Stances de la Fontaine d’Hélène (Helen 2:72b)

Ronsard heads these ‘stanzas on Helen’s fountain’ with the stage-direction “Pour chanter ou reciter à trois personnes“, ‘for singing or reciting by three people’ – though in fact the third (the poet himself) only appears at the very end.

I. Ainsi que ceste eau coule et s’enfuyt parmy l’herbe, Ainsi puisse couler en ceste eau le souci, Que ma belle Maistresse, à mon mal trop superbe, Engrave dans mon cœur sans en avoir mercy.   II. Ainsi que dans ceste eau de l’eau mesme je verse, Ainsi de veine en veine Amour qui m’a blessé, Et qui tout à la fois son carquois me renverse, Un breuvage amoureux dans le cœur m’a versé.   I. Je voulois de ma peine esteindre la memoire : Mais Amour qui avoit en la fontaine beu, Y laissa son brandon, si bien qu’au lieu de boire De l’eau pour l’estancher, je n’ay beu que du feu.   II. Tantost ceste fontaine est froide comme glace, Et tantost elle jette une ardante liqueur. Deux contraires effects je sens quand elle passe, Froide dedans ma bouche, et chaude dans mon cœur.   I. Vous qui refraischissez ces belles fleurs vermeilles, Petits freres ailez, Favones et Zephyrs, Portez de ma Maistresse aux ingrates oreilles, En volant parmy l’air, quelcun de mes souspirs.   II. Vous enfans de l’Aurore, allez baiser ma Dame : Dites luy que je meurs, contez luy ma douleur, Et qu’Amour me transforme en un rocher sans ame, Et non comme Narcisse en une belle fleur.   I. Grenouilles qui jazez quand l’an se renouvelle, Vous Gressets qui servez aux charmes, comme on dit, Criez en autre part vostre antique querelle : Ce lieu sacré vous soit à jamais interdit.   II. Philomele en Avril ses plaintes y jargonne, Et tes bords sans chansons ne se puissent trouver : L’Arondelle l’Esté, le Ramier en Automne, Le Pinson en tout temps, la Gadille en Hyver.   I. Cesse tes pleurs, Hercule, et laisse ta Mysie, Tes pieds de trop courir sont ja foibles et las : Icy les Nymphes ont leur demeure choisie, Icy sont tes Amours, icy est ton Hylas.   II. Que ne suis-je ravy comme l’enfant Argive ? Pour revencher ma mort, je ne voudrois sinon Que le bord, le gravois, les herbes et la rive Fussent tousjours nommez d’Helene, et de mon nom !   I. Dryades, qui vivez sous les escorces sainctes, Venez et tesmoignez combien de fois le jour Ay-je troublé vos bois par le cry de mes plaintes, N’ayant autre plaisir qu’à souspirer d’Amour ?   II. Echo, fille de l’Air, hostesse solitaire Des rochers, où souvent tu me vois retirer, Dy quantes fois le jour lamentant ma misere, T’ay-je fait souspirer en m’oyant souspirer ?   I. Ny Cannes ny Roseaux ne bordent ton rivage, Mais le gay Poliot, des bergeres amy : Tousjours au chaud du jour le Dieu de ce bocage, Appuyé sur sa fleute, y puisse estre endormy.   II. Fontaine à tout jamais ta source soit pavée, Non de menus gravois de mousses ny d’herbis : Mais bien de mainte Perle à bouillons enlevée, De Diamans, Saphirs, Turquoises et Rubis.   I. Le Pasteur en tes eaux nulle branche ne jette, Le Bouc de son ergot ne te puisse fouler : Ains comme un beau Crystal, tousjours tranquille et nette, Puissees-tu par les fleurs eternelle couler.   II. Les Nymphes de ces eaux et les Hamadryades, Que l’amoureux Satyre entre les bois poursuit, Se tenans main à main, de sauts et de gambades, Aux rayons du Croissant y dansent toute nuit.   I. Si j’estois un grand Prince, un superbe edifice Je voudrois te bastir, où je ferois fumer Tous les ans à ta feste autels et sacrifice, Te nommant pour jamais la Fontaine d’aimer.   II. Il ne faut plus aller en la forest d’Ardeine Chercher l’eau, dont Regnaut estoit si desireux : Celuy qui boit à jeun trois fois ceste fonteine, Soit passant ou voisin il devient amoureux.   I. Lune qui as ta robbe en rayons estoillée, Garde ceste fonteine aux jours les plus ardans : Defen-la pour jamais de chaud et de gelée, Remply-la de rosée, et te mire dedans.   II. Advienne apres mille ans qu’un Pastoureau desgoise Mes amours, et qu’il conte aux Nymphes d’icy pres, Qu’un Vandomois mourut pour une Saintongeoise, Et qu’encores son ame erre entre ces forests.   Le Poete. Garsons ne chantez plus, ja Vesper nous commande De serrer nos troupeaux, les Loups sont ja dehors. Demain à la frescheur avec une autre bande Nous reviendrons danser à l’entour de tes bords.   Fontaine, ce-pendant de ceste tasse pleine Reçoy ce vin sacré que je renverse en toy : Sois ditte pour jamais la Fontaine d’Heleine, Et conserve en tes eaux mes amours et ma foy.

