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.

 

Amours 2 — dedicatory sonnet

[A] ROBERT GARNIER, Prince des poëtes tragicques.

 

SONNET

 

Tu gravois dans le ciel les victoires de France,

Et de nos roys sceptrez ta lyre se paissoit,

Quand ce monarque Amour, qu’elle ne cognoissoit,

Eut vouloir de luy faire entonner sa puissance.

 

Bruslant de ce desir, une fleche il eslance

Que ta jeune poitrine imprudente reçoit ;

Puis, comme le travail en flattant te deçoit,

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

 

Son nom, qui ne rouloit sur le parler françois,

Maintenant plus enflé par ta gaillarde voix

Remplit l’air estranger de sa fameuse gloire ;

 

Si que luy, amorcé de ce premier honneur,

Frappe tous ceux qu’il voit dedans Pegase boire,

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

 

 

 

 

                                                                            [To] Robert Garnier, prince of tragic poets:

 

 

                                                                            You wrote in the heavens the victories of France,

                                                                            And your lyre was nourished by our sceptred kings,

                                                                            When that monarch Love, which it did not recognise,

                                                                            Chose to make it thunder of his power.

 

                                                                            Burning with this desire, he shot an arrow

                                                                            Which struck your careless youthful breast ;

                                                                            Then, as the work flattered to deceive you,

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

 

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

                                                                            Now made greater by your cheerful voice

                                                                            Fills foreign air with his renowned glory;

 

                                                                            So much that he, beginning with this first trophy,

                                                                            Shoots all those whom he sees drinking from the Pegasis,

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems 1.20 – the Nightingale

 

LE ROSSIGNOL chantant et faisant son nid dedans un genèvre   Gay Rossignol honneur de la ramée, Qui jour et nuit courtise ton aimée Par mon jardin hoste de sa verdeur, Quarante jours desgoisant ton ardeur Et t’esclatant d’une voix qui gringote Ores en haute ores en basse note, A bec ouvert d’un siffletis trenchant, Hachant coupant entrerompant ton chant De cent fredons, tu donnes à ta femme Un doux martel, amoureux de ma Dame.   Tu n’aurois point tant de faveur sinon Que les vieux Grecs t’ont nommé d’un beau nom : Mais bien de deux, t’appellent ce me semble, D’un mesme mot, Chantre et Poëte ensemble.   Et je dirois, si j’estois un bragard, Que Rossignol vient du nom de Ronsard.   Mais ce n’est moy qui ma Musique vante : Soit bien soit mal, Rossignolet, je chante Ainsi que toy pour me donner plaisir, Quand j’ay Madame argent et le loisir. Quoy ? qui t’esmeut de courtiser sans cesse Et d’enchanter Genévre ma Maistresse ?   En ce Genévre où tu chantes de nuit, Dessous l’escorce une pucelle vit, A qui l’amour la peur et l’avanture Ont fait changer de face et de nature.   Un jour ce Dieu tout bouquin par le front La poursuivoit d’un pied de chévre pront. Elle courant d’une fuite legere Ainsi pria Diane bocagere : Ou me transforme, ou bien fay moy mourir : La seule mort me pourra secourir Ains que l’ardeur de ce Bouquin je sente.   A-peine eut dit, qu’elle fut une plante : Ses doigts longuets, ses bras veneux et beaux, Comme ils estoyent, se changent en rameaux. Son pied devint une morne racine, Et une escorce entourna sa poitrine. Puis ses cheveux de crainte reboursez Espars se sont en fueilles herissez, Et la palleur qu’elle avoit en sa fuite, Vit sur l’escorce et tousjours y habite.   Un jour lassé de la chasse des loups, Seul à l’escart je m’endormi dessous L’ombre fatal de ce Genévre, et elle En corps humain m’apparut toute telle Qu’elle fut lors que le Bouc amoureux La poursuivoit par un taillis ombreux, Tant il avoit de flames dedans l’ame Pour la beauté d’une si jeune Dame. Depuis ce jour jamais je n’ay cessé D’avoir le cœur de son amour blessé, Et de languir pour un si beau visage.   Et toutefois brave de ton ramage Chantant sifflant et faisant mille tours, Tu veux tout seul jouyr de mes amours, Que de bon cœur, Rossignol, je te laisse : Car tu vaux mieux que ne fait ma Maistresse.   Et qui plus est, comme on voit un mary Plein de finesse entre Dames nourri, Faire secret l’amour à sa voisine : Quand il n’a pas une femme trop fine, La persuade avec un beau parler, De la hanter, visiter et d’aller Boire et manger souvent avecques elle, A fin d’avoir (par une ruse telle) Plus de moyen d’œillader les beaux yeux Qui de son cœur se font victorieux.   Ainsi rival ta femme tu ameines Dedans cest arbre, où d’un nid fait de laines Mousses, duvets, ses petits elle pond, Esclost, escouve, et qui apres se font Ainsi que toy au retour des fueillages Quarante jours Sereines des bocages.   Quoy ? Rossignol, la voix ne te defaut ! Et par despit tu t’efforces plus haut !   Puis qu’autrement ma verve poëtique Ne peut gaigner ton ramage rustique, Va, Rossignol, je laisse seul pour toy L’arbre amoureux qui n’a souci de moy, L’arbre gentil, et toutefois farouche, Qui fait saigner aussi tost qu’on le touche.   Tandis, Girard, que la fiévre me tient Reins, teste, flanc, la Muse m’entretient, Et de venir à mon lit n’a point honte.   Or des propos que sa bouche me conte Je t’en fais part, à fin qu’à l’advenir De ton Ronsard te puisses souvenir.

