Helen 2:26

Au milieu de la guerre, en un siecle sans foy,

Entre mille procez, est-ce pas grand’ folie

D’escrire de l’Amour ? De manotes on lie

Les fols qui ne sont pas si furieux que moy.

 

Grison et maladif r’entrer dessous la loy

D’Amour, ô quelle erreur ! Dieux, merci je vous crie.

Tu ne m’es plus Amour, tu m’es une Furie,

Qui me rens fol enfant et sans yeux comme toy :

 

Voir perdre mon païs, proye des adversaires,

Voir en nos estendars les fleurs de lis contraires,

Voir une Thebaïde et faire l’amoureux !

 

Je m’en vais au Palais : adieu vieilles Sorcieres.

Muses je prens mon sac, je seray plus heureux

En gaignant mes procez, qu’en suivant vos rivieres.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            In the midst of war, in an age without loyalty,

                                                                            Among a thousand trials, is it not great folly

                                                                            To write of Love ? They tie with manacles

                                                                            Madmen who are not as mad as me.

 

                                                                            To return, grey and sickly, under the laws

                                                                            Of Love – what a mistake !  Gods, I cry mercy.

                                                                            You are no more Love to me, you are a Fury

                                                                            Who makes me mad, childish, blind as you:

 

                                                                            To watch my country lost, prey of our enemies,

                                                                            To see flowers hostile to our lilies on our standards,

                                                                            To see a Thebaid and to play the lover!

 

                                                                            I’m off to the palace: farewell ancient sorceresses,

                                                                            You Muses, I am taking up my bag, I shall be happier

                                                                            Winning my suits, than following your streams.

 

 

 

An occasional reminder that the Helen sonnets emerged from a period of anything-but-love in French history: the religious wars were in the background (if not the foreground) through much of the 1560s and 1570s, and the hoped Ronsard had had in his youth of a glorious future for humanist France had long been buried.

 

And it wasn’t just the wars: it was the divisions in society, the fear and suspicion, ‘an age without loyalty’. This was not the France that Ronsard had hoped would emerge from the 1550s, as first Henri II died, then François II and Charles IX died young, unable to stem the religious tensions.

 

Although it wasn’t true that the country was ‘lost, prey to our enemies’, the reference to the Thebaid (Statius’s poem about the ‘Seven against Thebes’) points us at the internal enemies Ronsard means, and the civil war he is referring to. 

 

It didn’t help that Ronsard was ageing fast. By the mid-1560s his youth had passed, he was prematurely grey soon after 30, and balding too; by age 40 his teeth were black and falling out; his body was ailing and giving him trouble. So his despair about the state of the nation was exacerbated by his physical problems and the gradual loss of the active lifestyle he’d pursued when young. 

 

Add to that, that he had first achieved royal recognition under Henri II (though only after the death of Saint-Gelais in 1558) and had found great understanding and support from Charles IX, but much less from Henri III; and that inflation due to wars and civil unrest was eroding the value of his income. This meant he needed continually to pursue new grants and prebends from the king to maintain his level of income; but that doing so was a tougher and more uncertain business. It of course took time, which was time he couldn’t spend on writing – that contrast in the last lines of the poem between ‘winning his suit’ at the royal court, or pursuing the Muses.

 

Though in the end Ronsard decides he’s better off pursuing his suit at court, we know of course that he didn’t abandon the Muses – after all there are another 50-odd sonnets before the end of book 2!

 

A lovely poem: I like it, it covers so much of the historical and social context, and Ronsard’s own circumstances, all in 14 lines. Remarkable. 

 

Blanchemain offers one minor variant, and several notes. His line 4 begins “Des fols qui ne sont pas …” – which doesn’t really change the translation. The notes from Richelet tell us: in line 7, “the ancients, to explain the furious passions of lovers, pretended that Love had loved a Fury” [which is not quite the point Ronsard was making!]; in line 11, he explains ‘seeing a Thebaid’ as experiencing “a war of brother against brother, like that of the sons of Oedipus before Thebes”; and in line 14, he explains why it’s the Muses’ rivers that Ronsard is avoiding: “they love [rivers], as also [they love] all hidden, lonely places”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:34

Amour, seul artizan de mes propres malheurs,

Contre qui sans repos au combat je m’essaye,

M’a fait dedans le cœur une mauvaise playe,

Laquelle en lieu de sang ne verse que des pleurs.

