Odes 1:2

I mentioned this poem and its focus on “the King first, last and in the  middle” …

AU ROY HENRY II DE CE NOM   Strophe I   Comme un qui prend une coupe, Seul honneur de son tresor, Et de rang verse à la troupe, Du vin qui rit dedans l’or : Ainsi, versant la rosée Dont ma langue est arrousée Sus la race des Valois, En son doux nectar j’abbreuve, Le plus grand roy qui se treuve Soit en armes ou en lois.   Antistrophe I   Heureux l’honneur que j’embrasse, Heureux qui se peut vanter De voir la thebaine grace Qui sa vertu veut chanter. Je vien chanter la tienne Sur la corde dorienne, Et pour estre désormais Celui qui de tes victoires Ne souffrira que les gloires En l’oubly tombent jamais.   Epode I   De ce beau trait decoché, Dy, Muse mon esperance, Quel prince sera touché Le tirant parmy la France ? Sera-ce pas nostre Roy, De qui la divine aureille Boira la douce merveille Qui n’obeit qu’à ma loy ?   Strophe II   De Jupiter les antiques Leurs escrits embellissoient, Par luy leurs chants poëtiques Commençoient et finissoient, Réjouy d’entendre bruire Ses louanges sur la lyre ; Mais Henry sera le Dieu Qui commencera mon metre, Et que seul j’ay voué mettre A la fin et au milieu.   Antistrophe II   Le ciel, qui ses lampes darde Sur ce tout qu’il apperçoit, Rien de si grand ne regarde Qui vassal des roys ne soit. D’armes le monde ils estonnent, Sur le chef de ceux ils tonnent Qui les viennent despiter ; Leurs mains toute chose attaignent, Et les plus rebelles craignent Les Roys fils de Jupiter.   Epode II   Mais du nostre la grandeur Les autres d’autant surpasse Que d’un rocher la hauteur Les flancs d’une rive basse. Puisse-t-il par l’univers Devant ses ennemis croistre, Et pour ma guide apparoistre Tousjours au front de mes vers !

Strophe 1   As one who takes a cup Sole pride of his treasure And in turn pours out for his followers Wine which laughs within the gold; So, pouring out the dew With which my tongue is bedewed Upon the race of Valois, In its sweet nectar I salute The greatest king there is, Both in war and in lawgiving.   Antistrophe I   Happy the honour I embrace, Happy he who can boast Of seeing the grace of Thebes, Who can sing of its virtue. I come to sing your own On the Dorian string, And to be henceforth He who will not allow The glory of your victories To fall ever into oblivion.   Epode I   By this fair arrow shot, Say Muse, my hope, Which prince will be hit As I aim throughout France? Won’t it be our King, Whose god-like ear Shall drink in this sweet marvel Which obeys only my law?   Strophe II   With Jupiter the ancients Embellished their writings, With him their poetic songs Began and finished, Overjoyed to hear sounded His praises on the lyre; But Henry shall be the god for us Who shall be the beginning of my poems, And whom alone I have vowed to place At the end and in the middle.   Antistrophe II   Heaven, which darts its light Upon this cosmos which it sees, Considers none so grand Who is not vassal of kings. With arms they amaze the world, They thunder on the head of those Who come to vex them; Their hands attain all things, And the most rebellious fear Kings, the sons of Jupiter.   Epode II   But the grandeur of our own [King] As far surpasses the others As the height of a rock [Overtops] the banks of a deep river. May he increase throughout the world Before his enemies And appear as my guide Always at the fore of my verse!

 

 

This poem has turned up in the musical settings: it seems to have been a popular text, perhaps as much because of its connections with drinking as for its praise of the Valois kings. Blanchemain notes that it is “a direct imitation of Pindar’s 7th Olympic ode”: this begins

 

As when someone takes a goblet, all golden, the most prized of his possessions, foaming with the dew of the vine from a generous hand, and makes a gift of it to his young son-in-law, welcoming him with a toast from one home to another …

 

After this point, as you might gather, Ronsard and Pindar diverge more and more.

 

In the first antistrophe, the ‘grace of Thebes’ (that is, he who graces Thebes) is Orpheus; the ‘Dorian string’ simply a reference to Greek music, though note that there was a ‘Dorian’ mode still in musical discourse.

 

In line 2 of the second antistrophe, I’ve translated “ce tout” (‘this whole’ ) as ‘cosmos’ – the ‘whole’ being the universe; that of course also means ‘everything’, though the Greek Greek ‘cosmos’ (that which is organised) has a similar meaning and, like Ronsard’s ‘whole’, is a less obvious word.

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:41

Laisse de Pharaon la terre Egyptienne,

Terre de servitude, et vien sur le Jourdain :

Laisse moy ceste Court et tout ce fard mondain,

Ta Circe, ta Sirene, et ta magicienne.

 

Demeure en ta maison pour vivre toute tienne,

Contente toy de peu : l’âge s’enfuit soudain.

Pour trouver ton repos, n’atten point à demain :

N’atten point que l’hyver sur les cheveux te vienne.

 

Tu ne vois à ta Cour que feintes et soupçons :

Tu vois tourner une heure en cent mille façons :

Tu vois la vertu fausse, et vraye la malice.

 

Laisse ces honneurs pleins d’un soing ambitieux,
Tu ne verras aux champs que Nymphes et que Dieux,
Je seray ton Orphee, et toy mon Eurydice.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Leave Pharaoh’s land, Egypt,

                                                                            Land of servitude, and come to the Jordan ;

                                                                            Leave this Court for me, leave all its worldly artifice,

                                                                            Leave your Circe, your siren, your witch.

 

                                                                            Stay home, and live by yourself,

                                                                            Content yourself with little; age rushes on us so suddenly.

                                                                            To find peace, do not wait on tomorrow ;

                                                                            Don’t wait till winter comes upon your hairs.

 

                                                                            At your Court, you see only deception and suspicion ;

                                                                            You see see each hour pass in a hundred thousand ways ;

                                                                            You see false virtue and true malice.

 

                                                                            Leave those honours, full of ambitious care :

                                                                            In the countryside, you’ll see only nymphs and gods ;

                                                                            I’ll be your Orpheus, you my Eurydice.

 

 

 

The basic message is obvious: leave the pretence (pretensions) of the court, come and live the simple life with me. The presentation, the detail is typically complex – a mix of classical and Biblical material.

 

We begin in the Bible: the image of Israel leaving Egypt with Moses to move to the Promised Land, Jordan. The Jewish people in Egypt were of course in servitude – but some at least (Moses for example) served at the Egyptian court and lived like the nobility: no doubt Ronsard is thinking of both, despite speaking only of servitude – or perhaps service – at court. The key point is in the next line: it’s the difference between artifice and reality, not service and freedom, which is at issue here.

 

That becomes clear from line 4: Circe the temptress (and sorceress, enchanting men to be her porcine servants), the siren again calling men temptingly and irresistibly. Servitude at court is not tempting, but the artificiality of life there certainly could be.

 

The second quatrain is pretty optimistic after that: give up all that temptation to grow old alone! The point is in the next tercet: simplicity and a life alone, instead of deception, suspicion, malice. Honours maybe, but honours accompanied by care and ambition, which will not sustain you into old age, nor make life truly pleasant.

 

And so back to mythology: the simplicity of country life represented by the traditional ‘nymphs and shepherds’ and by the gods Ronsard invokes so often, the gods of the countryside; and finally Orpheus and Eurydice, famous for their simplicity, their single-minded love, and (in Orpheus’s case), for poetry and music.

 

It’s a lovely sonnet. Come back and read it regularly.

 

(One tiny variant in Blanchemain’s version: line 9 begins “Tu ne vois à la Cour …”) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Garnier’s tribute to Ronsard

It is SO long since I posted anything here: I hope to get going again & finish off Helen 2 at least. Meanwhile, it felt right to include Garnier’s tribute to the dead Ronsard – not least because my own attempt to preserve his memory has faltered …

This elegy was originally published in Binet’s memorial volume, Discours de la Vie de Pierre de Ronsard, in 1586. It was picked up and anthologised in 1778, in volume 8 of the Annales poétiques, ou Almanach des Muses, after which it reappeared several times elsewhere, copied from that anthology,and can now be found in several places on the web. But the 1778 anthologisers quietly abbreviated Garnier’s text – removing approximately 50% of it! So the versions found elsewhere are likewise abbreviated and I think this is the first time the full original text has been reproduced online.

