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.

 

Élégie à Cassandre (Am. 1.227b)

 

Mon œil, mon cœur, ma Cassandre, ma vie, Hé! qu’à bon droit tu dois porter d’envie A ce grand Roy, qui ne veut plus souffrir Qu’à mes chansons ton nom se vienne offrir. C’est luy qui veut qu’en trompette j’echange Mon luth, afin d’entonner sa louange, Non de luy seul mais de tous ses ayeux Qui sont là hault assis au rang des Dieux.   Je le feray puis qu’il me le commande : Car d’un tel Roy la puissance est si grande, Que tant s’en faut qu’on la puisse eviter, Qu’un camp armé n’y pourroit resister.   Mais que me sert d’avoir tant leu Tibulle, Properce, Ovide, et le docte Catulle, Avoir tant veu Petrarque et tant noté, Si par un Roy le pouvoir m’est oté De les ensuyvre, et s’il faut que ma Iyre Pendue au croc ne m’ose plus rien dire ?   Doncques en vain je me paissois d’espoir De faire un jour à la Tuscane voir, Que nostre France, autant qu’elle, est heureuse A souspirer une pleinte amoureuse : Et pour monstrer qu’on la peut surpasser, J’avois desja commencé de trasser Mainte Elegie à la façon antique, Mainte belle Ode, et mainte Bucolique.   Car, à vray dire, encore mon esprit N’est satisfait de ceux qui ont escrit En nostre langue, et leur amour merite Ou du tout rien, ou faveur bien petite.   Non que je sois vanteur si glorieux D’oser passer les vers laborieux De tant d’amans qui se pleignent en France : Mais pour le moins j’avoy bien esperance, Que si mes vers ne marchoient les premiers, Qu’ils ne seroient sans honneur les derniers. Car Eraton qui les amours descœuvre, D’assez bon œil m’attiroit à son œuvre.   L’un trop enflé les chante grossement, L’un enervé les traine bassement, L’un nous depeint une Dame paillarde, L’un plus aux vers qu’aux sentences regarde, Et ne peut onq tant se sceut desguiser, Apprendre l’art de bien Petrarquiser.   Que pleures-tu, Cassandre, ma douce ame ? Encor Amour ne veut couper la trame Qu’en ta faveur je pendis au métier, Sans achever l’ouvrage tout entier.   Mon Roy n’a pas d’une beste sauvage Succé le laict, et son jeune courage, Ou je me trompe, a senti quelquefois Le trait d’Amour qui surmonte les Rois.   S’il l’a senti, ma coulpe est effacee, Et sa grandeur ne sera corroucee Qu’à mon retour des horribles combas, Hors de son croc mon Luth j’aveigne à-bas, Le pincetant, et qu’en lieu des alarmes Je chante Amour, tes beautez et mes larmes. « Car l’arc tendu trop violentement, « Ou s’alentit, ou se rompt vistement.   Ainsi Achille apres avoir par terre Tant fait mourir de soudars en la guerre, Son Luth doré prenoit entre ses mains Teintes encor de meurdres inhumains, Et vis à vis du fils de Menetie, Chantoit l’amour de Brisëis s’amie : Puis tout soudain les armes reprenoit, Et plus vaillant au combat retoumoit.   Ainsi, apres que l’ayeul de mon maistre Hors des combats retirera sa dextre, Se desarmant dedans sa tente à part, Dessus le Luth à l’heure ton Ronsard Te chantera : car il ne se peut faire Qu’autre beauté luy puisse jamais plaire, Ou soit qu’il vive, ou soit qu’outre le port, Leger fardeau, Charon le passe mort.