I. Just as this water flows and runs off amidst the grass, So let flow in this water the care Which my fair mistress, to my too magnificent harm, Engraves in my heart without any mercy.   II Just as in this water I pour some of the same water, So from vein to vein Love who has hurt me, And who all at once overturns his quiver for me, Has poured into my heart his drink of love.   I I wished to extinguish the memory of my pain: But Love who had drunk in the fountain Left there his brand so firmly that, instead of drinking Of the water to quench it, I have drunk only fire.   II Sometimes this fountain is cold as ice, And sometimes it throws up a burning liquid: Two opposite effects I feel as it passes, Cold within my mouth, and warm in my heart.   I You who refresh these fair crimson flowers, Little winged brothers, Fauns and Zephyrs, Bear to the ungrateful ears of my mistress, Flying through the air, some one of my sighs.   II You children of the Dawn, go and kiss my lady: Tell her that I am dying, recount my sadness to her, And how Love is transforming me into a soul-less rock, Not, like Narcissus, into a fair flower.   I You frogs who gossip as the year renews itself, You tree-frogs who act as charms, as they say, Shout your ancient quarrels in some other place: May this sacred place be forbidden to you forever.   II Let Philomela [the nightingale] in April chatter her lament there, Let your banks never be found song-less: The swallow in summer, the pigeon in autumn, The chaffinch at all times, the robin in winter.   I Stop weeping, Hercules, leave your Mysia, Your feet from too much running are now week and tired: Here the nymphs have chosen their home, Here are your Loves, here is your Hylas.   II Why am I not in love like the Argive child? To avenge my death, I would wish only That the shore, the gravel, the grass and the banks Should always be named after Helen and my own name!   I Dryads who live beneath the holy bark, Come and bear witness, how many times a day Have I troubled your woods with the cry of my laments, Having no other pleasure than to sign of Love?   II Echo, daughter of the Air, solitary inhabitant Of the rocks, where often you see me retiring, Say how many times a day, lamenting my wretchedness, Have I made you sigh as you see me sigh?   I Neither sticks nor reeds border your banks, But rather the gay iris, friend of shepherdesses; Always in the heat of the day the god of this wood, Playing on his flute, can sleep there.   II Fountain, may your spring be forever paved Not with small gravel-stones from the foaming water, nor grass; But rather with many a pearl lifted by the waves, With diamonds, sapphires, turquoises and rubies.   I May the shepherd throw no branches in your waters, May the buck not be able to tread in you with his spurs; So, like a fine crystal, always calm and clear, May you be able to flow eternal among the flowers.   II The Nymphs of these waters and the Hamadryads Whom the amorous Satyr pursues in the woods, Holding one another’s hands, in leaps and gambols Dance all night in the rays of the crescent moon.   I If I were a great prince, I would want to build you A proud edifice, where I would make every year Altars and sacrifices smoke at your festival, Naming you forever the Fountain of Love.   II We need no longer go to the forest of Ardenne To seek the water for which Rinaldo was so eager: He who when young drinks thrice from this fountain, Be he passer-by or neighbour, will fall in love.   I O moon, who have your robe spangled in moonbeams, Protect this fountain in the hottest days; Defend it forever from heat and ice, Fill it with dew, and admire yourself in it.   II May it happen that, after a thousand years , a shepherd acts out My love-affairs, and recount to the Nymphs nearby How a man of Vendôme died for a lady from Saintonge, And how still his soul wanders in these forests.   The Poet Boys, sing no more, already the Evening Star commands us To draw up our troop, the wolves are now out. Tomorrow in the freshness [of morning], with another band We shall return to dance around your banks.   Fountain, now from this full glass Receive this sacred wine which I pour into you; Be called forever the Fountain of Helen, And preserve in your waters my love and my faithfulness.

 

 

 I find the ‘tone’ of this poem a little hard to read: yes, it is obviously another nature poem, or rather one of those ‘nature filled with myth’ poems, where everything is imbued with the flavour of classical mythology. Yet overall it seems to jar slightly with the surrounding love poems, at least to me.

 

We begin with the familiar lovers’ opposites – pain and happiness together, hot and cold, ice and fire. The ungrateful mistress is invoked (and mythological messengers sent to visit her). But by the end this is a fountain sanctified to Helen, rather than simply reflecting the opposites.

 

The tale of Narcissus is beautifully transformed – Helen’s obduracy makes her lover a hard rock, rather than a soft flower. But then the nature poetry takes over – oddly, at first, with frogs, but then with a large cast of carefully-identified birds appropriate to the seasons. Then suddenly Hercules is invoked (he is presumably also the ‘Argive child’, being a native of that city), and we’re back to the spurned lover – though quite why his death should be memorialised by naming the fountain after Helen is not obvious.

 

Echo, of course, is also known for laments: but then the context suddenly shifts to the sanctification of the fountain – its rocks replaced by precious jewels, its waters undisturbed by sticks or animals. The reference to Rinaldo (Regnaut in the French version) recalls the entire plot of ‘Orlando furioso’, which opens with Rinaldo drinking from an enchanted fountain and falling in love with Angelica, and ends with the spell lifted by drinking from another magic fountain. (As Richelet explains, ‘Ariosto in his first canto says that in this forest there are two fountains so different in effect that whoever drinks from the one falls in love, and from the other loses his love’.) And then the heavens are called on to protect the newly-sanctified spring, before the poet sacrifices wine as a sign of its holiness.

 

Something of a developing train of thought, then …

 

Gilbert Gadoffre makes the point that Ronsard is not like the seventeenth-century poets, ‘mathematicians and logicians’ who structure their poems accordingly; he is a poet of nature, whose poems grow like nature, developing almost in random directions as the moment takes them. I think this is a helpful way to look at this poem and it’s shifting focus. 

 

Worth adding, too, that for Gadoffre this is the high point of French poetry before about 1650: “With this poem he gives us the most miraculously beautiful stanzas before Racine in the French repertoire.”

 

Blanchemain has a number of variants, beginning with the title: “Stances sur la fontaine…” (though it has no impact on the translation). In the first stanza of the third pair, we have “Portez vers ma Maistresse aux ingrates oreilles”, so that instead of carrying sighs ‘to the ungrateful ears of my mistress’ they are to be carried ‘to my mistress with her ungrateful ears’. In the second stanza of the next pair, “Et ses bords …” seems odd: Helen’s fountain has been ‘you’ so far, so whose are ‘her banks’? Presumably still the same fountain?

 

No such problem at the start of the pair of stanzas featuring Rinaldo: “Si j’estois grand monarque …”, a ‘great monarch’ instead of a great prince. And then in the second of these stanzas, “Celuy qui boit à jeun trois fois à la fonteine”, ‘He who when young drinks thrice at the fountain’. 

 

 

 

 

Chanson – Amours 2:66a

At the end of Amours 2 (Marie) Ronsard places a cluster of chansons and other lyrics. Time to have a look at them!

Quand j’estois libre, ains qu’une amour nouvelle Ne se fut prise en ma tendre moëlle,      Je vivois bien-heureux, Comme à l’envy les plus accortes filles Se travailloyent par leurs flammes gentilles,      De me rendre amoureux.    Mais tout ainsi qu’un beau Poulain farouche, Qui n’a masché le frein dedans la bouche,      Va seulet escarté, N’ayant souci sinon d’un pied superbe A mille bonds fouler les fleurs et l’herbe,      Vivant en liberté :    Ores il court le long d’un beau rivage, Ores il erre en quelque bois sauvage      Fuyant de sault en sault : De toutes parts les Poutres hanissantes Luy font l’amour pour néant blandissantes,      A luy qui ne s’en chaut.    Ainsi j’allois desdaignant les pucelles, Qu’on estimoit en beauté les plus belles,      Sans respondre à leur vueil : Lors je vivois amoureux de moy-mesme, Content et gay, sans porter couleur blesme      Ny les larmes à l’œil.    J’avois escrit au plus haut de la face Avec l’honneur une agreable audace      Plaine d’un franc desir : Avec le pied marchoit ma fantaisie Où je voulois sans peur ne jalousie      Seigneur de mon plaisir.    Mais aussi tost que par mauvais desastre Je vey ton sein blanchissant comme albastre,      Et tes yeux deux soleils, Tes beaux cheveux espanchez par ondées, Et les beaux lis de tes lévres bordées      De cent œillets vermeils :    Incontinent j’appris que c’est service. La liberté de mon ame nourrice,      S’eschappa loin de moy : Dedans tes rets ma premiere franchise Pour obeïr à ton bel œil, fut prise      Esclave sous ta loy.    Tu mis cruelle en signe de conqueste, Comme veinqueur tes deux pieds sur ma teste,      Et du front m’a osté L’honneur, la honte, et l’audace première, Acouhardant mon ame prisonniere,      Serve à ta volonté.    Vengeant d’un coup mille fautes commises, Et les beautez qu’à grand tort j’avois mises      Par-avant à mespris, Qui me prioyent en lieu que je te prie : Mais d’autant plus que merci je te crie,      Tu es sourde à mes cris,    Et ne respons non plus que la fontaine Qui de Narcis mira la forme vaine,      En vengeant à son bord Mille beautez des Nymphes amoureuses, Que cest enfant par mines desdaigneuses      Avoit mises à mort.