Elégie sur le trespas de feu Monsieur de Ronsard   A monsieur des Portes Abbé de Thiron     Nature est aux humains sur tous autres cruelle, On ne voit animaux En la terre et au ciel, ny en l’onde infidele, Qui souffrent tant de maux.   Le rayon eternel de l’essence divine, Qu’en naissant nous avons, De mille passions noz tristes jours épine Tandis que nous vivons :   Et non pas seulement vivants il nous torture, Mais nous blesse au trespas, Car pour prevoir la mort, elle nous est plus dure Qu’elle ne seroit pas.   Si tost que nostre esprit dans le cerveau raisonne, Nous l’alons redoutant, Et sans cette frayeur que la raison nous donne, On ne la craindroit tant.   Nous creignons de mourir, de perdre la lumiere Du Soleil radieus, Nous creignons de passer sur les ais d’une biere Le fleuve stygieus.   Nous creignons de laisser noz maisons delectables, Noz biens et noz honneurs, Ces belles dignitez, qui nous font venerables Remarquer des seigneurs.   Les peuples des forests, de l’air et des rivieres, Qui ne voyent si loing, Tombent journellement aux mortelles pantieres Sans se gesner de soing.   Leur vie est plus heureuse, et moins sujette aus peines, Et encombres divers, Que nous souffrons chetifs en noz ames humaines, De desastres couverts.   Ores nous poind l’amour, Tyran de la jeunesse, Ores l’avare faim De l’or injurieus, qui fait que chacun laisse La vertu pour le gain.   Cetuy-cy se tourmente apres les grandeurs vaines, Enflé d’ambition, De cetuy-la l’envie empoisonne les veines Cruelle passion.   La haine, le courroux, le depit, la tristesse, L’outrageuse rancœur, Et la tendre pitié du foeble qu’on oppresse, Nous bourellent le cœur.   Et voila nostre vie, ô miserables hommes ! Nous semblons estre nez Pour estre, cependant qu’en ce monde nous sommes, Tousjours infortunez.   Et enquore, où le ciel en une belle vie Quelque vertus enclost, La chagrineuse mort qui les hommes envye Nous la pille aussi tost.   Ainsi le verd email d’une riante prée Est soudain effacé, Ainsi l’aymable teint d’une rose pourprée Est aussi tost passé.   La jeunesse de l’an n’est de longue durée, Mais l’Hyver aux dois gours, Et l’Esté embruny de la torche etherée Durent [orig : durant] presque toujours.   Mais las ! ô doux Printems, vostre verdeur fanie Retourne en mesme point, Mais quand nostre jeunesse une fois est finie Elle ne revient point.   La vieillesse nous prend maladive et facheuse, Hostesse de la mort, Qui pleins de mal nous pousse en une tombe creuse D’où jamais on ne sort.   Des Portes, que la Muse honore et favorise Entre tous ceux qui ont Suivy le saint Phebus, et sa science aprise Dessur le double mont.   Vous voyez ce Ronsard, merveilles de nostre age, L’honneur de l’Univers, Paitre de sa chair morte, inevitable outrage, Une source de vers.   De rien vostre Apollon, ny les Muses pucelles Ne luy ont profité, Bien qu’ils eussent pour luy les deux croppes jumelles De Parnasse quitté :   Et qu’ils eust conduits aux accords de sa Lire Dans ce François sejour, Pour chanter de noz Roys, et leurs victoires dire, Ou sonner de l’amour.   C’est grand cas, que ce Dieu, qui des enfance l’aime, Afranchit du trespas Ses divines chansons, et que le chantre mesme N’en affranchisse pas.   Vous en serez ainsi : car bien que vostre gloire, Espandue en tous lieux, Ne descende estoufée en une tombe noire Comme un peuple otieux,   Et que voz sacrez vers, qui de honte font taire Les plus grands du metier, Nous facent choir des mains, quand nous en cuidons faire, La plume et le papier.   Si verres vous le fleuve où tout le monde arrive, Et payrez le denier Que prend pour nous passer jusques à l’autre rive L’avare Nautonnier.   Que ne ressemblons nous aus vagueuses rivieres Qui ne changent de cours ? Ou au branle eternel des ondes marinieres Qui reflotent toujours ?   Et n’est-ce pas pitié, que ces roches pointues, Qui semblent depiter, De vents, de flots, d’oraige, et de foudres batues, L’ire de Jupiter,   Vivent incessament, incessament demeurent Dans leurs membres pierreux, Et que des hommes, tels que ce grand Ronsard, meurent Par un sort rigoureux ?   O destin lamentable ! un homme qui approche De la divinité Est ravy de ce monde, et le front d’une roche Dure un eternité.   Qui pourra desormais d’une alaine assez forte Entonner comme il faut La gloir de mon Roy, puisque la muse est morte Qui le chantoit si haut ?   Qui dira ses combats ? ses batailles sanglantes ? Quand jeune, Duc d’Anjou, De sa main foudroya les troupes protestantes Aux plaines de Poictou ?   Des portes qui sera-ce ? une fois vostre Muse, Digne d’estre en son lieu, Fuyant l’honneur profane aujourdhuy ne s’amuse Qu’au loüanges de Dieu.   Et qui sera-ce donc ? quelle voix suffisante, Pour sonner gravement Joyeuse nostre Achil, dont la gloire naissante S’acroist journellement ?   Qui dira son courage, indomtable à la peine, Indomtable à la peur, Et comme il appareille avec une ame humaine Un magnanime cœur ?   Comme il est de l’honneur, du seul honneur avare, D’autres biens liberal, Cherissant un chacun, fors celuy qui s’egare Du service royal ?   Ne permette Clion et Phebus ne permette Que Ronsard abattu Par l’ennuyeuse mort, ne se treuve Poëte Qui chante sa vertu.   Adieu, mon cher Ronsard, l’abeille en vostre tombe Face tousjour son miel, Que le baume Arabic à tout jamais y tombe, Et la manne du ciel.   Le Laurier y verdisse avec le lierre Et le Mirthe amoureus, Riche en mille boutons, de toutes parts l’enserre Le Rosier odoreus :   Le tin, le baselic, la franche Marguerite, Et nostre Lis François, Et cette rouge fleur, où la pleinte est escrite Du malcontent Gregeois.   Les Nymphes de Gâtine, et les Nayades sainctes, Qui habitent le Loir, Le venant arroser de larmettes epreintes, Ne cessent de douloir.   Las ! Cloton a tranché le fil de vostre vie D’une piteuse main, La voyant de vieillesse et de goutes suyvie, Torturage inhumain.   Voyant la povre France en son corps outragee Par le sanglant effort De ses enfans, qui l’ont tant de foys ravagee, Soupirer à la mort :   Le Souysse aguerry, qui aus combats se loüe, L’Anglois fermé de flots, Ceux qui boivent le Pau, le Tage et la Danoüe, Fondre dessus son dos.   Ainsi que le Vautour, qui de griffes bourelles Va sans fin tirassant De Promethé le foye, en patures nouvelles Coup sur coup renaissant.   Les meurtres inhumains se font entre les freres, Spectacle plein d’horreur, Et deja les enfans courent contre leurs peres D’une aveugle fureur :   Le cœur des Citoyens se remplit de furies, Les Paysans ecartez Meurent comme une haye : on ne voit que turies Par les chams desertez.   Et puis alez chanter l’honneur de nostre France En siecles si maudits, Attendez-vous qu’aucun vos labeurs recompense Comme on faisait jadis ?   La triste povreté noz chansons accompaigne, La Muse, les yeus bas, Se retire de nous, voyant que lon dedaigne Ses antiques ebats.   Vous estes donque heureus, et vostre mort heureuse, O Cigne des François, Ne lamentez que nous, dont la vie ennuyeuse Meurt le jour mile fois.   Vous errez maintenant aux campaignes d’Elise, A l’ombre des Vergers, Où chargent en tout tems, asseurez de la Bise, Les jaunes Orengers :   Où les prez sont toujours tapissez de verdure, Les vignes de raisins, Et les petits oyseaus, gasoüillans au murmure Des ruisseaus cristalins.   Là le Cedre gommeus odoreusement sue, Et l’arbre du Liban, Et l’Ambre, et Myrrhe, au lit de son Pere receüe, Pleure le long de l’an.   En grand’ foule acourus, autour de vous se pressent Les heros anciens, Qui boyvent le nectar, d’ambrosie se paissent, Aux bords Elisiens :   Sur tous le grand Eumolpe, et le divin Orphee, Et Line, et Amphion, Et Musee, et celuy, dont la plume eschauffee Mist en cendre Ilion.   Le loüengeur Thebain, le chantre de Mantoüe, Le Lyrique latin, Et aveques Seneque, honneur grand de Cordoüe, L’amoureus Florentin :   Tous vont battant des mains, sautellent de liesse, S’entredisant entre eux, Voyla celuy, qui donte et l’Itale et la Grece En poëmes nombreus :   L’un vous donne sa lyre, et l’au[t]re sa trompette, L’autre vous veut donner Son Myrthe, son Lierre, ou son Laurier profette, Pour vous en couronner.   Ainsi vivez heureuse, ame toute divine, Tandis que le destin Nous reserve aus malheurs de la France, voysine De sa derniere fin.