My eyes, my heart, my Cassandre, my life, Oh, how rightly you must be envious Of that great King who no longer wishes to suffer Your name to put itself forward in my songs. It is he who wishes that I should change my lute For a trumpet, to sing out his praises, And not only his own but those of his ancestors Who are seated above in the ranks of the gods.   I shall do it, as he commands it : For the power of such a King is so great That it is as hard to keep out of its way As for an armed force to resist it.   What use for me to have read so much of Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and the learned Catullus ; To have looked over and noted so much of Petrarch, If by a King the power is taken from me Of following them, and if my lyre must Hang from a hook and dare no longer speak ?   I have therefore vainly fed the hope Of one day seeing Tuscany, When our France, as much as it, is happy To sigh a lover’s plaint ; And, to show [Italy] can be surpassed I had already begun to set down Many an Elegy in the antique fashion, Many a fine Ode, many a Pastoral.   For to speak the truth, my soul is still Not satisfied with those who have written In our language, and their love deserves Either nothing at all, or very little favour.   Not that I am so vainglorious a boaster As to venture to surpass the laborious poetry Of so many lovers who have made their plaints in France ; But at least I have a fair hope That, even if my verse does not go first, It will not be dishonourably last. For Erato, who discloses love-affairs, Drew me with a clear eye to her work.   One puffed-up poet sings grossly of love, Another nervous one drags on in too mean a style ; One depicts a Lady who is lewd, Another takes more care over his verse than his meaning And can never, however he tries to conceal it, Learn the art of Petrarch-ising well.   Why do you weep, Cassandre, my sweet soul ? Love does not yet seek to cut off the warp and weft Which I have hung on my loom for you, Without completing the whole of my work.   My King has not sucked the milk of some Savage beast, and his youthful courage too, Unless I am mistaken, has sometimes felt The wound of Love which can overcome Kings.   If he has felt it, my [ error ] is erased And his greatness will not be angered If, on my return from terrible battles, I take my lute down from its hook And pluck it, and instead of loud war I sing of Love, your beauty, and my tears. « For the bow which is drawn too tightly Either weakens [slows] or quickly breaks. »   Just so Achilles, after having across the world Put so many soldiers to death in war, Took his golden lute in his hands – Still stained with inhuman massacres – And sitting opposite the son of Menetius Sang of his love for Briseis, his beloved ; Then as suddenly took up arms again And returned, more courageous, to battle.   And so, after my master’s ancestor Withdraws his hand from battle, Disarming himself within his tent away from the field, Upon his lute just then your Ronsard will sing To you ; for it cannot be That another beauty could ever please him While he is alive or when, beyond this harbour, Charon carries his light burden, dead.

 

 

The conclusion of the first book of Amours brings with it some weightier material to give it a firm feeling of ending – rather like Beethoven’s 5th, which iterates and reiterates the thumping C-major chords to emphasise that this really is the end of the piece, Ronsard feels (rightly) that he cannot simply end the long run of sonnets without something more definitely marking a conclusion. Perhaps there is, nonetheless, a sense of loss as Ronsard explains how he must stop writing love poetry to focus, by royal command, on his epic Franciad.

 

The Elegy to Cassandre is an elegy in the classical sense – a description of its form, rather than its mood (as we use it today to mean ‘something noble but sad, in remembrance’). Accordingly, it is full of classical (and neo-classical) references:

 – Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and Catullus are all Latin love-poets; and we might detect a glancing reference to one of Horace’s odes in the lines about ‘hanging his lyre on a hook’;

 – Petrarch is of course the shining example of (relatively) modern love-poetry, Tuscany his home;

 – Erato is the muse of lyric poetry;

 – in the Iliad Achilles sings of the slave-girl Briseis whom he loves (and who plays a pivotal role in the development of the action); his other (male) love is Patroclus, the son of Menoetius;

 – Charon is of course the boatman who ferries the dead across the river Styx.

 

Muret suggests that, in the last ‘stanza’, Ronsard is using the word “ayeul” (ancestor, grandfather) to refer to Francus, the mythical ancestor of the kings of France – and thus to the Franciad, the commission for which has drawn Ronsard forcibly away from writing love-poems.  (The ‘great king’ at the time of the publication of the Amours in the 1550s was Henri II; his direct ancestors were noble rather than royal, his father having come to the throne by virtue of his marriage to Louis XII’s daughter.)