When I was free, and a novel love Had not been caught in my tender marrow,    I lived happily; How the most attractive girls competitively Worked hard with their gentle flames    To make me fall in love!   But just as a handsome wild colt Which has not chewed the curb in his mouth    Wanders far and wide by himself, Having no care except with his proud foot To trample with a thousand leaps the flowers and grass,    Living in liberty;   Sometimes he runs along a fair riverbank, Sometimes he wanders in some wild wood    Fleeing with leap upon leap; And on every side whinnying fillies Make love to him, flattering him for nothing,    He who cares nothing for it.   Just so I used to disdain the maids That everyone thought fairest of the fair,    Without responding to their wishes; Then, I was in love with myself, Happy and joyful, not wearing this pale colour    Nor with tears in my eyes.   I had written on my forehead, Together with honour, a pleasant audacity Filled with frank desire; My imagination advanced with my feet Wherever I wanted, without fear or jealousy, The master of my pleasure.   But as soon as through terrible misfortune I saw your breast white as alabaster    And your eyes, twin suns, Your fine hair pouring down in waves, And the fair lilies of your lips bordered    With a hundred pink carnations,   Straightway I learned what it is to be in service, And liberty, the nurse of my soul,    Fled far from me; Within your nets my earlier freedom Was caught, so that it obeyed your fair eyes,    A slave beneath your law.   As a sign of your conquest you cruelly placed Your two feet on my head, as conqueror,    And took from my brow Honour, shame, and my earlier boldness Rendering my imprisoned soul a coward,    Servant to your desires.   Avenging with one blow a thousand faults I’d committed And the beauties whom, greatly in the wrong, I had held Before this in scorn Who had begged me, instead now I beg you. But as often as I beg for mercy from you,    You are deaf to my cries   And respond no more than the fountain Which showed Narcissus the image of his shape    Taking revenge on its bank For the thousand beauteous nymphs in love Which that boy, with his scornful manner,    Had put to death.

 

 

As with so many of Ronsard’s lyrics, the fluency and apparent inevitability of his lines is amazing. It seems so easy, so natural – and yet it makes perfect poetry, it rhymes and scans as if by chance. Wonderful.

 

But as we know, that’s the result of hard work & lots of re-working. Some variants in Blanchemain’s version to demonstrate the process.  The opening is different, there is an extra stanza, one of the existing stanzas is largely different, and there are plenty of other minor variants.  Easiest to see the whole thing again:

 

Quand j’estois libre, ains que l’amour cruelle Ne fust esprise encore en ma mouelle,      Je vivois bien-heureux, Comme à l’envy les plus accortes filles Se travailloyent par leurs flammes gentilles,      De me rendre amoureux.    Mais tout ainsi qu’un beau Poulain farouche, Qui n’a masché le frein dedans la bouche,      Va seulet escarté, N’ayant souci sinon d’un pied superbe A mille bonds fouler les fleurs et l’herbe,      Vivant en liberté :    Ores il court le long d’un beau rivage, Ores il erre en quelque bois sauvage      Ou sur quelque mont haut ; De toutes parts les Poutres hanissantes Luy font l’amour pour néant blandissantes,      A luy qui ne s’en chaut.    Ainsi j’allois desdaignant les pucelles, Qu’on estimoit en beauté les plus belles,      Sans respondre à leur vueil : Lors je vivois amoureux de moy-mesme, Content et gay, sans porter couleur blesme      Ny les larmes à l’œil.    J’avois escrit au plus haut de la face Avec l’honneur une agreable audace      Plaine d’un franc desir : Avec le pied marchoit ma fantaisie De ça, de la, sans peur ne jalousie,    Vivant de mon plaisir.   Mais aussi tost que par mauvais desastre Je vey ton sein blanchissant comme albastre,      Et tes yeux deux soleils, Tes beaux cheveux espanchez par ondées, Et les beaux lis de tes lévres bordées      De cent œillets vermeils :    Incontinent j’appris que c’est service. La liberté, de ma vie nourrice,      Fuit ton œil felon Comme la nue en temps serein poussée Fuit à grands pas l’haleine courroucée      De l’oursal Aquilon.   [Et lors tu mis mes deux mains à la chaisne Mon col au cep et mon cœur à la gesne,    N’ayant de moy pitié, Non plus, helas ! qu’un outrageux corsaire, (O fier Destin) n’a pitié d’un forcère      A la chaisne lié.]   Tu mis apres en signe de conqueste, Comme veinqueur tes deux pieds sur ma teste,      Et du front m’a osté L’honneur, la honte, et l’audace première, Acouhardant mon ame prisonniere,      Serve à ta volonté.    Vengeant d’un coup mille fautes commises, Et les beautez qu’à grand tort j’avois mises      Par-avant à mespris, Qui me prioyent en lieu que je te prie : Mais d’autant plus que merci je te crie,      Tu es sourde à mes cris,    Et ne respons non plus que la fontaine Qui de Narcis mira la forme vaine,      Vengeant dessus son bord Mille beautez des Nymphes amoureuses, Que cest enfant par mines desdaigneuses      Avoit mises à mort.

When I was free,and cruel love Had not yet taken hold in my marrow,    I lived happily; How the most attractive girls competitively Worked hard with their gentle flames    To make me fall in love!   But just as a handsome wild colt Which has not chewed the curb in his mouth    Wanders far and wide by himself, Having no care except with his proud foot To trample with a thousand leaps the flowers and grass,    Living in liberty;   Sometimes he runs along a fair riverbank, Sometimes he wanders in some wild wood    Or on some high mountain; And on every side whinnying fillies Make love to him, flattering him for nothing,    He who cares nothing for it.   Just so I used to disdain the maids That everyone thought fairest of the fair,    Without responding to their wishes; Then, I was in love with myself, Happy and joyful, not wearing that pale colour    Nor with tears in my eyes.   I had written on my forehead, Together with honour, a pleasant audacity Filled with frank desire; My imagination advanced with my feet Wherever I wanted, without fear or jealousy, The master of my pleasure.   But as soon as through terrible misfortune I saw your breast white as alabaster    And your eyes, twin suns, Your fine hair pouring down in waves, And the fair lilies of your lips bordered    With a hundred pink carnations,    Straightway I learned what it is to be in service, Andliberty, the nurse of my life,    Fled your treacherous eye As a cloud in clear weather Flees at great pace when pushed by the angry breath    Of polar Aquilo.   [And then you put my two hands to the chain, My neck to the vine and my heart to shame, Having no pity on me, No more alas than a hostile corsair Has pity – o proud fate! – on a galley-slave Bound with a chain.]   As a sign of your conquest you then placed Your two feet on my head, as conqueror,    And took from my brow Honour, shame, and my earlier boldness Rendering my imprisoned soul a coward,    Servant to your desires.   Avenging with one blow a thousand faults I’d committed And the beauties whom, greatly in the wrong, I had held Before this in scorn Who had begged me, instead now I beg you. But as often as I beg for mercy from you,    You are deaf to my cries   And respond no more than the fountain Which showed Narcissus the image of his shape    Taking revenge on its bank For the thousand beauteous nymphs in love Which that boy, with his scornful manner,    Had put to death.