The Nightingale singing and making its nest in a juniper-bush   Happy nightingale, the branch’s pride, Who court your beloved day and night In my garden, the guest of its greenery, For forty days singing of your passion And crying out with a voice which chirps Now with a high, now with a low note, Your beak open in a piercing whistle, Chopping, cutting off and interrupting your song With a hundred twitterings, you give your wife A sweet jealousy, beloved of my Lady.   You’d not have such favour if The ancient Greeks had not given you a fine name ; Indeed with two, it seems to me, thay named you In a single word, Singer and Poet together.   And I would say – if I were a braggart – That ‘Rossignol’ [Nightingale] comes from the name ‘Ronsard’.   But it’s not myself my poems boast of : For good or bad, nightingale, I sing Like you to give myself pleasure, Since I have my Lady, money and leisure-time. What or who [ moved ] you to court unceasingly And to enchant my mistress, the Juniper ?   In that juniper where you sing at night, Beneath the bark there lives a maiden Whose form and nature have been changed By love, fear and mischance.   One day that god with horns on his brow Was pursuing her on his swift stag’s-foot. As she ran with light fleeing steps, She prayed thus to Diana, goddess of the woods : « Transform me, or let me die : Death alone can help me Such is this Horned God’s passion I feel. »   She had barely spoken when she became a plant : Her fingers long and thin, her arms veined and fair As they were, changed into branches. Her feet became a sad root, And bark encircled her breast. Then her hair, standing up in fear, Was spread out in bristling leaves And the pallor she had in her flight Lived on in the bark, and still remains there.   One day, tired from hunting wolves, Alone and apart i fell asleep beneath The fatal shade of this juniper, and she Appeared to me in human form just as She had been when the amorous Horned God Pursued her through a shady copse, Such a fire had he in his soul Because of so young a lady’s beauty. Since that day i have never ceased To bear a wound in my heart for her love, And to pine for so pretty a face.   And yet bold in your plumage, Singing, whistling and turning a thousand times, You want to be the only one enjoying that love of mine Which I happily resign to you, nightingale ; For you are worth more than my mistress !   And what is more, as one sees a married man Full of cunning, fostered among the ladies, Making secret love to his neighbour ; if he has a wife who is not too clever, He persuades her with fine words To visit and see her frequently, to go To eat and drink often with her, So that hem ay have (by such a ruse) More means of looking into the fair eyes Which have conquered his heart ;   Just so you are bringing your own wife as a rival To this tree, where in a nest made of wool, Moss, feathers she lays her little ones, Hatches, broods them, and after that becomes Like you, when the leaves come back, For forty days the Sirens of the woods.   May your voice not fail you, nightingale ! In envious competition, force yourself higher !   As otherwise my poetic inspiration Cannot beat your rustic plumage, Go on, nightingale – I leave for you alone The tree I love which has no care for me, The noble tree yet still timid Which bleeds as soon as it is touched.   Yet, Girard, while the fever grips my Guts, head, body, my Muse converses with me And is not ashamed to come to my bed. So, the words which her mouth relates I share with you, that in the future You may remember your Ronsard.