 

 

The earlier Blanchemain version has only minor differences:

 – in stanza 3, the list of Roman poets is “Tibulle, / Gallus, Ovide, et Properce et Catulle,” – Cornelius Gallus was a lyric poet contemporary with the others;

 – in stanza 5, the line is “En nostre langue, et leur Muse merite” (‘and their Muse deserves’ instead of ‘their love’);

– towards the end, “Mon Roy n’a pas d’une tigre sauvage …” (a savage tiger’s milk rather than a savage beast’s).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.178

O traits fichez jusqu’au fond de mon ame,

O folle emprise, ô pensers repensez,

O vainement mes jeunes ans passez,

O miel, ô fiel, dont me repaist ma Dame :

 

O chaud, ô froid, qui m’englace et m’enflame,

O prompts desirs d’esperance cassez,

O douce erreur, ô pas en vain trassez,

O monts, ô rocs, que ma douleur entame !

 

O terre, ô mer, chaos, destins et cieux,

O nuict, ô jour, ô Manes stygieux,

O fiere ardeur, ô passion trop forte :

 

O vous Daimons, ô vous divins esprits,

Si quelque amour quelquefois vous a pris,

Voyez, pour Dieu, quelle peine je porte !

 

 

 

                                                                           O wounds fixed right in the bottom of my soul,

                                                                           O foolish influence, o thoughts re-thought,

                                                                           O my years of youth passed in vain,

                                                                           O the sweetness, the bitterness, which my Lady feeds me;

 

                                                                           O heat, o cold, which freeze and inflame me,

                                                                           O swift wishes for hope, now broken,

                                                                           O sweet error, o paths taken in vain,

                                                                           O hills and rocks, the beginnings of my sadness!

 

                                                                           O earth, sea, chaos, fate and heavens,

                                                                           O night and day, o Stygian shades,

                                                                           O proud ardour, o passion too strong;

 

                                                                           O fates, o divine spirits,

                                                                           If any love ever seized you,

                                                                           See, for God’s sake, the pain I bear!

 

 

 

A few days ago we had Ronsard’s ijitation of Gesualdo, “Ny… ny… ny…”; today, another one, this time “O… o… o…”! The bravura technical challenge is the same, and the result is too. Charming, brilliant, and yet at the same time a little tongue-in-cheek…

 

In line 12 I’ve translated “Daimons” as ‘fates’, since the reference seems to be more to the Greek ‘daimon’ than to the more medieval ‘demon’. But in Blanchemain’s version, the only variant is the spelling here: “O vous démons !” which translates more obviously as ‘O demons’…

 

Ronsard’s immediate source, as before, was Giovanni Andrea Gesualdo. To show his sophistication, Ronsard places another unrelated poem between his two imitations; going one better than Gesualdo, whose two poems follow each other directly in the Rime diverse.  Here’s the Italian original:

 

 

O viva fiamma, o miei sospiri ardenti

O miserabil duol, o spirti lassi,

O pensier d’ogni speme ignudi & cassi,

O strali nel mio cuor fieri & pungenti;

 

O bei desir de l’honorate menti,

O vane imprese, o dolorosi passi,

O selve, o piaggie, o fonti, o fiume, o sassi

O spietata cagion de miei tormenti:

 

O gloriosi allori, o verdi mirti,

O luogo un tempo à me dolce, & giocondo,

Ove io gia sparsi dilettoso canto;

 

O voi leggiadri, et amorosi spirti,

S’alcun vive qua giu nel basso mondo

Pietà vi prenda del mio acerbo pianto.

 

 

 

                                                                            O living flame, o my ardent sighs,

                                                                            O wretched grief, o fading spirits,

                                                                            O thoughts of every hope denuded and demolished,

                                                                            O proud and stinging shafts in my heart,

 

                                                                            O beautiful desires of honoured minds,

                                                                            O vain undertakings, o steps illed with sadness,

                                                                            O woods, o shores, o founts, o rivers, o rocks,

                                                                            O ruthless cause of my torments,

 

                                                                            O glorious laurels, o green myrtles,

                                                                            O place once sweet to me and happy

                                                                            Where I once scattered delightful songs,

 

                                                                            O you graceful and loving spirits,

                                                                            If any [of you] live down here in the base world,

                                                                            Take pity on my bitter weeping.

 

 

 

Notice how, in line 11, Gesualdo adapts his theme slightly by opening the line not with “O” but with “Ove” –  a neat and clever touch!

 

This time, both Ronsard and Gesualdo are basing their poems on a Petrarchan original (Canzoniere 161), though typically the “O” motif is used more, and more brilliantly, by the two refined, showy and definitely more sophisticated followers in the late renaissance.