 

Le meschant m’a fait pis, choisissant les meilleurs

De ses traits ja trempez aux veines de mon faye :

La langue m’a navrée à fin que je begaye

En lieu de raconter à chacun mes douleurs.

 

Phebus, qui sur Parnasse aux Muses sers de guide,

Pren l’arc, revenge moy contre mon homicide :

J’ay la langue et le cœur percez t’ayant suivy.

 

Voy comme l’un et l’autre en begayant me saigne.

Phebus, dés le berceau j’ay suivy ton enseigne,

Conserve les outils qui t’ont si bien servi.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, sole creator of  these misfortunes of mine,

                                                                            Against whom without rest I try myself in combat,

                                                                            Has given me a terrible wound in my heart,

                                                                            Which instead of blood pours out nothing but tears.

 

                                                                            The wicked lad has done me the worst harm, choosing the best

                                                                            Of his arrows now soaked in the veins of my liver:

                                                                            My tongue has destroyed me, so that I stammer

                                                                            Instead of telling everyone of my sadness.

 

                                                                            Phoebus, you who act as guide to the Muses on Parnassus,

                                                                            Take your bow, revenge me against my murderer:

                                                                            My tongue and heart are pierced from having followed you.

 

                                                                            See how the one and the other as they stammer bleed me dry.

                                                                            Phoebus, from the very cradle I have followed your standard,

                                                                            Preserve those tools which have served you well.

 

 

 

There is a lovely balance here between love and art, between the reality of love and the artistic representation of it. The key phrase is in line 11 – it is, in the end, Apollo and the Muses whom Ronsard follows, not love …

 

I’m not sure that ‘veins of my liver’ is really meaningful, but that’s what Ronsard says (no doubt partly driven by the metre). 

 

Blanchemain offers a couple of variants in the last 4 lines:

 

 

… J’ay la langue et le cœur percés de part en part.

 

Voy comme l’un et l’autre en begayant me saigne.

Phebus, dés le berceau j’ay suivy ton enseigne,

Le capitaine doit defendre son soudart.

 

                                                                            … My tongue and heart are pierced from side to side.

 

                                                                            See how the one and the other as they stammer bleed me dry.

                                                                            Phoebus, from the very cradle I have followed your standard,

                                                                            The captain ought to defend his soldier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:76

Helas ! voicy le jour que mon maistre on enterre,

Muses, accompagnez son funeste convoy :

Je voy son effigie, et au dessus je voy

La Mort qui de ses yeux la lumiere luy serre.

 

Voila comme Atropos les Majestez atterre

Sans respect de jeunesse ou d’empire ou de foy.

CHARLES qui fleurissoit nagueres un grand Roy,

Est maintenant vestu d’une robbe de terre.

 

Hé ! tu me fais languir par cruauté d’amour :

Je suis ton Promethée, et tu es mon Vautour.

La vengeance du Ciel n’oublira tes malices.

 

Un mal au mien pareil puisse un jour t’avenir,

Quand tu voudras mourir, que mourir tu ne puisses.

Si justes sont les Dieux, je t’en verray punir.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Alas ! Today is the day they are burying my master.

                                                                            Muses, accompany the procession of death;

                                                                            I see his effigy, and above it I see

                                                                            Death, who shut off from his eyes the light.

 

                                                                            That’s how Atropos brings to earth great Majesties,

                                                                            Without respect for youth or power or faithfulness.

                                                                            Charles who till recently flourished as a great king

                                                                            Is now clothed in a robe of soil.

 

                                                                            Ah, you make me weep with the cruelty of love;

                                                                            I am your Prometheus, and you my vulture.