 

Just a few words about “l’oursal Aquilon” in the middle of the poem:  ‘oursal’ indicates ‘of the bear’ here indicating the Pole Star in the constellation of the Little Bear – which points north, where Aquilo, the north wind, blows from.  (Blanchemain puts the following stanza in [brackets] without explanation – this usually means it disappeared quite early on from the published editions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

De la defloration de Lede (Odes 3:20)

Time for one of Ronsard’s longer poems, I think! This is one of his mythological extravaganzas, and its topic is the ‘Defloration of Leda’ – it is dedicated to Cassandre(!)

Ronsard divides it into 3 ‘pauses’ or parts; and there are two alternative openings (the later 1587 one printed by Blanchemain in a footnote). For simplicity I’ve shown the two at the beginning of the poem. I’ve also added a number of ‘footnotes’, indicated in the text to make it easier to locate them.

Premier pause   Le cruel Amour, vainqueur De ma vie, sa sujette, M’a si bien écrit au cœur Votre nom de sa sagette, Que le temps, qui peut casser Le fer et la pierre dure, Ne le sauroit effacer Qu’en moi vivant il ne dure.   [alternative opening (1587) : Amour, dont le traict vainqueur Fait en mon sang sa retraite, M’a si bien escrit au cœur Le nom de ma Cassandrette, Que le tombeau mange-chair, Logis de la pourriture, Ne pourra point arracher De mon cœur sa pourtraiture.]   Mon luth, qui des bois oyans Souloit alléger les peines, Las ! de mes yeux larmoyans Ne tarit point les fontaines ; Et le soleil ne peut voir, Soit quand le jour il apporte, Ou quand il se couche au soir, Une autre douleur plus forte.   Mais vostre cœur obstiné, Et moins pitoyable encore Que l’Ocean mutine Qui baigne la rive more, Ne prend mon service à gré, Ains d’immoler envie Le mien, à luy consacré Des premiers ans de ma vie.   Jupiter, espoinçonné De telle amoureuse rage, A jadis abandonné Et son trône et son orage ; Car l’œil qui son cœur estraint, Comme estraints ores nous sommes Ce grand seigneur a contraint De tenter l’amour des hommes.   Impatient du desir Naissant de sa flame esprise, Se laissa d’amour saisir, Comme une despouille prise. Puis il a, bras, teste et flanc, Et sa poitrine cachée Sous un plumage plus blanc Que le laict sur la jonchée.   Et son col mit un carcan Avec une chaîne où l’œuvre Du laborieux Vulcan Admirable se descœuvre. D’or en estoient les cerceaux, Piolez d’émail ensemble. A l’arc qui note les eaux Ce bel ouvrage ressemble.   L’or sur la plume reluit D’une semblable lumiere Que le clair œil de la nuit Dessus la neige premiere. Il fend le chemin des cieux Par un voguer de ses ailes, Et d’un branle spatieux Tire ses rames nouvelles.   Comme l’aigle fond d’en haut, Ouvrant l’espais de la nue, Sur l’aspic qui leche au chaud Sa jeunesse revenue, Ainsi le cygne voloit Contre-bas, tant qu’il arrive Dessus l’estang où souloit Jouer Lede sur la rive.   Quand le ciel eut allumé Le beau jour par les campagnes, Elle au bord accoustumé Mena jouer ses compagnes ; Et, studieuse des fleurs En sa main un pannier porte Peint de diverse couleurs Et peint de diverse sorte.     Seconde pause   D’un bout du pannier s’ouvroit, Entre cent nues dorées, Une aurore qui couvroit Le ciel de fleurs colorées ; Ses cheveux vagoient errans, Souflez du vent des narines Des prochains chevaux tirans Le soleil des eaux marines.   Comme au ciel il fait son tour Par sa voye courbe et torte, Il tourne tout a l’entour De l’anse en semblable sorte. Les nerfs s’enflent aux chevaux Et leur puissance indontée Se lasse sous les travaux De la penible montée.   La mer est peinte plus bas, L’eau ride si bien sur elle, Qu’un pescheur ne nieroit pas Qu’elle ne fust naturelle. Ce soleil tombant au soir Dedans l’onde voisine entre A chef bas se laissant cheoir Jusqu’au fond de ce grand ventre.   Sur le sourci d’un rocher Un pasteur le loup regarde, Qui se haste d’approcher, Du couard peuple qu’il garde ; Mais de cela ne luy chaut, Tant un limas luy agrée, Qui lentement monte au haut D’un lis au bas de la prée.   Un satyre tout follet, Larron, en folastrant tire La panetiere et le laict D’un autre follet satyre. L’un court après tout ireux, L’autre defend sa despouille, Le laict se verse sur eux, Qui sein et menton leur souille.   Deux beliers qui se heurtoient Le haut de leurs testes dures Pourtraits aux deux bords estoient Pour la fin de ses peintures. Tel pannier en ses mains mist Lede, qui sa troupe excelle, Le jour qu’un oiseau la fist Femme en lieu d’une pucelle.   L’une arrache d’un doigt blanc Du beau Narcisse les larmes, Et la lettre teinte au sang Du Grec marry pour les armes. De crainte l’œillet vermeil Pallist entre ces pillardes, Et la fleur que toy, Soleil, Des cieux encor tu regardes.   A l’envi sont jà cueillis Les verds tresors de la plaine, Les bassinets et les lis, La rose et la marjolaine, Quand la vierge dit ainsi, De son destin ignorante : « De tant de fleurs que voicy Laissons la proye odorante.   « Allons, troupeau bien-heureux, Que j’aime d’amour naïve, Ouyr l’oiseau douloureux Qui se plaint sur nostre rive. » Et elle, en hastant le pas, Fuit par l’herbe d’un pied vite ; Sa troupe ne la suit pas, Tant sa carriere est subite ;   Du bord luy tendit la main, Et l’oiseau, qui tressaut d’aise, S’en approche tout humain, Et le blanc yvoire baise. Ores l’adultere oiseau, Au bord par les fleurs se joue, Et ores au haut de l’eau Tout mignard près d’elle noue.   Puis, d’une gaye façon, Courbe au dos l’une et l’autre aile, Et au bruit de sa chanson Il apprivoise la belle. La nicette en son giron Reçoit les flammes secrettes, Faisant tout à l’environ Du cygne un lict de fleurettes.   Luy, qui fut si gracieux, Voyant son heure opportune, Devint plus audacieux, Prenant au poil la fortune. De son col comme ondes long Le sein de la vierge touche, Et son bec luy mit adonc Dedans sa vermeille bouche.   Il va ses ergots dressant Sur les bras d’elle qu’il serre, Et de son ventre pressant Contraint la rebelle à terre. Sous l’oiseau se debat fort, Le pince et le mord, si est-ce Qu’au milieu de tel effort Ell’ sent ravir sa jeunesse.   Le cinabre çà et là Couloura la vergongneuse. A la fin elle parla D’une bouche desdaigneuse : « D’où es-tu, trompeur volant ? D’où viens-tu, qui as l’audace D’aller ainsi violant Les filles de noble race ?    « Je cuidois ton cœur, helas ! Semblable à l’habit qu’il porte, Mais (hè pauvrette ! ) tu l’as, A mon dam, d’une autre sorte. O ciel ! qui mes cris entens, Morte puissé-je estre enclose Là bas, puis que mon printemps Est despouillé de sa rose !   « Plustost vien pour me manger, O veufve tigre affamèe, Que d’un oiseau estranger Je sois la femme nommée. » Ses membres tombent peu forts, Et dedans la mort voisine Ses yeux jà nouoient, alors Que luy respondit le cygne :   Troisiesme pause   « Vierge, dit-il, je ne suis Ce qu’à me voir il te semble ; Plus grande chose je puis Qu’un cygne à qui je ressemble : Je suis le maistre des cieux, Je suis celuy qui desserre Le tonnerre audacieux Sur les durs flancs de la terre.   « La contraignante douleur Du tien, plus chaud, qui m’allume, M’a fait prendre la couleur De ceste non mienne plume. Ne te va donc obstinant Contre l’heur de ta fortune : Tu seras incontinant La belle-sœur de Neptune,   « Et si tu pondras deux œufs De ma semence feconde, Ainçois deux triomphes neufs, Futurs ornemens du monde. L’un deux jumeaux esclorra : Pollux, vaillant à l’escrime, Et son frere, qu’on loûra Pour des chevaliers le prime ;   « Dedans l’autre germera La beauté, au ciel choisie, Pour qui un jour s’armera L’Europe contre l’Asie. » A ces mots, elle consent, Recevant telle avanture, Et jà de peu à peu sent Haute eslever sa ceinture.