Elegy on the death of the late M.de Ronsard   To M. Desportes, abbot of Thiron     Nature is to men above all others cruel, We do not see animals On earth or in the skies, or in the treacherous seas, Suffering so many ills.   The eternal ray of the divine essence Which we receive at birth With a hundred passions troubles our sad days While we live.   And not only while we live does it torture us, But injures us at our death, For foreseeing death is to us harder Than the event itself will be.   As soon as our spirit reasons within our brains, We begin to fear it, And without this terror which reason gives us We would not be so frightened of it.   We are frightened of dying, of losing the light Of the radiant Sun, We are frightened of crossing, on the planks of a bier, The Stygian river;   We are frightened of leaving our delightful homes, Our goods and our honours, Those fine dignities which make us respected And noticed by lords.   The inhabitants of the forests, the air and the rivers Who do not see so far, Fall daily to death-dealing snares Without troubling themselves with worries.   Their life is happier, and less subject to the troubles And various burdens Which we weakly suffer in our human souls, Overcome by disasters.   Sometimes love afflicts us, that tyrant of our youth, Sometimes the greedy hunger For harmful gold, which makes everyone abandon Virtue for gain.   This man torments himself seeking empty greatness, Puffed up with ambition, That man’s veins are poisoned by envy, That cruel passion.   Hatred, anger, spite, sorrow, Hurtful bitterness, And tender pity for the weak who are oppressed Bubble away in our hearts.   And that’s our life, o wretched men! We seem to be born To be, while we are in this world, Always unfortunate.   And even when heaven includes Some happiness in a good life, Sorrowful death which envies men Steals it from us soon enough.   Just so the fresh mosaic of a gay meadow Is suddenly wiped away, Just so the lovely tint of a crimson rose Is soon enough past.   The year’s youth does not last long, But Winter with his stiff fingers And Summer scorched by the heavenly flame Last almost forever.   Alas, sweet Spring, your faded freshness Returns to the same state [each year] But when once our youth is finished It does not return.   Old age takes us, sickly and disagreeable, Death’s hostess, And, full of ills, pushes us into a dug grave From which none ever escapes.   Desportes, whom the Muse honours and favours Among all those of us who have Followed holy Apollo and learned his wisdom Upon the double mount:   You see this Ronsard, the marvel of our age, The glory of the world, Feeding with his dead flesh – an inescapable indignity – A stream of worms.   Nothing have your Apollo and his maiden Muses Profited him, Although for him they abandoned The twin mounts of Parnassus,   And although they have spent time, to the harmonies of his lyre, In this France of ours, To sing of our Kings and announce their victories, Or to celebrate love.   It’s very clear that the god who loved him from infancy Excepted from death His divine songs, and yet could not except from it The singer himself.   It will be the same for you: for although your glory, Spreading to every place, Will not descend, smothered, into a dark tomb Like unproductive folk’s,   And though your sacred verse, which for shame makes The greatest in the business fall silent, Makes the pen and paper fall from our hands, When we wish to use them:   Yet still you will see the river where every man arrives, And you will pay the penny Which the greedy Boatman takes That we may pass to the other side.   Why are we not like the rippling waters Which don’t change their course? Or the eternal movement of the sea’s waves Which break and break again?   Isn’t it a pity that those sharp rocks Which seem to despise The winds, the tides, storms and battering of lightning, The anger of Jupiter,   Live on eternally, remain eternally In their stony forms, And that men like the great Ronsard die By harsh fate?   O grievous destiny! A man who approaches The divine Is stolen from this world, and a rock-face Lasts an eternity.   Who will be able henceforth with so strong a voice To thunder as they should Of my King’s glory, since the muse is dead Who sang it so loudly?   Who shall sing of his combats? Of his bloody battles? Who when young, as the Duke of Anjou, Overthrew with his might the protestant troops On the plains of Poitou …   Deportes, who will it be? Once, perhaps, your muse Was worthy to be in his place; But fleeing worldly honours today she employs herself Only in the praise of God.   So who will it be? What voice sufficient To celebrate gravely Our joyous Achilles, whose budding glory Grows daily?   Who shall speak of his courage, unconquered by strife, Unconquered by fear, And how it equipped with a human soul A magnanimous heart?   How it is hungry for honour, for honour alone, Liberal with other good things, Cherishes everyone, even those who fall away From the king’s service?   Do not permit, Clio, and Apollo do not permit That Ronsard, defeated By grievous death, should not find a Poet To sing of his worth.   Farewell, my dear Ronsard, may the bees always Make their honey on your tomb, May balm from Arabia forever fall there With manna from heaven.   May the laurel flourish there, along with ivy And lovers’ myrtle, Rich with a thousand buds, and on all sides may The perfumed rose-bush embrace it,   And thyme, basil, the simple daisy, Our lily of France, And that red flower on which is written the plaint Of the unhappy Greek.   May the nymphs of Gastine and the holy water-nymphs Who live in the Loir Having just poured out and expressed their tears for you Not cease from grieving.   Alas! Clotho has cut the thread of your life With her pitying hand, Seeing it accompanied by old age and gout, Those inhuman tortures,   And seeing our poor France, wounded in her body By the bloody struggles Of her children, who have so many times ravaged her, Sighing for death;   And Switzerland at war, giving itself over to strife, England enclosed by the seas, And those who drink from the Po, Tagus and Danube Drowning beneath their waters;   Just like the vulture, which with its executioner’s claws Endlessly rakes The liver of Prometheus, in new pastures Renewing blow on blow,   Inhuman murders take place between brothers, A horrific sight, And now children rush upon their fathers In blind madness;   The hearts of city-dwellers are filled with Furies, The country-folk, swept aside, Die in their rows; we see nothing but killings Throughout the deserted countryside.   And yet you go on singing of the honour of our France In times so accursed: Do you expect anyone to reward your labours As they did in the past?   Wretched poverty accompanies our songs; The Muse, her eyes lowered, Leaves us, seeing that we disdain Her former amusements.   So, you are fortunate, and your death fortunate, O Swan of the French, Lament only for us, whose troubled lives Die a thousand times every day.   You now wander in the fields of Elysium, In the shade of the orchards Where at all times, secure from cold northerly winds, The tawny orange-trees are laden;   Where the meadows are always carpeted in green, The vines with grapes, And the little birds go chattering to the murmur Of crystalline streams.   There the cedar sweats its perfumed gum, And the tree of Lebanon Weeps both amber and myrrh, received at its father’s bed, All year long.   Running up in a great crowd, around you press The ancient heroes Who drink nectar and feed on ambrosia On the banks of Elysium,   Above all great Eumolpe and godlike Orpheus And Linus and Amphion And Musaeus, and he whose burning pen Set fire to Troy;   The Theban praise-singer, the poet of Mantua, The Latin lyricist And, with Seneca the great glory of Cordoba, The Florentine love-poet,   All of them clapping their hands, leaping with joy, Saying to one another, “There he is, the man who surpassed Italy and Greece In many a poem”.   One of them gives you his lyre, another his trumpet, Another tries to give you His myrtle, his ivy, or his prophetic laurel To crown you with them.   So, live on happily, godlike soul, While fate keeps us back For the misfortunes of France, close To her final end.

 

(In verse 15, I have amended one word slightly, to form a proper sentence – though Garnier may have been deliberately leaving the sentence hanging.)