 

It’s the story of Daphne, pursued by Apollo, and turned into a laurel tree, which inspires this tale of a nymph turned into a juniper tree. As far as I know there isn’t a classical myth regarding the juniper, just Ronsardian invention.

 

As a footnote, it is possible there was a real lady Genèvre, with whom Ronsard flirted – though probably some time earlier than the late 1560s when he wrote this. There are two Elegies to her (though neither is especially ‘elegiac’ in tone); and she may have been the wife of Blaise de Vigenère, diplomat, scholar, alchemist and the “perfect incarnation of erudite genius in the Renaissance”.  His name may be familiar as the inventor (or rather improver) of the Vigenère cypher, which is an excellent simple cypher still useable today. But in his time he was known as translator of a range of Roman and Greek works, and author of works on alchemy (or perhaps chemistry) and comets, among others. Perhaps it would be appropriate for Ronsard to disguise his wife under a ‘cipher’, in the form of an anagram: Vigenère –> Genièvre.

 

The poem is dedicated to Jehan Girard, a friend of Robert Garnier (the tragedian, whom we’ve met before) and a councillor in Le Mans – not the Jehan Girard who  was printing protestant books in Geneva a decade or two earlier!

 

Back to the poetry. It’s odd that something which looks so much like an oocasional poem should have attracted so much revision by Ronsard. But let’s remember that what appears a little playful address to a bird, is in fact closely modelled on episodes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and aspires to similar heights. Blanchemain’s (early) version is set out below in full, so much variation is there. Note that this version carries a dedication to Claude Binet, poet and Ronsard’s first biographer.  But this is not the first time we’ve seen Ronsard adapt an earlier dedication to another subject later in life, reflecting the changing patterns or networks of influence and patronage over time.

 

 

LE ROSSIGNOL chantant et faisant son nid dedans un genévre de son jardin   A Claude Binet     Gay Rossignol honneur de la ramée, Qui jour et nuict courtises ton aimée Dans mon jardin desgoisant tes amours Au mois d’avril le père des beaux jours, Et t’esclatant d’une voix qui gringote Ores en haute, ores en basse note, A gorge ouverte, à pleins poulmons trenchant, Hachant coupant entre-rompant ton chant De cent fredons, tu donnes à ta femme Un doux martel. Amoureux de ma Dame, Tu m’es rival, d’où vient cela ? sinon Que les vieux Grecs t’ont nommé d’un beau nom : Mais bien de deux, t’appellant ce me semble, D’un mesme mot, Chantre et Poëte ensemble. Et je dirois, si j’estois un bragard, Que Rossignol vient du nom de Ronsard.   Mais ce n’est moy dont ma Muse se vante : Soit bien soit mal, Rossignolet, je chante Ainsi que toy pour me donner plaisir, Quand j’ay maistresse, argent et le loisir. Quoy ? qui t’esmeut de caresser sans cesse De tes fredons Genévre ma Maistresse ?   En ce Genévre où tu chantes de nuit, Dessous l’escorce une pucelle vit, A qui l’amour la peur et l’avanture Ont fait changer de face et de nature.   Un jour ce Dieu, qui a cornes au front La poursuivoit d’un pied de chévre pront. Elle courant, ayant recours aux larmes, Ainsi pria : « Diane, par tes charmes Ou me transforme, ou bien fay moy mourir : La seule mort me pourra secourir Ains que l’ardeur de ce Bouquin je sente. »   A-peine eut dit, qu’elle fut une plante : Ses doigts longuets, ses bras veineux et beaux, A longs fourchons se fendent en rameaux ; Son pied devint une morne racine, Et une escorce entourna sa poitrine. Ses longs cheveux de crainte rebroussez, Espars se sont en fueilles herissez, Et la palleur qu’elle avoit en sa fuite, Vit sur l’escorce et tousjours y habite.   Un jour lassé de la chasse des loups, Seul à l’escart je m’endormi dessous L’ombre fatal de ce Genévre, et elle En corps humain m’apparut toute telle Qu’elle fut lors que le Bouc amoureux La poursuivoit par un taillis ombreux, Tant il avoit de flames dedans l’ame Pour la beauté d’une si jeune Dame. Depuis ce jour jamais je n’ay cessé D’avoir le cœur de son amour blessé, Et de languir pour un si beau visage.   Et toutefois hautain de ton ramage Chantant sifflant et faisant mille tours, Tu veux tout seul jouyr de mes amours, Que de bon cœur, Rossignol, je te laisse : Car ton fredon merite ma Maistresse.   Et qui plus est, comme on voit un mary Plein de finesse entre Dames nourri, Faire secret l’amour à sa voisine : Quand il n’a pas une femme trop fine, La persuade avec un beau parler, De la hanter, visiter et d’aller Boire et manger souvent avecques elle, A fin d’avoir (par une ruse telle) Plus de moyen d’œillader les beaux yeux Qui de son cœur se font victorieux.   Ainsi rival ta femme tu ameines Dedans cest arbre, où d’un nid fait de laines Mousses, duvet, ses petits elle pond, Esclost, escouve, et abeche, qui sont Un an après, au retour des fueillages Quarante jours Sereines des bocages.   Quoy ? Rossignol, la voix ne te defaut ! Et par despit tu t’efforces plus haut !   Puis qu’autrement ma verve poëtique Ne peut gaigner ton ramage rustique, Va, Rossignol, tu auras seul pour toy L’arbre amoureux qui n’a souci de moy, L’arbre gentil, et toutefois farouche, Qui fait saigner aussi tost qu’on le touche.   Tandis, Binet, que la fiévre me tient Reins, teste, flanc, la Muse m’entretient, Et de venir à mon lit n’a point honte.   Or des propos que sa bouche me conte Je t’en fais part, à fin qu’à l’advenir De ton Ronsard te puisse souvenir.