                                                                            The vengeance of Heaven will not forget your malice.

 

                                                                            May troubles equal to mine come your way one day,

                                                                            When you will wish to die but be unable to die.

                                                                            So just are the gods; I shall see you punished.

 

 

 

 

At the end of the two books of Helen poems stand two sonnets in which Ronsard recalls his duty as ‘court poet’ and laments the death of the King. It’s clearly not an afterthought; though behind the apology for writing about love when more important things were going on there is no doubt a bit of real feeling: after all, Ronsard’s attempt at an epic poem, the Franciade, had not been the great success he wanted and, now ageing, he was perhaps a little uncomfortable still at being recognised principally as a specialist in love sonnets.

 

This one is the less successful of the two: not because it is poorly written, because clearly it isn’t; but because of the lurching transition between octet and sestet, between King and Helen, which is not ‘signalled’ in any way. From the cruelty of fate we lurch suddenly to the cruelty of love and of Helen.

 

But the writing is marvellous. The octet is full of sonorous poetry, of stark images in mythic style: Atropos (one of the Greek Fates – the one with the scissors who actually ended mortals’ lives) is there with her remorselessness, Charles IX is conveyed in a sombre procession and buried, like all mortals, in a ‘robe of earth’ – a powerful image.

 

And then we are in the world of love again, of remorseless Helen who will not respond, and Ronsard’s troubles are no longer at the epic, mythic level of seeing his King buried, but at the very personal, trivial level of not getting a response from his beloved. Of course, poetically his point (as a love poet) is that the latter is just as great a cause of despair as the former.

 

He does his best to dress it up as mythic – Prometheus chained to the rock ebing savaged daily by the vulture, a vengeance designed by Heaven, dying and not-dying daily. But somehow the epic qualities seem strained and less significant than those of the first half.

 

Incidentally, if we believe line 1 literally, then we can date the poem to the very beginning of June 1574. Charles IX died on 30 May 1574, aged only 23. I don’t know the date of the funeral service & burial at St-Denis, but it must be known, so we might go so far as to date the poem exactly to that date. In fact it’s highly unlikely that “Voicy le jour…” (More literally ‘Here’s the day of the king’s burial’) is really an assertion that the poem was written on that very day. So let’s stick with a date probably in early June 1574. At that point, Ronsard would not have fnished the Helen poems; but he is his own editor as well, and clearly took the view (rightly) that these poems belonged at the end of the book, as an apologia and farewell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:35

Cythere entroit au bain, et te voyant pres d’elle

Son Ceste elle te baille à fin de le garder.

Ceinte de tant d’amours tu me vins regarder

Me tirant de tes yeux une fleche cruelle.

 

Muses, je suis navré, ou ma playe mortelle

Guarissez, ou cessez de plus me commander.

Je ne suy vostre escole, à fin de demander

Qui fait la Lune vieille, ou qui la fait nouvelle.

 

Je ne vous fait la Cour, comme un homme ocieux,

Pour apprendre de vous le mouvement des cieux,

Que peut la grande Eclipse, ou que peut la petite,

 

Ou si Fortune ou Dieu ont fait cest Univers :

Si je ne puis flechir Helene par mes vers,

Cherchez autre escolier, Deesses, je vous quitte.

 

 

                                                                            Cytherea [Venus] entered her bath, and seeing you near her

                                                                            Handed you her girdle so that you could guard it.

                                                                            Girded with so much love, you came to see me,

                                                                            You eyes shooting me with a cruel dart.

 

                                                                            Muses, I am wounded : cure my

                                                                            Mortal wound, or cease henceforth to command me.

                                                                            I do not follow your school to ask

                                                                            Who makes the moon old, or who makes her new [again];

 

                                                                            I do not pay you court, like a man of leisure,

                                                                            To learn from you the movements of the heavens,

                                                                            Or what a great eclipse can do, or a small one,

 

                                                                            Or if Chance or God made this universe.

                                                                            If I cannot move Helen with my verses,

                                                                            Seek some other pupil, goddesses : I abandon you.