 

As one would expect, Garnier’s tribute ranges over the areas Ronsard himself wrote about – the King and the civil wars, classical myth, nature, love poetry, Ronsard’s home on the Loir … So there are plenty of relatively obscure references perhaps worth amplifying:

 – the dedication is to Ronsard’s “successor”, Philippe Desportes – a lesser poet, but one whose fame eclipsed Ronsard’s in the latter portion of his life;

 – verse 5, the “Stygian river”, the Styx, is the river between the living world and Hades, across which Charon the ferryman or boatman (verse 25) takes all dead souls;

 – verses 18 & 20, Parnassus (the ‘double mount’, at right – photo credit Rens van der Sluijs) is the traditional home of the Muses. Ovid called it ‘biceps’, that is ‘two-headed’, and between its twin peaks was Delphi, the ‘omphalos’ (navel, centre) of the world;

 – verse 33, ‘Achilles’ (the great soldier) means of course the King

 – verse 37, Clio is usually the Muse of history, but sometimes also the Muse of lyre-playing: both seem appropriate here;

 – verse 40, the ‘unhappy Greek’ is not Narcissus but Hyacinthus, whose flower bears the Greek letters AIAI (‘alas’, ‘woe’);

 – verse 41, the Gastine & Loir are familiar as part of Ronsard’s beloved estates;

 – verse 42, Clotho is one of the Fates who determine the length of a man’s life – though note that Clotho is normally the Fate who spins the thread of life, Atropos the one who cuts it …

 – verse 45, the story of Prometheus eternally having his liver torn out by the eagle (or vulture) by day only for it to re-grow overnight, is well-known;

 – verse 53, I confess I have no idea what the end of line 3 (“received at its father’s bed”) is referring to … Ideas welcome. Amber and myrrh (like frankincense too) are resinous – and therefore associated with the resin-rich cedars of Lebanon, though myrrh in particular comes form small thorn-trees not huge cedars;

 –  verse 55-56 list many of the greatest poets of the past, legendary and historical.

     – Eumolpe (or Eumolpos – which means ‘beautiful song’) was founder of the Eleusininan mysteries in ancient Athens;

     – ‘godlike Orpheus’ is still well-known to us if only for carelessly losing Eurydice after charming Cerberus, the hell-dog, and Hades himself with his song;

     – Linus, sometimes viewed as Orpheus’s brother, was the inventor of lyric song and/or the harp;

     – Amphion, one of the founders of Thebes, was taught music by the god Hermes himself – and has a modern poetic form named after him;

     – Musaeus, lawgiver of Athens, was also was held to have been one of the great poets by Athenians – Socrates in the Apology links his name with three others in this list: “What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer?”;

     – Homer indeed is the next on the list, he “whose burning pen Set fire to Troy”;

     – the “Theban praise-singer” is Hesiod, associated with Mt. Helicon in Boeotia.

Bringing us from legendary to historical poets, “the poet of Mantua” is Virgil and the “Latin lyricist” is Horace. Seneca, although we think of him as Roman, was indeed born in Spain, in Cordoba; and last in the list and the only ‘modern’, the love-poet from Florence is of course Petrarch.

 

Sonnet 160

Or’ que Jupin espoint de sa semence,

Veut enfanter ses enfans bien-aimez,

Et que du chaud de ses reins allumez

L’humide sein de Junon ensemence :

 

Or’ que la mer, or’ que la vehemence

Des vents fait place aux grans vaisseaux armez,

Et que l’oiseau parmi les bois ramez,

Du Thracien les tançons recommence :

 

Or’ que les prez et ore que les fleurs

De mille et mille et de mille couleurs

Peignent le sein de la terre si gaye :

 

Seul et pensif aux rochers plus segrets

D’un cœur muet je conte mes regrets,

Et par les bois je vay celant ma playe.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                           When Jupiter, aching with his seed,

                                                                           Wishes to give birth to his well-loved children,

                                                                           And with the warmth of his heated hips

                                                                           Sows it in Juno’s moist body;

 

                                                                           When the sea and the violence

                                                                           Of the winds makes space for great armed vessels,

                                                                           And the bird amongst the branchy woods

                                                                           Begins again her dispute with the Thracian;

 

                                                                           When the meadows and when the flowers

                                                                           With thousands and thousands and thousands of colours

                                                                           Paint the earth’s breast so gaily;

 

                                                                           [Then,] alone and thoughtful among the most hidden rocks

                                                                           With silent heart I tell of my regrets,

                                                                           And within the woods I hide my wound.

 

 

There are two ways to look at the Thracian in line 8. Perhaps he is Orpheus, whose singing traditionally competes with that of birds.  Or, as Muret learnedly tells us, perhaps ‘the bird is Philomela, changed into a nightingale, who complains of the assault of Tereus, king of Thrace, her brother in law (in Ovid Metamorphoses book 6)‘. Ronsard’s opening quatrain is based on a Vergilian original (of which more in a moment), but is surprisingly ‘graphic’ in its imagery – I can’t immediately think of another poem in which he virtually describes sexual intercourse as opposed to alluding to it! Perhaps it’s OK because it’s a classical allusion … !  It’s interesting too that he personalises the image much more than Vergil; Jupiter and Juno (a married couple of course – nothing untoward here!) rather than Vergil’s Heaven and Earth – an image which goes back all the way to the Egyptians and beyond.

 

To put it in context, here’s Vergil’s original (Georgics 2, lines 323-8):

 

Ver adeo frondi nemorum, ver utile silvis ;

Vere tument terrae et genitalia semina poscunt.

Tum pater omnipotens fecundis imbribus Aether

Coniugis in gremium laetae descendit, et omnes

Magnus alit magno commixtus corpore fetus.

Avia tum resonant avibus virgulta canoris, …

 

 

                                                                           Spring is so desired by the leaves of the groves, by the woods;

                                                                           Indeed the earth heaves and demands the life-bearing seed.

                                                                           Then the Heaven, the all-powerful father, with his rich rains

                                                                           Descends into the lap of his joyful bride, and the mighty god

                                                                           Joined with her mighty body nourishes all her offspring.

                                                                           Then the pathless woods resound to birdsong …

 

 

For all that Vergil is more impersonal, or less explicit, about the sexual dimension, it’s worth noticing his vocabulary:  the earth’s ‘heaving’ is not far from the the English ‘tumescent’, the ‘lap’ is regularly used as a polite synonym in sexual allusions, ‘commixtus’ (compare ‘commingling’ in English is a standard poetic word for sex, and ‘genitalia’ and ‘semina’ (from ‘semen’) pretty obviously carry similar associations!  So Ronsard in some ways hasn’t stepped far beyond his model… (And, in this context, I find it amusing that poetic allusion requires Jupiter to seed Juno’s ‘breast’ or ‘bosom’ (“sein”) which is q word still further removed than the ‘lap’ that Vergil uses!)

 

What’s interesting is how far we are supposed to reflect on this opening, after the middle sections of the poem slide the focus slightly onto more general springtime events, when we reach the conclusion. The solitude and silence directly reflect the middle of the poem, rather than the lusty opening; but there is clearly a subtext that solitude is more than just the absence of the beloved, it’s the absence of a sexual partner.

 

 There’s not much variation in Blanchemain’s version: the opening quatrain goes as follows:

 

 

Or’ que Jupin, espoint de sa semence,

Hume à longs traits les feux accoustumez,

Et que le chaud de ses reins allumez

L’humide sein de Junon ensemence;

 

 

                                                                            When Jupiter, aching with his seed,

                                                                            Breathes in long breaths of the well-known fires,

                                                                            And when the warmth of his heated hips

                                                                            Seeds Juno’s moist body;

 

 

 

 

Ode 5:3 – a footnote

If you followed my link to the Tombeau de Marguerite de Valois Royne de Navarre, you’ll have noticed that the version of the ode published there was (surprise surprise) rather different! Here, for the completist in you (and me), is the originally-published 1551 version.

 

Aux trois sœurs, Anne, Marguerite et Jane de Seymour, Princesses Angloises, Ode par Pierre de Ronsard Vandomois.

 

Le Conte d’Alsinois [=Denisot] au lecteur :

Amy Lecteur, je t’ay bien voulu faire quelques petites annotations sur les Odes de Ronsard, te promettant continuer a l’avenir sur toutes ses œuvres, affin de te soulagier de peine : j’entens à toi qui n’as encor long temps verse à la lecon des Poëtes. 

 

[‘Dear Reader, I was keen to help you with several small notes on the Odes of Ronsard, promising to continue in future for all his works, to save you trouble; I mean, any of you who have not spent a long time drinking in the learning of our Poets.’  See footnotes below the text.]