 

 

O passi sparsi, o pensier’ vaghi et pronti,

O tenace memoria, o fero ardore,

O possente desire, o debil core,

O i occhi miei, occhi non già, ma fonti!

 

O fronde, honor de le famose fronti,

O sola insegna al gemino valore!

O faticosa vita, o dolce errore,

Che mi fate ir cercando piagge et monti!

 

O bel viso ove Amor inseme pose

Gli sproni e ‘l fren ond’el mi punge et volve,

Come a lui piace, et calcitrar non vale!

 

O anime gentili et amorose,

S’alcuna à ‘l mondo, et voi nude ombre et polve,

Deh ristate a veder quale è ‘l mio male.

 

 

 

                                                                            O wandering steps! O vague and busy dreams!

                                                                            O changeless memory! O fierce desire!

                                                                            O passion strong! heart weak with its own fire;

                                                                            O eyes of mine! not eyes, but living streams;

 

                                                                            O laurel boughs! whose lovely garland seems

                                                                            The sole reward that glory’s deeds require;

                                                                            O haunted life! delusion sweet and dire,

                                                                            That all my days from slothful rest redeems;

 

                                                                            O beauteous face! where Love has treasured well

                                                                            His whip and spur, the sluggish heart to move

                                                                            At his least will; nor can it find relief.

 

                                                                            O souls of love and passion! if ye dwell

                                                                            Yet on this earth, and ye, great Shades of Love!

                                                                            Linger, and see my passion and my grief.

 

 

                                                                            (Translation by Thomas Wentworth Higginson)

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 2.18 – A son laquais (To his servant)

 

J’ay l’esprit tout ennuyé D’avoir trop estudié Les Phenomenes d’Arate : Il est temps que je m’esbate Et que j’aille aux champs jouer. Bons dieux ! qui voudroit louer Ceux qui, collez sur un livre, N’ont jamais soucy de vivre ?   Que nous sert l’estudier, Sinon de nous ennuyer Et soing dessus soing accrestre, A nous qui serons peut-estre, Ou ce matin, ou ce soir, Victime de l’orque noir, De l’orque qui ne pardonne, Tant il est fier, à personne ?   Corydon, marche devant ; Sçache où le bon vin se vend. Fais après à ma bouteille, Des feuilles de quelque treille, Un tapon pour la boucher. Ne m’achete point de chair, Car, tant soit-elle friande, L’esté je hay la viande.   Achete des abricôs, Des pompons, des artichôs, Des fraises et de la crème : C’est en esté ce que j’aime, Quand, sur le bord d’un ruisseau, Je les mange au bruit de l’eau, Estendu sur le rivage Ou dans un antre sauvage.   Ores que je suis dispos, Je veux boire sans repos De peur que la maladie Un de ces jours ne me die, Me happant à l’imporveu : « Meurs, gallant, c’est assez beu. »

My spirit is quite bored From having studied too hard The Phenomena of Aratus: It’s time I frolicked And went out to play. Good grief! Who’d want to praise Those who, stuck to a book, Never have any interest in living?   What use to us is studying, Except to bore us And to pile up care upon care Upon us, who may perhaps be This morning, or this evening, Victims of the black bark, The bark which grants no pardon, So proud is it, to anyone.   Corydon, go in front: You know where the good wine is sold. Then make up for my bottle From the leaves from some vine A spout to drink from. Buy me no meat For, tasty as it is, In summer I hate meat.   Buy apricots, Melons, artichokes, Strawberries and cream; That’s what I love in summer When, on a river bank, I eat them by the sound of the stream, Stretched out on the bank Or in a wild cavern.   Now that I’m settled, I want to drink without a break For fear that illness One of these days will say to me Catching me by surprise, “Die, my boy, that’s enough drinking!”

 

Once more the transition from classical learning to the delights of food – you perhaps remember the artichokes and melons from Tours (the “pompons”) from a recent post!

 

Aratus was one of those classical authors who took some detailed science and turned it into a poem so that it could be more easily memorised. For Aratus, it was the constellations and the weather (Darwin’s father Erasmus did the same in the early nineteenth century for botany… ) You can imagine Ronsard being a bit bored by it – though Aratus was revered in antiquity.

