avons quelque fois grand faute Soit de biens, soit de faveur haute, Comme l’affaire nous conduit, Mais tousjours tandis que nous sommes Ou morts, ou mis au rang des hommes, Nous avons besoing de bon bruit.   Car la louange emmiellée Au sucre des Muses mellée Nous perçe l’aureille en riant Je di louange qui ne cede A l’or que Pactole possede Ny aux perles de l’Orient.   La vertu qui n’a cognoissance Combien la Muse a de puissance Languit en tenebreux sejour Et en vain elle est soupirante Que sa clarté n’est apparante Pour se monstrer au raiz du jour.   France sous Henry fleurist comme Sous August’ fleurist Romme, Elle n’est plaine seulement D’hommes qui animent le cuïvre, Ny de peintres qui en font vivre Deux ensamble eternellement ;   Mais grosse de sçavoir enfante Des filz dont el’ est triumphante, Qui son nom rendent honoré : L’un chantre d’amour la decore L’autre Mars, et l’autre encore, De Phoebus au beau crin doré.   Entre lesquelz le ciel ordonne Que le premier lieu l’on te donne, Si tu monstres au jour tes vers Entés dans le tronc d’une Olive, Qui hausse sa perrucque vive Jusque à l’esgal des lauriers vers.

We have sometimes a great lack Either of goods or of high favour, As matters lead us, But always while we are Either dead or placed among the ranks of men, We have need of good report.   For honeyed praise Mixed with the sugar of the Muses Pierces our ears amidst laughter;  I sing a praise which does not give place To the gold which Pactolus owns Nor to the pearls of the Orient.   Virtue, which takes no note How powerful is the Muse, Pines in a shadowy place And in vain it sighs That its brightness is not bright enough To show itself in the light of day.   France under Henry flourishes as Rome flourished under Augustus; It is not full only Of men who bring life to brass, Nor of painters who make the two of them Together live eternally;   But pregnant with knowledge it gives birth To sons in whom she is triumphant, Who make her name honoured; One ornaments her as a singer of love, Another of war, another still Of Phoebus with his fair golden hair.   Among these, heaven ordains That we give you the first place, If you show the daylight your verse Grafted on the trunk of an Olive, Which raises its living crown Up to level with the green laurels.

 

 Today, a lovely & beautifully-built ode to his friend du Bellay, praising his ‘Olive’ (the first book of sonnets in French). Along the way Ronsard manages to get in a brief but telling patriotic gesture of praise to Henri II’s France, another Rome in the golden age of Augustus. As each stanza moves us one step closer to the goal, in a very carefully-calculated but artful way, there is a definite sense of climax.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 165

Sonnets 163 and 164 are already available, so our journey through book 1 continues with no. 165 …

Saincte Gastine, ô douce secretaire

De mes ennuis, qui respons en ton bois,

Ores en haute ores en basse voix,

Aux longs souspirs que mon cœur ne peut taire :

 

Loir, qui refreins la course volontaire

Des flots roulant par nostre Vandomois,

Quand accuser ceste beauté tu m’ois,

De qui tousjours je m’affame et m’altere :

 

Si dextrement l’augure j’ay receu,

Et si mon œil ne fut hier deceu

Des doux regards de ma douce Thalie,

 

Maugré la mort Poëte me ferez

Et par la France appellez vous serez

L’un mon Laurier, l’autre ma Castalie.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Holy Gastine, sweet minister

                                                                            Of my troubles, who reply in your wood

                                                                            Now with loud, now with quiet voice

                                                                            To the long sighs which my heart cannot silence;

 

                                                                            Loir, who restrain the headstrong course

                                                                            Of your waves running through our Vendôme,

                                                                            When you hear me accusing that beauty

                                                                            For whom I’m always hungry and thirsty;

 

                                                                            If I’ve rightly understood the prophecy,

                                                                            And if my eye was not deceived yesterday

                                                                            By the sweet glances of my sweet Thalia,

 

                                                                            In spite of death you will make me a Poet,

                                                                            And throughout France one of you will be called

                                                                            My Laurel, the other my Castalia.