The Nightingale singing and making its nest in a juniper-bush in his garden   To Claude Binet     Happy nightingale, the branch’s pride, Who court your beloved day and night In my garden, singing of your passion In the month of April, father of fine days, And crying out with a voice which chirps Now with a high, now with a low note, Your throat open, whistling fit to burst, Chopping, cutting off and interrupting your song With a hundred twitterings, you give your wife A sweet jealousy. Beloved of my Lady, You are my rival – why is that ? unless because The ancient Greeks gave you a fine name ; Indeed two, naming you, it seems to me, In a single word, Singer and Poet together. And I would say – if I were a braggart – That ‘Rossignol’ [Nightingale] comes from the name ‘Ronsard’.   But it’s not myself my Muse boasts of : For good or bad, nightingale, I sing Like you to give myself pleasure, Since I have a mistress, money and leisure-time. What or who inspired you to caress unceasingly With your chirping my mistress, the Juniper ?   In that juniper where you sing at night, Beneath the bark there lives a maiden Whose form and nature have been changed By love, fear and mischance.   One day that god who has horns on his brow Was pursuing her on his swift stag’s-foot. As she ranhaving recourse to tears, She prayed thus : « Diana, by your charms Transform me, or let me die : Death alone can help me Such is this Horned God’s passion I feel. »   She had barely spoken when she became a plant : Her fingers long and thin, her arms veined and fair Split into long-forked branches. Her feet became a sad root, And bark encircled her breast. Her long hair, pulled back in fear, Was spread out in bristling leaves And the pallor she had in her flight Lived on in the bark, and still remains there.   One day, tired from hunting wolves, Alone and apart i fell asleep beneath The fatal shade of this juniper, and she Appeared to me in human form just as She had been when the amorous Horned God Pursued her through a shady copse, Such a fire had he in his soul Because of so young a lady’s beauty. Since that day i have never ceased To bear a wound in my heart for her love, And to pine for so pretty a face.   And yet proud of your plumage, Singing, whistling and turning a thousand times, You want to be the only one enjoying that love of mine Which I happily resign to you, nightingale ; For your chirping is worthy of my mistress.   And what is more, as one sees a married man Full of cunning, fostered among the ladies, Making secret love to his neighbour ; if he has a wife who is not too clever, He persuades her with fine words To visit and see her frequently, to go To eat and drink often with her, So that hem ay have (by such a ruse) More means of looking into the fair eyes Which have conquered his heart ;   Just so you are bringing your own wife as a rival To this tree, where in a nest made of wool, Moss, down, she lays her little ones, Hatches, broods and cuddles those who are A year later, when the leaves come back, For forty days the Sirens of the woods.   May your voice not fail you, nightingale ! In envious competition, force yourself higher !   As otherwise my poetic inspiration Cannot beat your rustic plumage, Go on, nightingale – you shall have for yourself alone The tree I love which has no care for me, The noble tree yet still timid Which bleeds as soon as it is touched.   Yet, Binet, while the fever grips my Guts, head, body, my Muse converses with me And is not ashamed to come to my bed.   So, the words which her mouth relates I share with you, that in the future It may remind you of your Ronsard.