 

Corydon in verse 3 is a ‘pastoral’ name used regularly by Ronsard; in verse 2 the ‘bark which grants no pardon’ is of course Charon’s bark which ferries the dead across the Styx.

 

Although I am only using Blanchemain as a source for the Odes, there are still a couple of variants to report (from his footnotes):  in the third stanza

 

 

Corydon, marche devant ;

Sçache où le bon vin se vend.

Fay refreschir ma bouteille,

Cerche une fueilleuse treille

Et des fleurs pour me coucher.

                                                                      Corydon, go in front:

                                                                      You know where the good wine is sold.

                                                                      Get me a new bottle,

                                                                      Look for a leafy vine

                                                                      And some flowers for me to lie on.

 

 

And the last two lines which read:

 

« Je t’ay maintenant veincu.

Meurs, galland : c’est trop vescu. »

 

                                                                      “I’ve got you now.

                                                                      Die, my boy; you’ve lived too long.”

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 4:5

 

Guy, nos meilleurs ans coulent Comme les eaux qui roulent D’un cours sempiternel ; La mort pour sa sequelle Nous ameine avec elle Un exil éternel.   Nulle humaine priere Ne repousse en arriere Le bateau de Charon, Quand l’ame nue arrive Vagabonde en la rive De Styx et d’Acheron.   Toutes choses mondaines Qui vestent nerfs et veines La mort égale prend, Soient pauvres ou soient princes ; Car sur toutes provinces Sa main large s’estend.   La puissance tant forte Du grand Achille est morte, Et Thersite, odieux Aux Grecs, est mort encores ; Et Minos qui est ores Le conseiller des dieux.   Jupiter ne demande Que des bœufs pour offrande ; Mais son frere Pluton Nous demande, nous hommes, Qui la victime sommes De son enfer glouton.   Celuy dont le Pau baigne Le tombeau nous enseigne N’esperer rien de haut, Et celuy que Pegase (Qui fit soucer Parnase) Culbuta d’un grand saut.   Las ! on ne peut cognaistre Le destin qui doit naistre, Et l’homme en vain poursuit Conjecturer la chose Que Dieu sage tient close Sous une obscure nuit.   Je pensois que la trope Que guide Calliope, Troupe mon seul confort, Soustiendroit ma querelle, Et qu’indonté par elle Je donterois la mort.   Mais une fiévre grosse Creuse déjà ma fosse Pour me banir là bas, Et sa flame cruelle Se paist de ma mouelle, Miserable repas.   Que peu s’en faut, ma vie, Que tu ne m’es ravie Close sous le tombeau, Et que mort je ne voye Où Mercure convoye Le debile troupeau !   [Et ce Grec qui les peines Dont les guerres sont pleines Va là bas racontant, Poëte qu’une presse Des épaules espaisse Admire en l’écoutant.]   A bon droit Prométhée Pour sa fraude inventée Endure un tourment tel, Qu’un aigle sur la roche Luy ronge d’un bec croche Son poumon immortel.   Depuis qu’il eut robée La flame prohibée, Pour les dieux despiter, Les bandes incogneues Des fiévres sont venues Parmi nous habiter.   Et la mort despiteuse, Auparavant boiteuse, Fut légère d’aller ; D’ailes mal-ordonnées Aux hommes non données Dedale coupa l’air.   L’exécrable Pandore Fut forgée, et encore Astrée s’en-vola, Et la boîte féconde Peupla le pauvre monde De tant de maux qu’il a.   Ah ! le meschant courage Des hommes de nostre âge N’endure pas ses faits ; Que Jupiter estuye Sa foudre, qui s’ennuye Venger tant de mesfaits !