 

 

 

Here again Ronsard connects his own small part of the Vendome with the classical sites well-known to all his readers: the forest of Gastine, and the little river Loir, become the equivalents of the victory-crowning laurel, and the Castalian spring which emerges beside the Delphic oracle – though here Ronsard is thinking less of the oracle’s link with prophecy than its link with Apollo who inspires poets. Thalia (as he calls Cassandre here) was the muse associated with pastoral poetry – but also, less relevantly, with comedy!

 

Once more there are only minor changes between versions. Blanchemain offers in line 1 “Saincte Gastine, heureuse secretaire” (‘happy minister’); in lines 5-6 “la course volontaire / Du plus courant de tes flots vendomois” (‘the headstrong course / Of the fastest-running of your waters of Vendome’); and in line 12 “Dorenavant poëte me ferez,” (‘Henceforward you will make me a Poet’).

 

 

 

Sonnet 87

Si l’escrivain de la Gregeoise armée

Eust veu tes yeux qui serf me tiennent pris,

Les faits de Mars n’eust jamais entrepris,

Et le Duc Grec fust mort sans renommée.

 

Et si Paris qui veit en la valée

La Cyprienne et d’elle fut épris,

T’eust veu quatriesme, il t’eust donné le pris,

Et sans honneur Venus s’en fust allée.

 

Mais s’il advient ou par le vueil des Cieux,

Ou par le trait qui sort de tes beaux yeux,

Que d’un haut vers je chante ta conqueste

 

Et nouveau cygne on m’entende crier,

Il n’y aura ny myrte ny laurier

Digne de toy, ny digne de ma teste.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If the poet of the Grecian army

                                                                            Had seen your eyes, which hold me bound as a serf,

                                                                            He would never have undertaken the deeds of Mars [war]

                                                                            And the Greek general would have died without fame.

 

                                                                            And if Paris, who glimpsed in the garden

                                                                            The Cyprian [Venus] and fell in love with her,

                                                                            Had seen you as the fourth, he would have given you the prize

                                                                            And Venus would have left without reward.

 

                                                                            But if it happens, by the will of Heaven

                                                                            Or by the wound given by your fair eyes,

                                                                            That in fine poetry I sing of your conquest

 

                                                                            And like a new swan I am heard singing,

                                                                            There will be no myrtle or laurel

                                                                            Worthy of you, nor worthy as my crown.

 

 

Ronsard has a way of turning a compliment, doesn’t he – and often deftly turning it to himself! If ever a poet was secure in his knowledge of his own worth, it’s Ronsard. But of course this poem is about the surpassing charms of Cassandre, greater than any inspiration to any poet before…

 

The ‘poet of the Grecian army’ is of course Homer, the war is the Trojan War, his poem the Iliad, and the Greek general who dies is Achilles. Paris was chosen to judge the contest between Juno, Venus and Minerva and naturally decided the prettiest was best – so Ronsard says Cassandre is prettier than the goddess of love herself. Myrtles and laurels are the prize for poets, and indeed the victors of any contest, in the classical world – though not good enough as a prize for Ronsard apparently!

 

I must admit to some paraphrasing in this translation:  in line 5 Paris actually “saw [Venus] in the valley”, but ‘glimpsed … garden’ offers an alliterative effect similar to “veit en la valée”.  In line 14 Ronsard actually says no myrtle is ‘worthy of you, nor worthy of my head’, but I have changed this (with less excuse) to the more explanatory ‘crown’.

 

Blanchemain’s version shows how Ronsard’s self-confidence had grown later in life: for in this version he ends by receiving (and being pleased to receive) the best of myrtle crowns…

 

 

 

Si l’escrivain de la Gregeoise armée

Eust veu tes yeux qui serf me tiennent pris,

Les faits de Mars il n’eust jamais empris,

Et le duc grec fust mort sans renommée.