Cruel Love, conqueror Of my life, his subject, Has written so well in my heart Your name with his arrow That time, which can break Iron and hard stone, Could not wipe it away Such that it will not last in me while alive.     Love, whose conquering dart Has made its home in my blood, Has so well written in my heart The name of my little Cassandre That the flesh-eating tomb, Where decay lives, Could not take any part From my heart of her portrait.   My lute, which is accustomed To lessening the woes of the listening woods, Alas, dries not the fountains Of my weeping eyes; And the sun cannot see, Either when he brings the day Or when he goes to bed at night, Any other grief more strong.   But your stubborn heart, Less pitiful still Than the unruly ocean Which bathes the Moorish coast, Does not like my service, But wants to sacrifice My own, consecrated to it From the earliest years of my life.   Jupiter, excited By a similar passionate love, Once abandoned His throne and his storm; For his eye, which compelled his heart As sometimes our hearts are compelled, Compelled this great lord To try a human love.   Impatient with the desire Growing from his love-struck flame, He gave himself over to love Like the captured spoils of war. Then his arms, head and flanks And his breast he head Beneath a plumage whiter Than milk on scattered rushes.   And his neck wore a collar With a chain, on which the work Of hard-working Vulcan Could be seen and admired. The hoops were of gold Together with enamel of many colours. The bow which the waters draw This lovely piece of work resembled.   Gold shone out on his feathers With a light like The bright eye of the night On a first snow. He cleaved his path through the heavens With the sail of his wings, And with a measured beat He pulled his new oarage.   As the eagle swoops from on high, Making an opening in the thick clouds, Upon the asp which, in the heat, licks Its recovered youthfulness;1 So the swan flew Down here to arrive Upon the pool where Leda Was accustomed to play on the bank.   When fair day had lit The sky over the fields, She led her companions to play On the usual bank And fascinated by flowers She bore in her hand a basket Painted in many colours And painted many ways.         On one end of the basket was shown2 Amidst a hundred golden clouds A Dawn which covered The sky with colourful flowers; Her waving hair flying, Blown by the breath from the nostrils Of the nearby horses drawing The sun from the waters of the sea.3   As it makes its journey in the heavens On its curved, twisting route, It turns entirely around The handle [of the basket] in a similar way; The sinews on the horses swell And their undaunted power Tires under the labours Of the arduous climb.   The sea is painted below, The water ripples so well on it That a fisherman would not deny That it was natural; And the sun sinking at evening Into the waves beside, goes in With head lowered, letting itself fall Right to the bottom of its great belly.   On the brow of a rock A shepherd watches a wolf Which hastens to get near The cowardly race which he guards; But he cares not about that So much he is amused by a snail That slowly climbs to the top Of a lily, at the bottom of the meadow.   A frolicking satyr, A thief, as he frolics steals A basket and milk From another frolicking satyr; The one runs after him, utterly livid, The other defends his spoils, The milk gets tipped over them And soils their breasts and chins.   Two rams crashing together The tops of their hard heads Shown at the two edges were The last of its pictures. Such was the basket which Leda took In her hands, she who outshines her followers, On the day when a bird would make her A woman instead of a maid.   One [of the ladies] picked with her white fingers The tears of fair Narcissus, And the letters painted by the blood Of the Greek distraught over the armour. 4 In fear the pink carnation Pales amidst these looters, And so too the flower which you, o Sun, Still watch over from the heavens.   As competitively they were picking The green treasures of the plain, The buttercup and lily, The rose and marjoram, The maid spoke thus, Ignorant of her fate: “Leave your perfumed prey, The flowers that are so many here.   Come, my happy band Whom I love with an artless love, Come and hear the sad bird Who laments upon our riverbank.” And she, hurrying her steps, Ran through the grass with quick feet; Her band did not follow, So sudden was her flight.   On the bank, she held out her hand to it And the bird, which was fidgeting with pleasure, Approached her, entirely like a man, And kissed her white ivory. Sometimes the false bird 5 Played on the bank amidst the flowers, Sometimes on top of the water It swam, all daintily, near her.   Then in a jolly fashion It curved both wings over its back, And with the sound of its singing It tamed the fair maid. The silly girl felt His hidden fire in her lap, Making all around The swan little flowers of light.   He, from being so gracious, As he saw his opportune moment Became more daring, Going with fortune’s flow. With long waves of his neck He touched the maid’s breast And then placed his beak Within her crimson mouth.   Putting his spurs upon The arms of her he grasped, And pressing down with his belly, He forced her, unwilling, to the ground. Beneath the swan she fought hard, Pinching and biting him, yet it was That in the midst of her efforts She felt her youth stolen away.   Cinnabar here and there Coloured the shamed lass. In the end she spoke In a disdainful voice: “Where are you from, you flying deceiver? Where do you come from, who dare To go around thus raping Girls of noble race?   I thought your heart, alas, Was like the colours you wear, But – poor me! – you have one Of another sort, to my destruction. O heavens, who hear my cries, I would rather be dead and shut up Down below, since my springtime Has been stripped of its rose!   Rather come and eat me, Some hungry widowed tigress, Than that I should be called the wife Of some unknown bird.” Her limbs fell strengthless And her eyes were already swimming In death, her neighbout, when The swan replied thus to her:       “Maiden,” he said, “I am not What I seem to you as you see me; Greater things can I do Than the swan I appear; I am the master of the heavens, I am he who looses The insolent thunderbolts Upon the hard flanks of the earth.   A painful compulsion For your warmer [colour], which excites me, Made me take on the colour Of these feathers which are not mine. So do not go on complaining About the misfortune of your fate; You will forthwith be Neptune’s sister-in-law,   And so you will lay two eggs From my fruitful seed, And with them two new triumphs, Future ornaments of the world. One will disclose two twins: Pollux, valiant in the swordfight, And his brother who will be praised As the finest of horsemen;   Within the other will grow The beauty, chosen for heaven, For whom one day Europe Will take arms against Asia.” At these words, she accepted, Gaining such an outcome, And then little by little felt Her belt rising higher.