 

 

When Ronsard talks of the Muses, it’s easy to forget there were Muses in charge of things other than poetry or music: astronomy, for instance. That was Urania.

 

In line 2, it’s worth noting that Venus’s “cestus”, her magic girdle, ‘gave the wearer the power to excite love’ (Wiktionary).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2 — dedicatory sonnet

[A] ROBERT GARNIER, Prince des poëtes tragicques.

 

SONNET

 

Tu gravois dans le ciel les victoires de France,

Et de nos roys sceptrez ta lyre se paissoit,

Quand ce monarque Amour, qu’elle ne cognoissoit,

Eut vouloir de luy faire entonner sa puissance.

 

Bruslant de ce desir, une fleche il eslance

Que ta jeune poitrine imprudente reçoit ;

Puis, comme le travail en flattant te deçoit,

Tu te plais à chanter le cruel qui t’offence.

 

Son nom, qui ne rouloit sur le parler françois,

Maintenant plus enflé par ta gaillarde voix

Remplit l’air estranger de sa fameuse gloire ;

 

Si que luy, amorcé de ce premier honneur,

Frappe tous ceux qu’il voit dedans Pegase boire,

Pour trouver (mais en vain) encor un tel sonneur.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            [To] Robert Garnier, prince of tragic poets:

 

 

                                                                            You wrote in the heavens the victories of France,

                                                                            And your lyre was nourished by our sceptred kings,

                                                                            When that monarch Love, which it did not recognise,

                                                                            Chose to make it thunder of his power.

 

                                                                            Burning with this desire, he shot an arrow

                                                                            Which struck your careless youthful breast ;

                                                                            Then, as the work flattered to deceive you,

                                                                            You pleased yourself in singing of the cruel one who struck you.

 

                                                                            His name, which was not spoken in the French tongue,

                                                                            Now made greater by your cheerful voice

                                                                            Fills foreign air with his renowned glory;

 

                                                                            So much that he, beginning with this first trophy,

                                                                            Shoots all those whom he sees drinking from the Pegasis,

                                                                            To find (but yet in vain) another such singer.

 

 

 

Marty-Laveaux doesn’t print this dedicatory sonnnet to Garnier in his book; so this is Blanchemain’s version. We’ve met Garnier before: Ronsard wrote a series of sonnets to go at the front of Garnier’s own works as they were published; here is one dedicating Amours 2 to him. Garnier responded after Ronsard’s death with a magnificent elegy.

 

Ronsard shows how he takes ideas that many another poet has played with, and re-knits them into a work that is entirely new and fresh – while still managing to flatter and extol the dedicatee! Though Garnier is best known as a tragic poet (as Ronsard’s dedication reminds us), his first published work was the “Plaintes amoureuses” of 1565 – three years before his first tragedy, and written while he was still a 21-year-old law student. (The book has now been lost.) In fact, apart from his “Hymne de la Monarchye” (and his “Elegy to Ronsard”) poetry by Garnier outside his tragedies is still hard to find.

 

(In fact, even though the latter part of the Elegy has been anthologised over the centuries, and can be found on the web, I’ve been unable to find the original Elegy – as published immediately after Ronsard’s death along with a flood of other poetry in honour of the great man – re-printed in full since the sixteenth century. I feel another post coming on…)

 

So, in extraordinarily disingenuous fashion, given that du Bellay’s “L’Olive” appeared in 1549 and he himself had written 220 love sonnets in his 1st book of Amours in the early 1550s, Ronsard credits Garnier with introducing love-poetry into France … !  (Let us ignore, for the moment, the love poems not in sonnet form of all the preceding generations of poets, from Saint-Gelais to Marot to Villon to Christine de Pisan to Machaut …. !)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:69

Cesse tes pleurs, mon livre : il n’est pas ordonné

Du destin, que moy vif tu sois riche de gloire :

Avant que l’homme passe outre la rive noire,

L’honneur de son travail ne luy est point donné.