 

Quand les filles d’Achelois, La fable Secilienne, Qui foullerent de leurs voix La douceur Hymettienne Virent jaunir la toison, Et les Soudards de Jason Ramer la Barque parlante Pres de leur gyron volante :   Elles d’ordre flanc à flanc, Oisives au front des ondes, D’un peigne d’yvoire blanc Friserent leurs tresses blondes, Et mignotant de leurs yeux Les attraiz delicieux, D’une œillade languissante Guetterent la Nef passante.   Puis souspirerent un chant De leurs gorges nompareilles, Par douce force allechant Les plus gaillardes oreilles, Affin que le son pippeur Fraudast l’honneste labeur Des Heroës de la Grece Amorcéz de leur caresse.   Ja ces Demydieux estoient Prestz de tumber en servage, Et ja dontéz se jettoient Dans la prison du rivage, Sans Orphée, qui soudain Prenant son luc en la main, Opposé contre elles joüe Loing des autres, sur la proüe :   Affin que le contreson De sa repoussante lyre Perdist au vent leur chanson Premier qu’entrer au Navire, Et qu’il tirast du danger Ce jeune peuple estranger, Qui devoit par la Libye Porter sa mere affoiblie.   Mais si le Harpeur fameux Ouyoit le luc des Serenes Qui sonne aux bordz écumeux Sur les Angloises arenes : Son luc payen il fendroit, Et disciple se rendroit Dessous leur chanson Chrestienne Dont la voix passe la sienne.   Car luy enflé de vains motz Devisoit a-l’avanture, Ou des membres du Chaos Ou du sein de la nature ; Mais ces Vierges chantent mieux Le vray Manouvrier des cieux, Nostre demeure eternelle, Et ceulx qui vivent en elle.   Las, ce qu’on voit de mondain Jamais ferme ne se fonde, Ains fuit et refuit soudain Comme le branle d’une onde Qui ne cesse de rouller, De s’avançer et couller, Tant que rampant il arrive D’un grand heurt contre sa rive :   La Science au paravant Si long temps orientale, Peu a peu marchant avant S’apparoist occidentale : Et sans jamais se borner Ell’ n’a cessé de tourner, Tant qu’elle soit parvenue A l’autre rive incognue.   Là, de son grave souci Vint affoller le courage De ces troys Vierges icy, Les trois seules de nostre aage : Et si-bien les sçeut tenter, Qu’ores on les oit chanter Maint vers jumeau qui surmonte Les nostres rouges de honte.   Par vous, Vierges de renom, Vrais peintres de la Memoire, Des aultres vierges le nom Sera cler en vostre gloire. Et puis que le ciel benin Au doux sexe feminin Fait naistre chose si rare D’un lieu jadis tant barbare.   Denisot se vante heuré D’avoir oublyé sa terre Quelquesfois, et demeuré Trois ans en vostre Angleterre, De pres voyant le Soleil Quant il se panche au sommeil Plonger au seing de vostre onde La Lampe de tout le monde.   Voire et d’avoir quelquesfois Tant levé sa petitesse, Que soubz l’outil de sa voix Il pollist vostre hautesse : Vous ouvrant les beaux secretz Des vieux Latins et les Grecz, Dont l’honneur se renouvelle Par vostre Muse nouvelle.   Doncques puis que les espritz D’Angleterre et de la France, Bandéz d’une ligue, ont pris Le fer contre l’Ignorance : Et que nos Roys se sont faictz D’ennemys, amys parfaictz, Tuans la guerre cruelle Par une paix mutuelle.   Avienne qu’une de vous, Noüant la mer passagere, Se joigne à quelqu’un de nous Par une nopce estrangere : Lors voz escriptz avancéz Se voiront recompenséz D’une aultre Ode mieux sonnée, Qui crîra vostre Hymenée.

When the daughters of Achelous, In the Sicilian fable, Who with their voices trampled underfoot The sweetness of Hymettus, Saw the fleece growing golden, And Jason’s soldiers Rowing the talking ship Near their leaping bosom:   Lined up side by side Lazily at the front of the waves, With combs of white ivory They were curling their blonde tresses And, hinting with their eyes At their delicious attractions, With languishing looks Closely watched the passing ship.   Then they sigh a song From their peerless throats, With its sweet force alluring The strongest ears; So that the snaring sound Draws the Greek heroes From their honourable task, Attracted by their caresses.   Now would those half-gods have been Ready to fall into slavery, Now overcome would they have thrown themselves Into the river’s prison, Unless Orpheus, suddenly Taking up his lute in his hand, Opposing them had played Far from the others on the [ship’s] prow,   So that the counter-tune Of his lyre, repelling it, Lost in the wind their song Which first came aboard the ship, And drew away from danger That young tribe of travellers Who needed to take Through Libya their enfeebled mother.   But if the famous harper Heard the lute of the Sirens Which plays on the foamy edges Of the English sands, His pagan lute he would break And would become a disciple Of their Christian song Whose tones surpass his own.   For he, full of empty words, Invented at random Out of the limbs of Chaos Or the heart of Nature; But these maids sing better Of the true maker of the heavens And our eternal home And those who live in it.   Alas, what you see in the world Never rests firm on its foundations, But ebbs and flows suddenly Like the motion of the waves Which never stop rolling, Advancing and falling back, As long as they come crashing With a great shock against its shore.   Knowledge, hitherto For so long a thing of the East, Little by little moving forward Now appeared in the West, And without ever limiting itself Has never stopped changing, So that it arrived At the other shore unknown.   There with its haughty gravity It arrived to bewilder the courage Of these three maids here, The only three of our age, And so well did it tempt them That soon you could hear them singing Many a paired verse which outdid Our own, which blush with shame.   Through you, maidens of renown, True painters of memory, The fame of other maidens Will be bright in your glory. And since benign heaven Made to be born so rare a thing In the sweet feminine sex, And in a place hitherto so barbarous,   Denisot boasts himself happy To have forgotten his own land For some time and remained For three years in your England, Seeing from close by the Sun As it dips towards its rest Plunge into the bosom of your waters the Light of the whole world.   Indeed sometimes [he boasts] of having So raised up his own littleness That with the tool of his own talent He polished up your high style; Opening to you the fair secrets Of the ancient Latins and Greeks, Whose honour is renewed In your new muse.   So, since the spirits Of England and of France, Bound in a league, have taken up Arms against ignorance, And since our kings have become, Instead of enemies, perfect friends Killing cruel war Through a mutual peace,   May it come about that one of you, Swimming the passable sea, Might join herself with some one of us In a foreign marriage; Then your precocious writings Will see themselves rewarded With another Ode better played, Which will announce your wedding.

 

1st stanza:

“les filles d’Achelois”, the Sirens sung by poets in the fables of Sicily

“La douceur Hymettienne”, honey

“la Barque parlante”, Jason’s ship which spoke & predicted the fortunes of the Argonauts in Apollonius

 

3rd stanza:

“Des Heroës de la Grece”, the brave Argonauts

 

5th stanza:

“Qui devoit par la Libye /Porter sa mere affoiblie”, the Argonauts, halted in the Libyan Syrte (desert) were warned in a dream by a certain Nymph, to take their mother, enfeebled by so many ills, through the deserts of Africa to Lake Triton. Their mother was their ship which first bore them in its belly from Thessaly to Colchos. Apollonius book 3.

 

7th stanza:

“Ou des membres du Chaos /Ou du sein de la nature”, Orpheus composed a book of the genealogy of the gods, as he himself bears witness in the first book of the Argonauts

 

12th stanza:

“Denisot se vante heuré …”, the Count of Alsinois, formerly tutor to these three Ladies

“Quant il se panche au sommeil”, this passage must be understood as they say ‘by common sense’ for in truth the sun does not fall (as it seems to fall) into England’s sea; but rather into Spain’s. (Statius: “Cadiz, the bed of the sun”)

 

15th stanza:

“Noüant la mer passagere”, ‘nouant’ (‘swimming’) because he calls them Sirens; ‘passagere’ for ‘passable’, the active for the passive.

 

 

Ode 5:3

The mention of Nicolas Denisot in a recent post sent me off looking for more information. I was fascinated to discover that Ronsard had been one of several Pleiade poets (others were du Bellay and Baif) who contributed poems to a book Denisot saw through the presses in 1551. It was of course early days for the Pleaide poets but it’s still an impressive list! And it secured Denisot’s reputation as a poet.