 

 Footnotes:

 ¹ i.e. its new skin after shedding the old² the description of what is painted on the basket, which fills the remainder of the poem, is a gentle parody of the descriptions of heroes’ shields in Homer and Virgil.

³ i.e. the sun’s chariot, pulled by fiery horses, rising from the sea at dawn

⁴ the narcissus grew from the tears of Narcissus; the ‘flower of Ajax’ [perhaps a fritillary (lily) or a larkspur] grew from the blood spilled at his suicide on failing to win the arms of Achilles, and the Greeks read its markings as the letters AI (= ‘ah, woe!’)

⁵ the French word means both ‘fake’ and ‘adulterous’; ‘false’ carries something of the same effect in English

 

 Those unfamiliar with the myth – which was a major source of inspiration to Renaissance artists – should glance at Wikipedia, or this indicative set of images! The reference in the last stanza is to Helen of Troy.

Sonnet 158

En m’abusant je me trompe les yeux,

Aimant l’objet d’une figure vaine.

O nouveauté d’une cruelle peine !

O fier destin ! ô malice des Cieux !

 

Faut-il que moy de moy-mesme envieux,

Pour aimer trop les eaux d’une fonteine,

Que ma raison par les sens incertaine

Cuide en faillant son mal estre son mieux ?

 

Donques faut-il que le vain de ma face

De membre à membre aneantir me face,

Comme une cire aux raiz de la chaleur ?

 

Ainsi pleuroit l’amoureux Cephiside,

Quand il sentit dessus le bord humide

De son beau sang naistre une belle fleur.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                           In deceiving me my eyes are mistaken,

                                                                           Loving the substance of an empty image.

                                                                           O the novelty of this cruel pain!

                                                                           O proud destiny! O malevolence of heaven!

 

                                                                           Must it be, being in love with myself

                                                                           From loving too much the waters of a spring,

                                                                           That my reason, through my senses uncertain,

                                                                           Should believe wrongly that its own harm is what’s best for it?

 

                                                                           And so, must the empty nothing of my appearance

                                                                           Make me disappear completely, limb by limb,

                                                                           Like wax in the rays of the [sun’s] heat?

 

                                                                           Thus did Narcissus weep, in love,

                                                                           When he saw on the moist bank

                                                                           Created from his fair blood a beautiful flower.

 

 

‘Cephisides’ (line 12) is a classical form, ‘son of Cephisus’ – we’ve met Alcides, son of Alceus, elsewhere as a name for Hercules. The river-god Cephisus was father of Narcissus.

 

Whenever Ronsard resorts to two lines of pretty ordinary exclamations (line 3-4), there’s usually a problem or a lack of inspiration. And this is no different: I find it hard to get excited about this sonnet … However, though Ronsard re-worked the poem a fair bit, those two lines remained untouched!  Here is Blanchemain’s version complete:

 

 

 

Que lâchement vous me trompez, mes yeux,

Enamourés d’une figure vaine !

O nouveauté d’une cruelle peine !

O fier Destin ! ô malice des Cieux !

 

Faut-il que moy, de moy-mesme envieux,

Pour aimer trop les eaux d’une fontaine,

Je brûle après une image incertaine

Qui pour ma mort m’accompagne en tous lieux ;

 

Et quoi ! faut-il que le vain de ma face

De membre en membre aneantir me face,

Comme une cire aux raiz de la chaleur !

 

Ainsi pleuroit l’amoureux Cephiside,

Quand il sentit, dessus le bord humide,

De son beau sang naistre une belle fleur.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            How despicably you deceive me, my eyes,

                                                                            Enamoured of an empty image!

                                                                            O the novelty of this cruel pain!

                                                                            O proud destiny! O malevolence of heaven!

 

                                                                            Must I, being in love with myself

                                                                            From loving too much the waters of a spring,

                                                                            I burn after a wavering image

                                                                            Which to cause my death accompanies me everywhere;

 

                                                                            What then? Must the empty nothing of my appearance

                                                                            Make me disappear completely, limb by limb,

                                                                            Like wax in the rays of the [sun’s] heat?

 

                                                                            Thus did Narcissus weep, in love,

                                                                            When he saw on the moist bank

                                                                            Created from his fair blood a beautiful flower.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 157

De la mielleuse et fielleuse pasture,

De qui le nom s’appelle trop aimer

Qui m’est et sucre et riagas amer,

Sans me saouler je pren ma nourriture.

 

Ce bel œil brun, qui force ma nature,

D’un jeusne tel me fait tant consumer,

Que je ne puis ma faim des-affamer

Qu’au seul regard d’une vaine peinture.

 

Plus je la voy, moins saouler je m’en puis :

Un vray Narcisse en misere je suis.

Hé qu’Amour est une cruelle chose !

 

Je cognoy bien qu’il me fera mourir,

Et si ne puis ma douleur secourir,

Tant j’ay sa peste en mes veines enclose.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Of the honey-sweet, bitter-gall food

                                                                            Whose name is ‘loving too much’,

                                                                            Which is to me both sugar and bitter arsenic,

                                                                            I eat without being satisfied.

 

                                                                            That fair brown eye which overcomes my nature

                                                                            Feeds me so much of that kind of meal

                                                                            That I can no longer un-hunger my hunger

                                                                            Except only by looking at an empty picture.

 

                                                                            The more I see it, the less I can be satisfied;

                                                                            A true Narcissus in my wretchedness I am.

                                                                            Ah, how cruel a thing is Love!

 

                                                                            I fully understand that it will kill me,

                                                                            And yet I cannot help my sadness,

                                                                            So much of its poison is locked up in my veins.