 

Quelqu’un apres mille ans de mes vers estonné

Voudra dedans mon Loir, comme en Permesse, boire,

Et voyant mon pays, à peine pourra croire

Que d’un si petit lieu tel Poëte soit né.

 

Pren, mon livre, pren cœur : la vertu precieuse

« De l’homme, quand il vit, est toujours odieuse :

« Apres qu’il est absent, chacun le pense un Dieu.

 

« La rancueur nuit tousjours à ceux qui sont en vie :

« Sur les vertus d’un mort elle n’a plus de lieu,

« Et la posterité rend l’honneur sans envie.

 

 

 

                                                                            Cease your tears, my book : it was not ordained

                                                                            By fate that, while I am alive, you should be rich in glory ;

                                                                            Before any man passes beyond the black river,

                                                                            The honour due his work is never given to him.

 

                                                                            Someone, astonished by my verse after a thousand years,

                                                                            Will want to drink from my Loir, as from Permessus,

                                                                            And seeing my homeland will hardly be able to believe

                                                                            That from so small a place was such a poet born.

 

                                                                            Take heart, my book: “The precious virtue

                                                                            Of a man, while he lives, is always disliked;

                                                                            After he is gone, everyone thinks him a god.

 

                                                                            Rancour only harms those who are alive;

                                                                            It has no power over the virtues of the dead,

                                                                            And posterity renders honour without envy.”

 

 

 

A gently-classicising poem to end book 2 as originally conceived.  The black river in line 3 is the Styx, the border of the underworld; Permessus in line 6 is the spring on Mt Helicon, home of the Muses. Both do not demand great learning from Marie! Ronsard remains full of certainty about his eventual acceptance as France’s pre-eminent poet…!

 

Blanchemain’s early version has the usual array of variants in the first half: in the opening stanza the honour is due his book, not him, which is slightly more modest!  (The change in line 3 is one of those where Ronsard rejects a poetic inversion (“passé j’aye”) even though the replacement is rather prosaic by comparison: a pity.)

 

 

Cesse tes pleurs, mon livre : il n’est pas ordonné

Du destin que, moy vif, tu reçoives la gloire ;

Avant que passé j’aye outre la rive noire,

L’honneur que l’on te doit ne te sera donné.

 

Quelqu’un, apres mil ands, de mes vers estonné,

Voudra dedans mon Loir comme en Permesse boire,

Et, voyant mon pays, à peine voudra croire

Que d’un si petit champ tel poëte soit né.

 

Pren, mon livre, pren cœur : la vertu precieuse

De l’homme, quand il vit, est tousjours odieuse.

Après qu’il est absent, chacun le pense un dieu.

 

La rancueur nuit tousjours à ceux qui sont en vie ;

Sur les vertus d’un mort elle n’a plus de lieu,

Et la posterité rend l’honneur sans envie.

 

 

 

                                                                            Cease your tears, my book : it was not ordained

                                                                            By fate that, while I am alive, you should receive glory;

                                                                            Before I have passed beyond the black river,

                                                                            The honour people owe you will not be given you.

 

                                                                            Someone, astonished by my verse after a thousand years,

                                                                            Will want to drink form my Loir, as from Permessus,

                                                                            And seeing my homeland will hardly want to believe

                                                                            That from so small a countryside was such a poet born.

 

                                                                            Take heart, my book: “The precious virtue

                                                                            Of a man, while he lives, is always disliked;

                                                                            After he is gone, everyone thinks him a god.

 

                                                                            Rancour only harms those who are alive;

                                                                            It has no power over the virtues of the dead,

                                                                            And posterity renders honour without envy.”

 

 

 

And so we reach the end of book 2: merry Christmas! 

 

 

 

Amours 1: “Vow”

The second of the two dedicatory sonnets included at the front of book 1. In the last line, Ronsard clearly imagines this poem appearing opposite the picture engraved at the front of the book, showing Cassandre (see top of my Amours 1 page.)