The book was the Tombeau de Marguerite de Valois Royne de Navarre; you can read it here. But this book was itself a translation (or rather a set of translations) by these French poets of the Hecatodistichon composed by Denisot’s erstwhile pupils in England. For he had spent two or three years there as their tutor before being recalled to France, and their poem in memory of Margaret of Navarre, who died late in 1549 shortly after Denisot’s return to France, no doubt reflected Denisot’s own style and preferences as much as their own. At any rate, Denisot enthusiastically saw the Hecatodistichon through the presses in 1550, and then prevailed on his humanist friends to pull together the Tombeau, whose subtitle is: “Composed first in Latin Distichs by three sisters and Princesses in England; then translated into Greek, Italian and French by several excellent poets of France.” Daurat provided the Greek translation; du Bellay, Denisot and Baif the French; and Jean Pierre de Mesme (who had previously translated Ariosto into French) provided the Italian.

The three princesses were the Seymour sisters – Anne, Margaret and Jane; it’s believed their father hoped to marry Jane to Edward VI, so the family certainly did move in the highest circles. Ronsard’s ode sets their work up as the dawn of culture in England, hitherto ‘barbarous’, and he indicates hopes for an Anglo-French literary rapprochement built on these foundations. Richelet adds notes on the ode (re-published in 1552 in Ronsard’s book 5) to the effect that the ode is “for three learned daughters of England, instructed and taught by Denisot, count of Alsinois”; “because at that time these three ladies had composed a book in Christian distichs, in Latin, terrifically well written, which were soon translated into Greek, Italian and French, and were dedicated to Mme Marguerite, only sister of king Henry II”.

 

Quand les filles d’Achelois, Les trois belles chanteresses, Qui des homme par leurs vois Estoient les enchanteresses, Virent jaunir la toison, Et les soldars de Jason Ramer la barque argienne Sur la mer Sicilienne,   Elles, d’ordre, flanc à flanc, Oisives au front des ondes, D’un peigne d’yvoire blanc Frisotoient leurs tresses blondes, Et mignotant de leurs yeux Les attraits delicieux, Aguignoient la nef passante D’une œillade languissante.   Puis souspirerent un chant De leurs gorges nompareilles, Par douce force alléchant Les plus gaillardes aureilles ; Afin que le son pipeur Fraudast le premier labeur Des chevaliers de la Grece Amorcés de leur caresse.   Ja ces demi-dieux estoient Prests de tomber en servage, Et jà domptés se jettoient Dans la prison du rivage, Sans Orphée, qui, soudain Prenant son luth en la main, Opposé vers elles, joue Loin des autres sur la proue,   Afin que le contre-son De sa repoussante lyre Perdist au vent la chanson Premier qu’entrer au navire, Et qu’il tirast des dangers Ces demi-dieux passagers Qui devoient par la Libye Porter leur mere affoiblie.   Mais si ce harpeur fameux Oyoit le luth des Serenes Qui sonne aux bords escumeux Des Albionnes arenes, Son luth payen il fendroit Et disciple se rendroit Dessous leur chanson chrestienne Dont la voix passe la sienne.   Car luy, enflé de vains mots, Devisoit à l’aventure Ou des membres du Chaos Ou du sein de la Nature ; Mais ces vierges chantent mieux Le vray manouvrier des cieux, Et sa demeure eternelle, Et ceux qui vivent en elle.   Las ! ce qu’on void de mondain Jamais ferme ne se fonde, Ains fuit et refuit soudain Comme le branle d’une onde Qui ne cesse de rouler, De s’avancer et couler, Tant que rampant il arrive D’un grand heurt contre la rive.   La science, auparavant Si long temps orientale, Peu à peu marchant avant, S’apparoist occidentale, Et sans jamais se borner N’a point cessé de tourner, Tant qu’elle soit parvenue A l’autre rive incogneue.   Là de son grave sourcy Vint affoler le courage De ces trois vierges icy, Les trois seules de nostre âge, Et si bien les sceut tenter, Qu’ores on les oit chanter Maint vers jumeau qui surmonte Les nostres, rouges de honte.   Par vous, vierges de renom, Vrais peintres de la mémoire, Des autres vierges le nom Sera clair en vostre gloire. Et puis que le ciel benin Au doux sexe feminin Fait naistre chose si rare D’un lieu jadis tant barbare,   Denisot se vante heuré D’avoir oublié sa terre, Et passager demeuré Trois ans en vostre Angleterre, Et d’avoir cogneu vos yeux, Où les amours gracieux Doucement leurs fleches dardent Contre ceux qui vous regardent.   Voire et d’avoir quelquefois Tant levé sa petitesse, Que sous l’outil de sa vois Il polit vostre jeunesse, Vous ouvrant les beaux secrets Des vieux Latins et les Grecs, Dont l’honneur se renouvelle Par vostre muse nouvelle.   Io, puis que les esprits D’Angleterre et de la France, Bandez d’un ligue, ont pris Le fer contre l’ignorance, Et que nos roys se sont faits D’ennemis amis parfaits, Tuans la guerre cruelle Par une paix mutuelle,   Advienne qu’une de vous, Nouant la mer passagere, Se joigne à quelqu’un de nous Par une nopce estrangere ; Lors vos escrits avancez Se verront recompensez D’une chanson mieux sonnée, Qui cri’ra vostre hymenée.

When the daughters of Achelous, The three fair singers Who were with their voices Enchantresses of men, Saw the fleece growing golden, And Jason’s soldiers Rowing the ship, the Argo, On the Sicilian sea,   Lined up side by side Lazily at the front of the waves, With combs of white ivory They were curling their blonde tresses And, hinting with their eyes At their delicious attractions, Making signs to the passing ship With a languishing look.   Then they sigh a song From their peerless throats, With its sweet force alluring The strongest ears; So that the snaring sound Draws the Greek knights From their primary task, Attracted by their caresses.   Now would those half-gods have been Ready to fall into slavery, Now overcome would they have thrown themselves Into the river’s prison, Unless Orpheus, suddenly Taking up his lute in his hand, Opposing the ladies had played Far from the others on the [ship’s] prow,   So that the counter-tune Of his lyre, repelling it, Lost in the wind the song Which first came aboard the ship, And drew away from danger Those half-god travellers Who needed to take Through Libya their enfeebled mother.   But if that famous harper Heard the lute of the Sirens Which plays on the foamy edges Of Albion’s sands, His pagan lute he would break And would become a disciple Of their Christian song Whose tones surpass his own.   For he, full of empty words, Invented at random Out of the limbs of Chaos Or the heart of Nature; But these maids sing better Of the true maker of the heavens And his eternal home And those who live in it.   Alas, what you see in the world Never rests firm on its foundations, But ebbs and flows suddenly Like the motion of the waves Which never stop rolling, Advancing and falling back, As long as they come crashing With a great shock against the shore.   Knowledge, hitherto For so long a thing of the East, Little by little moving forward Now appeared in the West, And without ever limiting itself Never stopped changing, So that it arrived At the other shore unknown.   There with its haughty gravity It arrived to bewilder the courage Of these three maids here, The only three of our age, And so well did it tempt them That soon you could hear them singing Many a paired verse which outdid Our own, which blush with shame.   Through you, maidens of renown, True painters of memory, The fame of other maidens Will be bright in your glory. And since benign heaven Made to be born so rare a thing In the sweet feminine sex, And in a place hitherto so barbarous,   Denisot boasts himself happy To have forgotten his own land And remained a traveller For three years in your England, And to have known your eyes From which gracious cupids Softly dart their arrows Against those who look on you.   Indeed sometimes [he boasts] of having So raised up his own littleness That with the tool of his own talent He polished up your youthfulness, Opening to you the fair secrets Of the ancient Latins and Greeks, Whose honour is renewed In your new muse.   Ah, since the spirits Of England and of France, Bound in a league, have taken up Arms against ignorance, And since our kings have become, Instead of enemies, perfect friends Killing cruel war Through a mutual peace,   May it come about that one of you, Swimming the passage of the sea, Might join herself with some one of us In a foreign marriage; Then your precocious writings Will see themselves rewarded With a song better played, Which will announce your wedding.

(Let me admit that the second line of that last stanza is a bit of a paraphrase! “Nouer” was an antique word even in Ronsard’s day, equivalent to “nager” (‘to swim’).)