Guy, our best years rush by Like streams flowing In their everlasting race ; Death, as the sequel, Brings us with it Eternal exile.   No human prayer Can push back Charon’s boat When the naked soul arrives A wanderer at the river Styx and Acheron.   All wordly things Equipped with nerves and veins Death takes equally, Be they poor men or princes ; For over all the empires Its wide hand extends.   The strength, though great, Of mighty Achilles is dead ; And Thersites, hated By the Greeks, is dead too ; And Minos too, who was once Advisor to the gods.   Jupiter requires only Cattle as an offering ; But his brother Pluto Requires us, us men, Who are the victims Of his greedy hell.   He, whose tomb the Pau [Po] Bathes, teaches us To hope for nothing from on high, And he too, whom Pegasus (Who disquieted Parnassus) Knocked down with his great leap.   Alas ! we cannot know The fate which must come to us, And man in vain seeks To conjecture what thing Our wise God keeps hidden Beneath dark night.   I thought that the troop Whom Calliope leads, The troop which is my sole comfort, Would support my complaint And that, untamed by them, I would tame death.   But a great fever Is already digging my grave To banish me down there, And its cruel flame Is feeding on my marrow, A wretched repast.   How little is needed, mt life, For you to be taken from me, Shut in beneath my tomb, And for me to see death Where Mercury brings The feeble troop !   [And that Greek who Continually recounts down there The pains with which war is filled, The poet whom a crowd Of wide shoulders Admires as they listen.]   Rightly does Prometheus For that trick he contrived Endure such torment, As, on his rock, an eagle With its crooked beak gnaws His immortal guts.   Since he stole away The forbidden fire To spite the gods, The unknown bonds Of fevers have come To live among us ;   And resentful death, Before that limping slowly, Has become light on his feet. With clumsy wings Not granted to man Daedalus cut through the air.   Cursed Pandora Was forged and, still A star, flew off While the fruitful box Peopled this poor world With all the evils it had.   Ah, the paltry courage Of the men of our age Cannot endure their deeds ; May Jupiter hold back His thunderbolts, bored with Avenging so many misdeeds !

 

This Ode is dedicated to Guy Pacate, prior of Sougé – a small village in the Loir region. Even today it consists of little more than one street and a church. Pacate had been one of the little group around Daurat in the 1540s, including Ronsard, du Bellay and Denisot, from which sprang the Pléiade. Among them he was apparently known for his learning and his gift for Latin poetry; though beyond their circle he seems obscure.  Perhaps it is relevant that, in the posthumous editions of Ronsard the dedication was to Jean Daurat himself, rather than this little-known satellite of his.

 

It’s certainly relevant that Pacate knew his classics: there is an array of classical references here rarely seen in such number in Ronsard’s poems! But at the same time Ronsard contrives an inward-looking reflection on death rather than a grand, public poem, suitable to the relative obscurity of the dedicatee.

 

Stanza 2 refers to the journey to the afterlife: souls would come down to the river Styx where they awaited Charon’s boat to ferry them over to Hades. (Mercury guided souls to the underworld – stanza 10.)

 

Stanza 4 contrasts Achilles with Thersites, the former the hero of the Iliad, the latter an annoying, cowardly tell-tale also on the Greek side; and adds Minos, once a king on earth, but tricked and killed in his bath by his daughters.

 

In stanza 6, Pau is famous as the birthplace of “noste Enric” (‘our Henry’), Henry IV of France; and earlier was the base of Gaston Fébus, whose Renaissance court paralleled that of Italian city-states. But this Pau is in fact the Po in north Italy, reputed to be where Phaethon fell when struck down by Jupiter’s thunderbolt. The second half of the stanza is about Perseus; other editions have “sourcer” rather than the (unique?) “soucer” which I have treated as if it were “soucier”: “Qui fit sourcer Parnase” would mean something like “who made a spring come from Parnassus”, the spring being the Hippocrene spring which was created when Pegasus stamped his foot, and which became sacred to the Muses.

 

The troop of Calliope in stanza 8 is the Muses – Calliope is the muse of epic poetry. In stanza 11, the poet is no doubt Homer; we have met Prometheus (stanzas 12-13), punished by the gods for bringing fire to man, regularly. In stanza 14 I have to admit the presence of Daedalus confuses me: there is no link to Pandora, nor did his flight lead to his own death. I assume that Ronsard is offering a simile – like Daedalus taking wing, death too became swifter.

 

Finally, in the penultimate stanza, Pandora is ‘forged’ because she the first woman, was made by Vulcan on Jupiter’s instructions. The story of the evils contained in Pandora’s box is well-known.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 81

Pardonne moy, Platon, si je ne cuide

Que sous le rond de la voute des Dieux,

Soit hors du monde, ou au profond des lieux

Que Styx entourne, il n’y ait quelque vuide.