 

 

 

The reference to Narcissus is, in contrast with the learned references of the last poem, nice and straightforward – as Narcissus gazed at his own reflection, so Ronsard gazes at his lady’s portrait – and no doubt there is a hint that he is in some sense reflected in her…  Those who have aview on the Academy’s attempts to keep the French language pure will also have a view on Ronsard’s invention of the word ‘to un-hunger’!

 

Only minor differences in the earlier Blanchemain version, the initial quatrains becoming:

 

 

De la mielleuse et fielleuse pasture

Dont le surnom s’appelle trop aimer,

Qui m’est et sucre et riagas amer,

Sans me saouler je pren ma nourriture :

 

Car ce bel œil qui force ma nature

D’un tel jeuner m’a tant fait consumer,

Que je ne puis ma faim des-affamer

Qu’au seul regard d’une vaine peinture.

 

 

 

                                                                            Of the honey-sweet, bitter-gall food

                                                                            Whose surname is ‘loving too much’,

                                                                            Which is to me both sugar and bitter arsenic,

                                                                            I eat without being satisfied.

 

                                                                            For that fair eye which overcomes my nature

                                                                            Has fed me so much of that kind of meal

                                                                            That I can no longer un-hunger my hunger

                                                                            Except only by looking at an empty picture.

 

There is a further variant:

 

De cette douce et fielleuse pasture

Dont le surnom s’appelle trop aimer,

Qui m’est et sucre et riagas amer,

Sans me saouler je pren ma nourriture :

 

Car ce bel œil qui force ma nature

D’un si long jeun m’a tant fait épasmer,

Que je ne puis ma faim des-affamer

Qu’au seul regard d’une vaine peinture.

 

Plus je la voy, moins saouler je m’en puis :

Un vray Narcisse en misere je suis.

Hé qu’Amour est une cruelle chose !

 

Je cognoy bien qu’il me fera mourir,

Et si ne puis a mon mal secourir,

Tant j’ay sa peste en mes veines enclose.

 

 

 

                                                                            Of that sweet, bitter-gall food

                                                                            Whose surname is ‘loving too much’,

                                                                            Which is to me both sugar and bitter arsenic,

                                                                            I eat without being satisfied.

 

                                                                            For that fair eye which overcomes my nature

                                                                            Has made me faint with so much of that kind of meal

                                                                            That I can no longer un-hunger my hunger

                                                                            Except only by looking at an empty picture.

 

 

                                                                            The more I see it, the less I can be satisfied;

                                                                            A true Narcissus in my wretchedness I am.

                                                                            Ah, how cruel a thing is Love!

 

                                                                            I fully understand that it will kill me,

                                                                            And yet I cannot help my illness,

                                                                            So much of its poison is locked up in my veins.

 

Sonnet 10

De ceste belle, douce, honneste chasteté

Naissoit un froid glaçon, ains une chaude flame,

Qu’encores aujourd’huy esteinte sous la lame

Me reschauffe, en pensant quelle fut sa clarté.

 

La traict que je receu, n’eut le fer espointé :

Il fut des plus aigus qu’Amour nous tire en l’ame,

Qui s’armant d’un trespas, par le penser m’entame,

Et sans jamais tomber se tient à mon costé.

 

Narcisse fut heureux mourant sur la fontaine,

Abusé de miroër de sa figure vaine :

Au moins il regardoit je ne sçay quoy de beau.

 

L’erreur le contentoit, voyant sa face aimee :

Et la beauté que j’aime, est terre consumee.

Il mourut pour une ombre et moy pour un  tombeau.

 

 

 

 

                                                                                             From this fair, sweet, respectable chastity

                                                                                             Was born a cold icicle, and too a hot flame,

                                                                                             Which still today – extinguished beneath the blade –

                                                                                             Warms me, in thinking of the brightness that was hers.

 

                                                                                             The wound that I received was not pointed steel:

                                                                                             It was among the sharpest that Love shoots into our hearts

                                                                                             Which, arming itself with a death, through my thoughts slices me

                                                                                             And stays, without ever falling, at my side.

 

                                                                                             Narcissus was happy dying on his spring,

                                                                                             Deceived by a mirror with his own empty form;

                                                                                             At least he was looking at something fair.

 

                                                                                             The error of seeing his beloved face contented him;

                                                                                             But the beauty that I love is now absorbed into the earth.

                                                                                             He died for a shadow, I for a tomb.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 5

    DIALOGUE.

Le Passant, et le Genie.

 

    LE PASSANT

Veu que ce marbre enserre un corps qui fut plus beau

Que celuy de Narcisse, ou celuy de Clitie,

Je suis esmerveillé qu’une fleur n’est sortie,

Comme elle feit d’Ajax, du creux de ce tombeau.

 

    LE GENIE

L’ardeur qui reste encore, et vit en ce flambeau,

Ard la terre d’amour, qui si bien a sentie

La flame, qu’en brazier elle s’est convertie,

Et seiche ne peut rien produire de nouveau.

 

Mais si Ronsard vouloit sur sa Marie espandre

Des pleurs pour l’arroser, soudain l’humide cendre

Une fleur du sepulchre enfanteroit au jour.

 

    LE PASSANT

A la cendre on cognoist combien vive estoit forte

La beauté de ce corps, quand mesmes estant morte

Elle enflame la terre et la tombe d’amour.

 

 

 

                                                                                            Dialogue – the Passer-by and the Spirit

 

                                                                                             P: 

                                                                                            Since this marble encloses a form which was more lovely

                                                                                            Than that of Narcissus, or that of Clytie,

                                                                                            I am astonished that a flower has not sprouted

                                                                                            From the hollow of this tomb as it did from Ajax’s.

 

                                                                                            S:

                                                                                            The hot passion which remains, and lives in this torch,

                                                                                            Burns with love the very earth, which has so felt

                                                                                            The flame that it is changed into a brazier

                                                                                            And, dried out, can produce nothing new.

 

                                                                                            But if Ronsard wished to scatter on his Marie

                                                                                            Tears to water it, suddenly the moist ashes

                                                                                            Would give birth to a flower from the tomb.

 

                                                                                            P:

                                                                                            Even as ashes, we understand how strong when alive was

                                                                                            The beauty of this form, when even being dead

                                                                                            She burns the earth and the tomb with love.

 

 

Blanchemain makes only one tiny change – in line 10, he alers the article so it reads “soudain d‘humide cendre…”.  That makes the translation of lines 10-11 something like ‘ …suddenly from the moist ashes / Of the tomb would be born a flower’.

 

We all know that Narcissus thought himself the most beautiful thing on earth; there are plenty of nymphs called Clytie, but the one we want is probably the daughter of Pandareus (she is also known as Merope), to whom Juno gave wisdom and beauty.  The flower of Ajax – thought by some to be larkspur – grew from his blood following his suicide, a flower marked ‘Ai’ (the first letters of his name, and also a Greek exclamation ‘ah!’, ‘woe’, ‘oh!’.

 

 

 

Sonnet 72

 

This is the final sonnet of book 2, although there are some further ‘stanzas for Helen’ following it  – – which are therefore technically the last Helen poem! 