The poem falls into three equal sections: the classical introduction, the generalities about the awakening of culture in England; and then the specific praise of the three ladies. In the classical opening, Achelous was the chief river-deity of classical myth and father of the Sirens.  The legend of Jason and the Argonauts, in search of the Golden Fleece, is well-known, though it’s usually the meeting of Odysseus and the Sirens we read; less well-known is that Orpheus was one of the Argonauts.

 

 

 

Sonnet 77

Le sang fut bien maudit de la Gorgonne face,

Qui premier engendra les serpens venimeux !

Ha ! tu devois, Helene, en marchant dessus eux,

Non écrazer leurs reins mais en perdre la race.

 

Nous estions l’autre jour en une verte place

Cueillans m’amie et moy des bouquets odoreux :

Un pot de cresme estoit au milieu de nous deux,

Et du laict sur du jonc cailloté comme glace :

 

Quand un serpent tortu de venin tout couvert,

Par ne sçay quel malheur sortit d’un buisson vert

Contre le pied de celle à qui je fay service,

 

Tout le cœur me gela, voyant ce monstre infait :

Et lors je m’escriay, pensant qu’il nous eust fait

Moy, un second Orphée et elle une Eurydice.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            That blood was truly cursed which, from the Gorgon’s head,

                                                                            First formed venomous serpents!

                                                                            Ah, Helen, you should as you walked over them

                                                                            Not have crushed their guts but destroyed their race.

 

                                                                            We were the other day in a green spot,

                                                                            My love and I, picking sweet-smelling bouquets;

                                                                            There was a pot of cream between us two

                                                                            And milk on a reed mat, clotted like ice;

 

                                                                            When a twisting serpent all covered in venom

                                                                            By some ill-chance, leaving a green bush,

                                                                            Struck the foot of her to whom I make my service;

 

                                                                            My heart froze, seeing that wicked beast ;

                                                                            And then I cried out, thinking that he would have made of us

                                                                            Me a second Orpheus and her another Eurydice.

 

 

Take a moment to savour the only 12-syllable lines in the Amours de Cassandre (apparently!).

 

The snaky hair of the Gorgons (led by Medusa) is well known. Less well known is the very obscure story of Helen (of Troy) crushing an African snake, thus causing the species’ strange halting movement, on the way home to Sparta after the fall of Troy…  And, though Euridice died of a snake bite, Ronsard is also thinking of the great love of Orpheus for her.

 

Ronsard tinkered with this sonnet as much as any he didn’t re-write substantially, so here is the complete Blanchemain (early) version with changes marked. Blanchemain, probably rightly, feels the first line in this version is so obscure it needs a footnote to point us in the direction of Medusa.

 

 

Le sang fut bien maudit de la hideuse face,

Qui premier engendra les serpens venimeux !

Tu ne devois, Helene, en marchant dessus eux,

Leur écrazer leurs reins et en perdre la race.

 

Nous estions l’autre jour en une verte place

Cueillans m’amie et moy les fraisiers savoureux :

Un pot de cresme estoit au milieu de nous deux,

Et sur du jonc du laict cailloté comme glace :

 

Quand un vilain serpent de venin tout couvert,

Par ne sçay quel malheur sortit d’un buisson vert

Contre le pied de celle à qui je fay service,

 

Pour la blesser à mort de son venin infait ;

Et lors je m’escriay, pensant qu’il nous eust fait

Moy, un second Orphée et elle une Eurydice.

 

 

 

                                                                           That blood was truly cursed which, from the hideous head,

                                                                           First formed venomous serpents!

                                                                           Helen, you should as you walked over them

                                                                           Have crushed their guts and destroyed their race.

 

                                                                           We were the other day in a green spot,

                                                                           My love and I, picking tasty strawberries;

                                                                           There was a pot of cream between us two

                                                                           And milk on a reed mat, clotted like ice;

 

                                                                           When a wretched serpent all covered in venom

                                                                           By some ill-chance, leaving a green bush,

                                                                           Struck the foot of her to whom I make my service,

 

                                                                           To wound her to death with its wicked venom;

                                                                           And then I cried out, thinking that he would have made of us

                                                                           Me a second Orpheus and her another Eurydice.

 

  [Edit:  I have returned to line 8 after reading Louise Rogers Lalaurie’s discussion paper on translation. She points out that ‘laits caillotés’ were like little blancmanges, we might say ‘set’ rather than ‘clotted’. So it might be clearer to translate as something like ‘A pale blancmange mound, like an ice-cream, upon rushes’? ]

 

 

 

Sonnet 72

Amour, que n’ay-je en escrivant, la grace

Divine autant que j’ay la volonté ?

Par mes escrits tu serois surmonté,

Vieil enchanteur des vieux rochers de Thrace.

 

Plus haut encor que Pindare et qu’Horace,

J’appenderois à ta divinité

Un livre faict de telle gravité,

Que du Bellay luy quitteroit la place.

 

Si vive encor Laure par l’Univers

Ne fuit volant dessus les Thusques vers,

Que nostre siecle heureusement estime,

 

Comme ton nom, honneur des vers François,

Victorieux des peuples et des Roys,

S’en-voleroit sus l’aisle de ma ryme.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, why have I not, as I write, divine

                                                                            Favour that matches my eagerness?

                                                                            You would be overcome by my writing,

                                                                            Ancient enchanter of the ancient rocks of Thrace!

 

                                                                            Higher still than Pindar and Horace,

                                                                            I would add to your divinity in

                                                                            A book written with such gravity

                                                                            That du Bellay would make way for it!

 

                                                                            Laura does not fly so fleetly through

                                                                            The world within those Tuscan verses

                                                                            Which our age happily esteems,

 

                                                                            As your name, the honour of French verse,

                                                                            Victorious over peoples and kings,

                                                                            Would fly on the the wings of my poetry.

 

 

Ronsard is in emulatory mode here: a poem written to make the point that he sees himself as the successor of the great love poets of the past, and as great as or greater than those of his own day. So he calls up the names of Horace, Rome’s greatest lyric poet; Pindar, the greatest of the Greeks (according to Quintilian at least – “of the nine lyric poets, Pindar is by far the greatest”); and by implication Petrarch, the greatest of the Italians (Laura being his muse, Tuscany being his home) and Orpheus himself, the greatest of all poets (the Thracian ‘enchanter’). With them, who else to be Ronsard’s challenger as the greatest poet of the day than Joachim du Bellay, his close friend, whose “L’Olive”, the first French set of love sonnets, was Ronsard’s immediate inspiration?

 

So beautifully crafted as a poem of emulation with the other great love poets: how strange then that its first version was instead addressed to his Lady! The poem itself is largely unchanged, and still makes the same competitive point; but the address distracts attention from that purpose – though it does place the poem in the context of the book of love poems to Cassandre, in a way that the later variant does not!

 

Blanchemain’s version begins:

 

Que n’ay-je, Dame, en escrivant, …

 

                                                                           Why have I not, my Lady, as I write, …

 

He also has one other minor change in line 7, where the book is “enflé de telle gravité” (‘puffed up with such gravity’). That version, at least to me, sits more happily in the context of ‘higher’ – int he later version raising divinity higher by attaching a great weight seems rather an odd image, here at least we might have an image of a lighter-than-air balloon carrying the weight 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 54

O doux parler dont les mots doucereux

Sont engravez au fond de ma memoire :

O front, d’Amour le Trofée et la gloire,

O doux souris, ô baisers savoureux :

 

O cheveux d’or, ô coutaux plantureux,

De lis, d’œillets, de porfyre, et d’yvoire :

O feux jumeaux d’où le Ciel me fit boire

A si longs traits le venin amoureux :

 

O dents, plustost blanches perles encloses,

Lévres, rubis, entre-rangez de roses,

O voix qui peux adoucir un Lion,

 

Dont le doux chant l’oreille me vient poindre :

O corps parfait, de tes beautez la moindre

Merite seule un siege d’Ilion.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           O sweet speech whose soft words

                                                                           Are engraved deep in my memory;

                                                                           O brow, the trophy and glory of Love;

                                                                           O sweet smile, and sweet-tasting kisses;

 

                                                                           O golden hair, o bounteous hills

                                                                           Of lilies and pinks, of porphyry and ivory;

                                                                           O twin fires from which Heaven made me drink

                                                                           Such long draughts of love’s poison;

 

                                                                           O teeth, or rather a row of white pearls.

                                                                           Rubies for lips, interspersed with roses,

                                                                           O voice which could tame a lion,

 

                                                                           Whose sweet song has just come to my ear;

                                                                           O perfect form, the least of your beauties

                                                                           Alone would justify the siege of Troy.