 

Et si Pâris, qui vit en la valée

La grand’ beauté dont son cœur fut épris,

Eust veu la tienne, il t’eust donné le pris,

Et sans honneur Venus s’en fust allée.

 

Mais s’il advient, ou par le vueil des cieux,

Ou par le trait qui sort de tes beaux yeux,

Qu’en publiant ma prise et ta conqueste,

 

Outre la Tane on m’entende crier,

Io ! Io ! quel myrte ou quel laurier

Sera bastant pour enlacer ma teste !

 

 

 

                                                                            If the poet of the Grecian army

                                                                            Had seen your eyes, which hold me bound as a serf,

                                                                            He would never have taken up the deeds of Mars [war]

                                                                            And the Greek general would have died without fame.

 

                                                                            And if Paris, who glimpsed in the garden

                                                                            That great beauty by which his heart was seized,

                                                                            Had seen yours, he would have given you the prize

                                                                            And Venus would have left without reward.

 

                                                                            But if it happens, by the will of Heaven

                                                                            Or by the wound given by your fair eyes,

                                                                            That in speaking out of my capture and your conquest,

 

                                                                            Beyond Tanais they hear me singing

                                                                            “Io! Io!”, what myrtle or what laurel

                                                                            Will be woven to twine around my head!

 

 

 

 In the second quatrain his first version is more allusive than the later one – perhaps unusually! – explaining itself only in line 8; but the later version, while making the allusion clearer in line 5, does end up repeating itself if we recognise Cypris and Venus to be the same person. In the final lines, Blanchemain says ‘I believe “la Tane” is Tanais’; this was a city at the southern end of the [modern] river Don, that is to say NE of the Crimea at the top-right of the Black Sea – – or, in classical terms, the far end of the known world. So those beyond Tanais are in effect at or beyond the edges of the known world.  ‘Io’ was a representation of the shouting (or ululation) of Bacchantes and others in the throes of some form of ecstatic dance-trance – again, associated with the mystic east.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 71

Ja desja Mars ma trompe avoit choisie,

Et dans mes vers ja Francus devisoit :

Sur ma fureur ja sa lance aiguisoit,

Epoinçonnant ma brave poësie :

 

Ja d’une horreur la Gaule estoit saisie,

Et sous le fer ja Sene tre-luisoit,

Et ja Francus à Paris conduisoit

Le nom Troyen et l’honneur de l’Asie :

 

Quand l’Archerot emplumé par le dos,

D’un trait certain me playant jusqu’à l’os,

De ses secrets le ministre m’ordonne.

 

Armes adieu, le Myrte Pafien

Ne cede point au Laurier Delfien,

Quand de sa main Amour mesme le donne.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Now already Mars had outwitted me

                                                                            And now in my verse Francus was chattering away ;

                                                                            Now he was sharpening his lance on my passion,

                                                                            Skewering my bold poetry;

 

                                                                            Now Gaul was seized with horror,

                                                                            The Seine now glinting beneath the blades,

                                                                            Francus now bringing to Paris

                                                                            The name of Troy and Asia’s honour;

 

                                                                            When the little Archer, feathers on his back,

                                                                            Wounding me to the bone with a sure dart

                                                                            Ordained me as minister of his secrets.

 

                                                                            Farewell arms! The myrtle of Paphos

                                                                            Yields nothing to the laurel of Delphi

                                                                            When Love himself gives it with his own hand.

 

 

  

It’s hard to think of Ronsard as a poet of war and epic poetry – the Franciad notwithstanding – yet here he is claiming that he was already at work on such an epic when he was diverted towards love poetry. Maybe this is a ‘classicizing’ defence of love poetry, for epic is of course – like tragedy – considered greater than ‘mere’ love poetry. But it is believed true that he had begun work on his epic Franciad in the 1540s, before turning to love poetry, the Franciad having to wait till the 1570s for publication in its partially-complete state.