 

Si l’air est plein en sa voute liquide,

Qui reçoit donc tant de pleurs de mes yeux,

Tant de soupirs que je sanglote aux cieux,

Lors qu’à mon dueil Amour lasche la bride ?

 

Il est du vague, ou si point il n’en est,

D’un air pressé le comblement ne naist :

Plus-tost le ciel, qui piteux se dispose

 

A recevoir l’effet de mes douleurs,

De toutes parts se comble de mes pleurs,

Et de mes vers qu’en mourant je compose.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Pardon me, Plato, if i do not believe

                                                                            That beneath the circle of the Heavens’ vault,

                                                                            Whether beyond the world or in the depths of the parts

                                                                            Which Styx surrounds, there is no void [vacuum].

 

                                                                            If the air is full in its watery vault,

                                                                            Where is there room for so many tears from my eyes,

                                                                            So many sighs which I sob to the heavens,

                                                                            Since Love gave rein to my grief ?

 

                                                                            Is it from emptiness, or if not from there,

                                                                            From air under pressure, that its full-ness is born?

                                                                            No: rather heaven, which is pitiful and willing

 

                                                                            To receive the effect of my depair,

                                                                            Is filled in all parts with my tears,

                                                                            And with my verse which, dying, I compose.

 

 

Some philosophy-cum-science from Ronsard:  Plato did not believe in the existence of a vacuum (or perhaps rather any ‘void’/emptiness) in the world, Ronsard answers that there must be or he’ll over-fill everything with his tears. (I’ve copied his double-negative in the opening quatrain:  I must say working through the grammar here was rather testing!) Plato held that the universe was continually ‘becoming’ – self-generating – so that any temporary gaps between matter would be filled by this process; at the beginning of the sestet Ronsard is referring to these arguments about the nature of its ‘becoming’. As always, he turns the intellectual discussion to an extravagant love metaphor, in a charming fashion.

 

Fortunately the earlier Blanchemain version is substantially similar, with only minor variants in the language. In line 4, the Styx “emmure” (‘walls in’ rather than ‘surrounds’) the underworld; in line 5 the air is filled “en sa courbure humide” (‘in its wet curvature’ instead of ‘in its watery vault’); and in line 9 “Il est du vague, ou certes, s’il n’en est” (‘It is from emptiness, or certainly if not’, rather than ‘if not from there’).

 

The next sonnet, no.82, can be found here.

 

 [ PS.  I am amused to see the opening phrase re-used, with a twist, half way through this sonnet in the Marie set! I’m sure that’s entirely deliberate.]

 

 

Sonnet 70

Skipping once more over a poem we’ve posted earlier, we come to …

De quelle plante, ou de quelle racine,

De quel unguent, ou de quelle liqueur

Oindroy-je bien la playe de mon cœur

Qui d’os en os incurable chemine ?

 

Ny vers charmez, pierre, ny medecine,

Drogue ny jus ne romproient ma langueur,

Tant je sen moindre et moindre ma vigueur

Ja me trainer en la barque voisine.

 

Amour, qui sçais des herbes le pouvoir,

Et qui la playe au cœur m’as fait avoir,

Guary mon mal, ton art fay moy cognoistre.

 

Pres d’Ilion tu blessas Apollon :

J’ay dans le cœur senty mesme aiguillon :

Ne blesse plus l’écholier et le maistre.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            With what plant, what root,

                                                                            What unguent, what potion

                                                                            Shall I anoint the wound in my heart

                                                                            Which runs through my bones incurably?

 

                                                                            Not magic rhymes, stone nor medicine,

                                                                            Drug nor juice will defeat my languor,

                                                                            So much can I feel my strength lessen and lessen,

                                                                            Already dragging me off into the bark which is nearby.

 

                                                                            Love, you know the power of herbs

                                                                            And you have made this wound in my heart:

                                                                            Heal my ills, help me understand your arts.

 

                                                                            Beside Troy you wounded Apollo;

                                                                            I have felt the same sting in my heart;

                                                                            Do not wound again the scholar and the teacher.