 

 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (4)

Le vieil cothurne d’Euripide

Est en procez entre Garnier

Et Jodelle, qui le premier

Se vante d’en estre le guide.

 

Il faut que ce procez on vuide,

Et qu’on adjuge le laurier

A qui mieux d’un docte gosier

A beu de l’onde Aganippide.

 

S’il faut espelucher de prés

Le vieil artifice des Grecs,

Les vertus d’une œuvre et les vices,

 

Le sujet et le parler haut,

Et les mots bien choisis ; il faut

Que Garnier paye les espices.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            The ancient buskin of Euripides

                                                                            Is being contested between Garnier

                                                                            And Jodelle, who first

                                                                            Boasted of being our guide in this art.

 

                                                                            We must abandon this trial,

                                                                            And award the laurel

                                                                            To him who with learned throat

                                                                            Has drunk best of Aganippe’s waters.

 

                                                                            If we must examine closely

                                                                            The ancient art of the Greeks,

                                                                            The virtues and vices of a body of work,

 

                                                                            Subjects and grand style

                                                                            And words well-chosen, then must

                                                                            Garnier take the prize.

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (3)

Quel son masle et hardy, quelle bouche héroique,

Et quel superbe vers enten-je icy sonner ?

Le lierre est trop bas pour ton front couronner,

Et le bouc est trop peu pour ta Muse tragique.

 

Si Bacchus retournoit au manoir Plutonique,

Il ne voudroit Eschyle au monde redonner,

Il te choisiroit seul, qui seul peux estonner

Le theatre François de ton cothurne antique.

 

Les premiers trahissoient l’infortune des Rois,

Redoublant leur malheur d’une trop basse voix :

La tienne comme foudre en la France s’écarte.

 

Heureux en bons esprits ce siecle plantureux :

Auprés toy, mon Garnier, je me sens bien-heureux,

De quoy mon petit Loir est voisin de ta Sarte.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            What sound, manly and bold, what heroic voice,

                                                                            And what proud verse do I hear ringing out here?

                                                                            The ivy is too poor to crown your brow,

                                                                            And the ram too little for your tragic Muse.

 

                                                                            If Bacchus returned to Pluto’s domain

                                                                            He would not want to give Aeschylus back to the world,

                                                                            He would choose only you, who alone can astonish

                                                                            French theatre with your antique buskin.

 

                                                                            Earlier writers betrayed the misfortune of kings,

                                                                            Redoubling their misfortunes with too poor a voice:

                                                                            Yours, like thunder, rolls forth across France.

 

                                                                            Blessed with great spirits is this bounteous age;

                                                                            Beside you, my Garnier, I feel myself fortunate

                                                                            That my little Loir neighbours your Sarte.

 

 

 

As with the previous poem, Ronsard writes here in his usual Alexandrines. They seem appropriate for a poem proclaiming the voice of thunder with which Garnier speaks, and for comparing him with Aeschylus, perhaps the most noble and high-flown of the three great Greek tragedians and the most natural compaarator (in my view) for the French grand style. (By contrast, Shakespeare is comfortable in Sophoclean or Euripidean style, though he can rise to Aeschylean heights when he wants to:  French tragedy cannot descend to the commonplace of Euripides, and rarely to the middle ground of Sophocles!)  Incidentally this is the first time one of the ancient Greek tragedians has been mentioned in a poem (as opposed to a footnote) on this blog.

 

Having said which, it is pretty obvious that the compliment is over-blown… and Ronsard’s self-deprecation in the final line doesn’t of course stop him making sure we know exactly who has written this encomium!  I imagine Ronsard with his tongue in his cheek; and I have to say I like his style here!

 

In the first stanza the ivy wreath or laurel wreath is an ancient tragic prize; the ram is a sacrifice appropriate to the gods of ancient Greece, but as Ronsard says here too small to say thank you for so great a talent as Garnier…

 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (2)

Il me souvient, Garnier, que je prestay la main

Quant ta Muse accoucha, je le veux faire encore :

Le parrain bien souvent par l’enfant se decore,

Par l’enfant bien souvent s’honore le parrain.