 

The hero Francus is an entirely made-up French origin myth, originating in the medieval period: Francus is Astyanax, Hector’s son, mysteriously surviving the death he suffered in the various Greek epics of Troy (in the Little Iliad he is thrown from the walls, in the Ilioupersis, he is killed and the King Priam – his grandfather – is beaten to death with his body!). Escaping to Europe, Astyanax/Francus becomes the origin of the Franks, and founder of the Merovingian dynasty (Charlemagne’s line).

 

Paphos and myrtle are both associated with Venus: Paphos because, after her birth at sea, she came ashore in a seashell there (cf. the famous Botticelli painting); and myrtle is sacred to Venus in classical religion.  Delphi and the laurel are linked with Apollo:  Delphi for the famous Oracle, the laurel as sacred to him and the plant into which Daphne was changed to save her from Apollo’s advances (alluded to in the previous sonnet).

 

The original version (in Blanchemain) has a few small variants:  his lines 7-8 read

 

 

Et ja Francus à son bord conduisoit

Les os d’Hector forbannis de l’Asie,

 

                                                                           Francus now bringing to its banks

                                                                           The bones of Hector exiled from Asia;

 

and his line 11 reads “De sa grandeur le saint prestre m’ordonne” (‘By his greatness ordained me his holy priest’ or ‘Ordained me holy priest of his greatness’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (4)

Le vieil cothurne d’Euripide

Est en procez entre Garnier

Et Jodelle, qui le premier

Se vante d’en estre le guide.

 

Il faut que ce procez on vuide,

Et qu’on adjuge le laurier

A qui mieux d’un docte gosier

A beu de l’onde Aganippide.

 

S’il faut espelucher de prés

Le vieil artifice des Grecs,

Les vertus d’une œuvre et les vices,

 

Le sujet et le parler haut,

Et les mots bien choisis ; il faut

Que Garnier paye les espices.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            The ancient buskin of Euripides

                                                                            Is being contested between Garnier

                                                                            And Jodelle, who first

                                                                            Boasted of being our guide in this art.

 

                                                                            We must abandon this trial,

                                                                            And award the laurel

                                                                            To him who with learned throat

                                                                            Has drunk best of Aganippe’s waters.

 

                                                                            If we must examine closely

                                                                            The ancient art of the Greeks,

                                                                            The virtues and vices of a body of work,

 

                                                                            Subjects and grand style

                                                                            And words well-chosen, then must

                                                                            Garnier take the prize.

 

 

 

After yesterday’s Alexandrines for Aeschylus, we have octosyllables (tetrameters) for Euripides!  (Note, incidentally, that we have also had decasyllables (pentameters) in one of these sonnets – Ronsard is keen to show his virtuosity in the context of framing Garnier’s tragedies!)  Estienne Jodelle, another friend of Ronsard’s represents the earlier school of French drama; it is generally agreed that Garnier’s work was a major step forward from Jodelle’s. Aganippe is the name of the spring at the foot of Mount Helicon, home of the Muses; in fact, the Muses were sometimes called the ‘Aganippides’ (children of Aganippe) & it would be perfectly possible to translate “l’onde Aganippide” as ‘the Muses’ waters’.

 

The last line deserves a brief note:  literally, “Garnier must pay the spices”:  although judgement was supposed to be free at the time, it had become the custom for the winnder of a trial to reward the judge in spices or other rare foods. For some reason the fact that it was food not money seems to have made it seem acceptable and not a form of bribery! So, as Garnier must pay over the spices to the judge, he must be the winner of the legal contest. While Ronsard is thus consistent in his use of a legal metaphor throughout, I have opted for ‘take the prize’ which is better suited to a sporting contest: apologies for mixing my metaphors and misrepresenting Ronsard!

 

That brings us to the end of this set of 4 sonnets.  Now it must be time to take up the first book of Amours, for Cassandre, again and return to the poetry with which Ronsard made his name.