  

 

A sonnet provides enough space to describe the lady’s face, but not get much further! What intrigues me about this sonnet is how Ronsard changed the ending from the earlier version (Below). What began as a ‘standard’ run-through of features with a longing final couplet, becomes in the late version above twisted into a mythological context. Twisted rather than transformed: the reference to the beautiful Helen of Troy [Ilion/Ilium], ‘the face that launched a thousand ships’, looks as if it has been imposed on the poem rather than growing organically from it, I feel. Working backwards, Ronsard has then incorporated lion-taming to give the poem a gentle push in the direction of myth, and justify that ending: I can’t think of a myth where a lion is tamed by singing, other than the generic Orpheus tale, but maybe there isn’t anything more than a generic reference here.

 

So, time to look at Blanchemain’s more conventional early version.  There is a minor change in line 4, “sourcis” (‘eyebrows’) for “souris” (‘smile’), but the second half is radically different: here is the final sestet in Blanchemain’s version:

 

 

O vermeillons ! ô perlettes encloses,

O diamants ! ô lis pourprés de roses,

O chant qui peux les plus durs émouvoir,

 

Et dont l’accent dans les âmes demeure.

Eh ! dea ! beautés, reviendra jamais l’heure

Qu’entre mes bras je vous puisse ravoir ?

 

 

 

                                                                           O crimson [lips] , o row of little pearls,

                                                                           O diamonds, o lilies crimsoned with roses,

                                                                           O song which could move the hardest,

 

                                                                           Whose tones remain in the soul.

                                                                           Oh heavens, you beauties, will the time ever come

                                                                           That I may hold you again in my arms?

 

The use of “vermeillons” in line 9 as a substantive is unusual, even drawing attention from lexicographers.

 

In a footnote Blanchemain also gives us an intermediate(?) version of the final four lines, where Ronsard achieves (in my view) a rather better transition to a less extreme mythological end-point:  for me, perhaps, the most attractive version of the ending despite it being the ‘chosen’ text of neither of my editions!!

 

 

… O voix qui peux ainsi qu’un enchanteur,

 

Coup dessus coup toute mon ame esteindre !

Pour son pourtrait Nature te fit peindre :

L’outil la Grace, Amour en fut l’autheur.

 

 

 

                                                                          … O voice which could like an enchanter

 

                                                                          Overcome all my soul blow by blow!

                                                                          Nature had you painted as her portrait;

                                                                          Grace was the brush, Love the artist.

 

 

 

 

Élégie – part 1

Another long poem as the book draws to an end. Unlike the ‘Stanzas’ at the beginning of the book, this elegy gradually disintegrates from its initially-standard stanza-form into a series of shorter & longer segments. I guess the more erratic length is suposed to ‘unbalance’ the reader and convey distress. Personally, I find it slightly annoying, but that’s just my opinion!

Like the ‘Stances’, I have decided to ‘publish’ this 150-line poem in several parts.

Le jour que la beauté du monde la plus belle Laissa dans le cercueil sa despouille mortelle Pour s’en-voler parfaite entre les plus parfaits, Ce jour Amour perdit ses flames et ses traits, Esteignit son flambeau, rompit toutes ses armes, Les jetta sur la tombe, et l’arrousa de larmes : Nature la pleura, le Ciel en fut fasché Et la Parque d’avoir un si beau fil trenché.   Depuis le jour couchant jusqu’à l’Aube vermeille Phenix en sa beauté ne trouvoit sa pareille, Tant de graces au front et d’attraits elle avoit : Ou si je me trompois, Amour me decevoit. Si tost que je la vey, sa beauté fust enclose Si avant en mon cœur, que depuis nulle chose Je n’ay veu qui m’ait pleu, et si fort elle y est, Que toute autre beauté encores me desplaist.    Dans mon sang elle fut si avant imprimee, Que tousjours en tous lieux de sa figure aimee Me suivoit le portrait, et telle impression D’une perpetuelle imagination M’avoit tant desrobé l’esprit et la cervelle, Qu’autre bien je n’avois que de penser en elle, En sa bouche en son ris en sa main en son œil, Qu’encor je sens au cœur, bien qu’ils soient au cercueil.   J’avois au-paravant, veincu de la jeunesse, Autres dames aimé (ma faute je confesse) : Mais la playe n’avoit profondement saigné, Et le cuir seulement n’estoit qu’esgratigné, Quand Amour, qui les Dieux et les hommes menace, Voyant que son brandon n’eschauffoit point ma glace, Comme rusé guerrier ne me voulant faillir, La print pour son escorte et me vint assaillir.   Encor, ce me dit-il, que de maint beau trofee D’Horace, de Pindare, Hesiode et d’Orfee, Et d’Homere qui eut une si forte vois, Tu as orné la langue et l’honneur des François, Voy ceste dame icy : ton cœur tant soit il brave, Ira sous son empire, et fera son esclave. Ainsi dit, et son arc m’enfonçant de roideur, Ensemble dame et traict m’envoya dans le cœur.    Lors ma pauvre raison des rayons esblouye D’une telle beauté se perd esvanouye, Laissant le gouvernail aux sens et au desir, Qui depuis ont conduit la barque à leur plaisir.   Raison, pardonne-moy : un plus caut en finesse S’y fust bien englué, tant une douce presse De graces et d’amours la suivoient tout ainsi Que les fleurs le Printemps, quand il retourne ici.

The day on which the most beautiful of the world’s beauty Left in the coffin her mortal remains To fly off, perfect among the most perfect, On that day Love lost his flame and his arrows, Put out his torch, broke all his weapons, Threw them on the tomb and bedewed it with tears: Nature wept for her, Heaven was angered And Fate too, at having cut so fair a thread.   From sunset to rosy dawn Phoenix could not find her equal in beauty, Such grace and charms she had in her face; Or, if I’m wrong, Love deceives me. As soon as I saw her, her beauty was kept So much at the front of my mind [heart] that since then nothing Have I seen which pleased me, and there it is so strong That all other beauty still  displeases me.   In my blood she was imprinted so far to the front That always in all places the image of her Beloved form follows me, and such an impression Of this perpetual fancy Has so robbed me of spirit and rational thought That I have no other benefit than thinking of her, Of her lips, her smile, her hand, her eye Which I still feel in my heart though they are in the grave.    I have in the past, conquered by youthful desire, Loved other ladies – I confess my fault; But the wound did not bleed so deeply And my hide was just scratched, When Love, who threatens gods and men, Seeing that his torch was not warming my ice at all And like a cunning warrior not wanting to lose me, Took her for his escort and came to besiege me.    Although, he said to me, with many a fair trophy From Horace, Pindar, Hesiod and Orpheus And Homer too who was so powerful a voice, You have embellished the language and the glory of the French people, See this lady here: your heart however brave it is Will fall under her power, and become her slave. So he said, and his bow crushing me with its violence Sent both dart and lady together into my heart.   Then my weak reason, dazzled by the glare Of such a beauty, fainted and was lost, Leaving control to feeling and desire, Which since then have steered my boat at their pleasure.   Reason, forgive me: one more cunning in subtlety Would easily have been caught like this, so sweet a crowd Of graces and loves followed her just like The flowers follow Spring, when it returns here.

 

 

There is only one variant in Blanchemain’s text of this section – of the last line and a half.  Blanchemain has:

 

                                        …tant une douce presse

De graces et d’amours en volant la suivoient,

Et de ses doux regards ainsi que moy vivoient.

 

 

                                                                                                                 … so sweet a crowd

                                                                              Of graces and loves follow her in flight

                                                                              And live on her sweet glances, as I do.

 

 

 Perhaps a quick word on the various classical allusions.  In the first stanza, and again at the end of the poem (in the third section as blogged here) Fate (la Parque) is invked with the image of ‘cutting the thread’ of life; the three Fates span a thread for every man’s life & when the third sister Atropos cut that thread that ended the man’s life. Phoenix was a brother of Europa who, after she was carried off by Jupiter, set off to seek her; eventually settling in Phoenicia, he was believed to have fathered children by many mothers.

 

The list of poets includes the traditionally greatest poets of the classical world: Homer and Hesiod, the archetypes of Greek epic and pastoral poetry; Pindar, originator of the ode; Horace the greatest of the Latin lyrical poets. Orpheus of course was the legendary singer whose songs were powerful enough to raise the dead.