 

 

A fin que ton honneur coule parmy la plaine

Autant qu’il monte au Ciel engravé dans un Pin,

Invoquant tous les Dieux, et respandant du vin :

Je consacre à ton nom ceste belle Fontaine.

 

Pasteurs, que vos troupeaux frisez de blanche laine

Ne paissent à ces bords : y fleurisse le Thin,

Et tant de belles fleurs qui s’ouvrent au matin,

Et soit dite à jamais la Fontaine d’Heleine.

 

Le passant en Esté s’y puisse reposer,

Et assis dessus l’herbe à l’ombre composer

Mille chansons d’Helene, et de moy luy souvienne.

 

Quiconques en boira, qu’amoureux il devienne :

Et puisse en la humant, une flame puiser

Aussi chaude qu’au coeur je sens chaude la mienne.

 

 

 

 

                                                                      So that your reputation may go throughout the countryside,

                                                                      So it can rise to the heavens, engraved on a pine tree,

                                                                      Calling on all the gods and pouring out wine –

                                                                      I consecrate to your name this lovely fountain.

 

                                                                      Shepherds, may your flocks clad in white wool

                                                                      Pasture on these banks; may thyme flourish there

                                                                      And so many fair flowers as open in the morning,

                                                                      And may it be named forever the fountain of Helen.

 

                                                                      The passer-by in summer may rest there,

                                                                      And sitting on the grass in the shade, compose

                                                                      A thousand songs about Helen, and remind her of me,

 

                                                                      Whoever drinks from your water, let him become enamoured;

                                                                      And in drinking it in, may he draw a flame

                                                                      As hot, as I feel my own flame hot in my heart.

 

 

Blanchemain offers a variant of the opening line:

 

A fin que ton renom s’estende par la plaine …

 

                                                                      So that your renown may extend throughout the countryside …

 

 

He also has a different 3rd line in the second quatrain:

 

Et la fleur, dont le maistre eut si mauvais destin,

 

                                                                     And the flower whose master had so bad a fate

 

The master who “had so bad a fate” is either Narcissus (Blanchemain’s preference) or Hyacinth.

 

 

 

 

Odes 4, 18

Dieu vous gard, messagers fidelles

Du printemps, gentes arondelles,

Huppes, cocus, rossignolets,

Tourtres, et vous oiseaux sauvages

Qui de cent sortes de ramages

Animez les bois verdelets.

 

 Dieu vous gard, belles paquerettes,

Belles roses, belles fleurettes

De Mars, et vous boutons cognus

Du sang d’Ajax et de Narcisse ;

Et vous, thym, anis et melisse,

Vous soyez les bien revenus.

 

Dieu vous gard, troupe diaprée

De papillons, qui par la prée

Les douces herbes suçotez ;

Et vous, nouvel essain d’abeilles,

Qui les fleurs jaunes et vermeilles

Indifferemment baisotez.

 

Cent mille fois je resalue

Vostre belle et douce venue ;

O que j’aime ceste saison

Et ce doux caquet des rivages,

Au prix des vents et des orages

Qui m’enfermoient en la maison !

 

[Sus, page, à cheval ! que l’on bride !

Ayant ce beau printemps pour guide,

Je veux ma dame aller trouver

Pour voir, en ces beaux mois, si elle

Autant vers moi sera cruelle

Comme elle fut durant l’hyver.]

 

 

                                                                                               God watch over you, faithful messengers

                                                                                               Of Spring, noble swallows,

                                                                                               Hoopoes, cuckoos, little nightingales,

                                                                                               Turtledoves, and you wild birds

                                                                                               Who with a hundred kinds of song

                                                                                               Bring the green wood to life.

 

                                                                                               God watch over you, lovely daisies,

                                                                                               Lovely roses, lovely little flowers

                                                                                               Of March, and you well-known buds

                                                                                               From the blood of Ajax and Narcissus;

                                                                                               And you thyme, anise, lemon balm,

                                                                                               Are all very welcome back.

 

                                                                                               God watch over you, many-coloured band

                                                                                               Of butterflies, who suck

                                                                                               The sweet grasses in the meadow;

                                                                                               And you, fresh swarm of bees

                                                                                               Who kiss indifferently

                                                                                               Both yellow and red flowers.

 

                                                                                               A hundred times I greet again

                                                                                               Your fair and sweet return;

                                                                                               Oh, how I love this season

                                                                                               And the sweet babbling of the brooks

                                                                                               Even with the winds and storms

                                                                                               Which may imprison me in the house!

 

                                                                                               [Up then, page, to horse! Bridle him!

                                                                                               With this fair spring as guide

                                                                                               I want to go and find my lady

                                                                                               To see if, in these lovely months, she

                                                                                               Will be as cruel to me

                                                                                               As she was through the winter.]

 

 

 Blanchemain in his edition parenthesises the last stanza without explanation; it is certainly a change of direction, but hardly unparalleled in Ronsard!

 

The flowers of Ajax and Narcissus are the violet (marked with AI, the first two letters of Ajax’s Greek name AIAS), and of course the narcissus (or perhaps the daffodil) which was said to have sprung from his blood.

 

 

 

Sonnet 20

Je voudroy bien richement jaunissant

En pluye d’or goute à goute descendre

Dans le giron de ma belle Cassandre,

Lors qu’en ses yeux le somne va glissant.

 

Puis je voudroy en toreau blanchissant

Me transformer pour sur mon dos la prendre,

Quand en Avril par l’herbe la plus tendre

Elle va fleur mille fleurs ravissant.

 

Je voudroy bien pour alleger ma peine,

Estre un Narcisse et elle une fontaine,

Pour m’y plonger une nuict à sejour :

 

Et si voudroy que ceste nuict encore

Fust eternelle, et que jamais l’Aurore

Pour m’esveiller ne rallumast le jour.

 

 

 

                                                                       I wish that, in the rich yellow

                                                                       Of a rain of gold, I could fall drop by drop

                                                                       Into the lap of my fair Cassandre,

                                                                       As sleep slips over her eyes.

 

                                                                       And then I wish that I could transform myself

                                                                       Into a white bull, to take her on my back

                                                                       When in April she walks in the softest, newest grass

                                                                       A flower herself, stealing a thousand flowers.

 

                                                                       I wish that, to lessen my pain,

                                                                       I could be a Narcissus and she a fountain,

                                                                       So that I could dive in one night to stay :

 

                                                                       And so I wish that night were indeed

                                                                       Eternal, and that Dawn would never

                                                                       Bring back the daylight to wake me.

 

 

Ronsard draws on images from classical myth: of Jupiter coming to Danae as a shower of gold, and carrying off Europa as a great white bull; of Narcissus staying by the fountain perpetually.

 

Only one minor variant, at the end of the second quatrain:

 

       Seule, à l’ecart, mille fleurs ravissant.

 

                                                                       Alone, at a distance, stealing a thousand flowers.

 

 

You can read Tony Kline’s version in verse here