 

Ton ouvrage, Garnier, Tragique et Souverain,

Qui fils, parrain ensemble, et toute France honore,

Fera voller ton nom du Scythe jusque au More,

Plus dur contre les ans que marbre ny qu’airain.

 

Réjoüy-toy, mon Loir, ta gloire est infinie,

Huyne et Sarte tes sœurs te feront compagnie,

Faisant Garnier, Belleau et Ronsard estimer :

 

Trois fleuves qu’Appollon en trois esprits assemble.

Quand trois fleuves, Garnier, se desgorgent ensemble,

Bien qu’ils ne soient pas grands, font une grande mer.

 

 

 

 

                                                                             I am reminded, Garnier, that I lent a hand

                                                                             When your Muse was giving birth, I would like to do it again;

                                                                             The godfather often gains glory through the child,

                                                                             Through the child the godfather is often honoured.

 

                                                                             Your oeuvre, Garnier, tragic and regal,

                                                                             Which child, godfather, and all of France together honour,

                                                                             Will make your name known from Scythia to the Moor,

                                                                             Stronger against the years than marble or bronze.

 

                                                                             Rejoice, my Loir, your fame is infinite,

                                                                             Your sisters the Huyne and Sarte will bear you company,

                                                                             Making Garnier, Belleau and Ronsard renowned;

 

                                                                             Three rivers which Apollo gathered in three spirits.

                                                                             When three rivers flow together, Garnier,

                                                                             Even if they are not great, they make a great sea.

 

 

 

I find the beginning strangely attractive – ‘il me souvient’ not ‘je me souviens’.  I’ve tried to capture something of its oddness by saying not ‘I remember’ but ‘I am reminded’. In line 7 his name/renown is to ‘fly’ as far as Scythia in the east and the Moorish peoples in the south.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet to Robert Garnier

The Galland poem reminded me of the Garnier dedications… These 4 sonnets come from Ronsard’s ‘uncollected works’ which is to say they are dedicatory poems written to go in the front of books of Garnier’s works. They demonstrate that Ronsard could exaggerate and be adulatory with the best (or worst) of them, and provide some amusing but often frankly beautiful little poems well worth seeing more of.  Marty-Laveaux collected these & others into an “Autre recueil des sonnets” (‘another collection of sonnets’), Blanchemain into “Sonnets diverses” (‘various sonnets’) – neither very inspired titles. Of the 4 Garnier sonnets to come, only the first two are in Marty-Laveaux.

 

A ROBERT GARNIER,

Prince des Tragiques.

 

Je suis ravi quand ce brave sonneur

Donte en ses vers la Romaine arrogance,

Quand il bastit Athenes en la France,

Par le cothurne acquerant de l’honneur :

 

Le bouc n’est pas digne de son bon-heur,

La liërre est trop basse recompense,

Le Temps certain qui les hommes avance,

De ses vertus sera le guerdonneur.

 

Par toy, Garnier, la Scene des François

Se change en or, qui n’estoit que de bois,

Digne où les Grands lamentent leur fortune.

 

Sur Helicon tu grimpes des derniers,

Mais tels derniers souvent sont les premiers

En ce bel art où la gloire est commune.

 

 

 

 

                                                                             TO ROBERT GARNIER

                                                                             Prince of Tragedians

 

                                                                             I am swept away when this great poet

                                                                             Tames in his verse the arrogance of Rome,

                                                                             When he builds Athens in France,

                                                                             Gaining honour through the tragic buskin;

 

                                                                             The ram is not a worthy [prize] for his good fortune,

                                                                             The ivy is too little reward,

                                                                             But unvarying Time which advances men

                                                                             Will honour him for his virtues.

 

                                                                             Through you, Garnier, the French stage,

                                                                             Which once was wood, is changed to gold,

                                                                             Worthy for the greats to lament their fate.

 

                                                                             You are climbing Helicon among the latest,

                                                                             But such latecomers are often the first

                                                                             In this fair art in which glory is common.

 

 

 

The “cothorne” (‘cothurnus’ or buskin) is the traditional footwear of antique actors – rather like the leather boots strapped up the calf or lower leg which you see in pictures of Roman soldiers.  Helicon is of course the home of the Muses and therefore the home of Art in all its forms. I love the last line: Ronsard says ‘glory is common’, perhaps meaning glory is shared by many great writers, but it’s hard not to see him as hinting strongly that it’s just too easy to gain glory with stage works, where the quality of the poetry may be overlooked amongst so many distractions…!