 

Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles

De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal,

Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal

M’avez d’enfance instruit en vos escoles :

 

Si tout ravy des saults de vos caroles,

D’un pied nombreux j’ay guidé vostre bal :

Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,

Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :

 

RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR

DE TEMPS EN TEMPS SE PUISSE SOUVENIR

QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE :

 

DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL

L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL,

SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. 

 

 

.                                                                            Divine sisters, who on the soft streams

.                                                                            Of Castalia, and on your native mount

.                                                                            And on the banks of the equine waters

.                                                                            Have taught me since childhood in your school ;

 

.                                                                            If, swept away by leaping in your round-dances

.                                                                            I have led your dances with many a step ;

.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal

.                                                                            Engrave these words within your temple :

 

.                                                                            Ronsard, so that future ages

.                                                                            May from time to time recall

.                                                                            That his youth paid homage to Love,

 

.                                                                            With his right hand places on your altar

.                                                                            The humble gift of his immortal book,

.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this image.

 

 

 

An appeal to the Muses (and their Castalian spring), as so often in the poems in the book. We’ve already noted elsewhere that the spring is also associated with Pegasus, whose (equine) hoof stamping the ground caused it to flow. There’s also a reminiscence of Horace and his odes specifying dedications in temples. Note that, even at the start of his career, Ronsard is already sure his book will be ‘immortal’ – even while it is ‘humble’!

 

Blanchemain’s version is nearer in time to the beginning of the career, of course:

 

 

Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles

Du fleuve Eurote et sur le mont natal

Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal

M’avez nourri maître de vos escoles :

 

Si mille fois en vos douces carolles,

Le guide-danse, ay conduit vostre bal :

Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,

En vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :

 

Ronsard, afin que le siecle à venir

De père en fils se puisse souvenir

D’une beauté qui sagement affole,

 

De la main dextre append à nostre autel

L’humble discours de son livre immortel,

Son cœur de l’autre aux pieds de ceste idole.

 

 

 

.                                                                            Divine sisters, who on the soft streams

.                                                                            Of river the river Eurotas, and on your native mount

.                                                                            And on the banks of the equine waters

.                                                                            Have brought me up as a master in your lessons ;

 

.                                                                            If a thousand times in your sweet round-dances

.                                                                            I have steered your balls as leader of the dance ;

.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal

.                                                                            Engrave these words in your temple :

 

.                                                                            Ronsard, so that the age to come

.                                                                            May recall from father to son

.                                                                            A beauty who wisely made men mad,

 

.                                                                            With his right hand places on our altar

.                                                                            The humble words of his immortal book,

.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this idol.

 

 

 

Here the Muses are located by the river Eurotas – whose spring is in (the real, southern Greek) Arcadia. Note too that Ronsard is not just participating in, but leading, the Muses’ dances!  Devotees of Ronsard’s variants may also enjoy this version which Blanchemain footnotes, again showing the (lesser) variants from the late Marty-Laveaux version:

 

 

Divin troupeau, qui sur les rives molles

De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal,

Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal

Assis, tenez vos plus saintes escoles

 

Si quelquefois, aux sauts de vos carolles,

M’avez receu par un astre fatal :

Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,

Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :

 

RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR

MAUGRE LE TEMPS, SE PUISSE SOUVENIR

QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE :

 

DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL

L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL,

SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. 

 

 

.                                                                            Divine company, who on the soft streams

.                                                                            Of Castalia, and on your native mount

.                                                                            And seated on the banks of the equine waters

.                                                                            Hold your most holy lessons

 

.                                                                            If sometimes in the leaps of your round-dances

.                                                                            You have accepted me by some fateful star,

.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal

.                                                                            Engrave these words within your temple :

 

.                                                                            Ronsard, so that future ages

.                                                                            Despite time’s [passing], may recall

.                                                                            That his youth paid homage to Love,

 

.                                                                            With his right hand places on your altar

.                                                                            The humble gift of his immortal book,

.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this image.

 

 

 

 **EDIT**  complete Cassndre poems (Amours 1) now available as a pdf here.

 

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…’)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!