 

 

In line 8, the nearby bark is the boat of Charon which ferries the dead across the river Styx.   I think Ronsard is conflating two stories in the reference to Apollo and Troy: Apollo was the father of Troilus by Hecuba, wife of Trojan King Priam; and (separately, in Thessaly) Apollo loved Daphne after being shot with a dart by Cupid. In the final line, to state the obvious, Ronsard is the scholar in love, but it’s curious to see unsuccessful Apollo (who failed to win over Daphne) as the teacher! There’s clearly a message about similar unsuccessful pursuits of the beloved, but odd to frame this as a learned behaviour…

 

Blanchemain’s earlier version does not pose these mythological conundrums – Cassandre is the magician, the one who causes the wounded heart and the one who can heal it. Another example of the older Ronsard over-complicating things?  Here’s Blanchemain’s closing sestet:

 

 

Las ! toi qui sçais des herbes le pouvoir,

Et qui la playe au cœur m’as fait avoir,

Guary le mal que ta beauté me livre :

 

De tes beaux yeux allége mon souci,

Et par pitié retiens encore ici

Ce pauvre amant qu’Amour soule de vivre.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Alas, you who know the power of herbs

                                                                           And who have made this wound in my heart:

                                                                           Heal the ill which your beauty gives me;

 

                                                                           With your fair eyes lighten my pain,

                                                                           And in pity keep here still

                                                                           The poor lover whom Love intoxicates with life.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 62

Quand ces beaux yeux jugeront que je meure,

Avant mes jours me bannissant là bas,

Et que la Parque aura porté mes pas

A l’autre bord de la rive meilleure :

 

Antres et prez, et vous forests, à l’heure,

Pleurant mon mal, ne me dédaignez pas :

Ains donnez moy sous l’ombre de vos bras,

Une eternelle et paisible demeure.

 

Puisse avenir qu’un poëte amoureux,

Ayant pitié de mon sort malheureux,

Dans un cyprès note cet epigramme :

 

CI DESSOUS GIST UN AMANT VANDOMOIS

QUE LA DOULEUR TUA DEDANS CE BOIS

POUR AIMER TROP LES BEAUX YEUX DE SA DAME.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           When those fair eyes determine I shall die,

                                                                           Banishing me down below before my time,

                                                                           And when Fate has borne my steps

                                                                           To the far bank of that better river;

 

                                                                           Then, caves and meadows and forests, then

                                                                           Weeping over my misfortune, do not scorn me,

                                                                           But give me in the shade of your arms

                                                                           Eternal and peaceful rest.

 

                                                                           And may a poet in love,

                                                                           Pitying my unhappy fate,

                                                                           Place this epigram on a cypress:

 

                                                                           BENEATH THERE LIES A LOVER FROM VENDOME

                                                                           KILLED BY GRIEF WITHIN THESE WOODS

                                                                           FOR LOVING TOO MUCH HIS LADY’S FAIR EYES.

 

  

Regarding line 11, Blanchemain reminds us in a footnote that ‘in Greek an epigram signifies any inscription’ – but an epigram could also be a three line mini-poem such as the last tercet so I’m not sure that it’s necessary to see Ronsard making a Greek allusion here!  On the other hand line 4 clearly is a classical allusion, since only in classical myth is the afterlife bordered by a river (the Styx) – and of course ‘below’ rather than in heaven ‘above’.

 

There are only a couple of variants in Blanchemain, both in the second quatrain, where Ronsard chose new effects without modifying the sense. That quatrain reads:

 

 

Antres et prez, et vous forests, à l’heure,

Je vous suppli, ne me dédaignez pas :

Ains donnez moy sous l’ombre de vos bras,

Pour tout jamais eternelle demeure.

 

 

                                                                           Then, caves and meadows and forests, then

                                                                           I beg you, do not scorn me,

                                                                           But give me in the shade of your arms

                                                                           For all time eternal rest.

 

 

 

 

Chanson (18b)

Si le ciel est ton pays et ton pere,
Si le Nectar est ton vin savoureux,
Si Venus est ta delicate mere,
Si l’Ambrosie est ton pain bien-heureux :

 

Pourquoy viens-tu loger en nostre terre ?
Pourquoy viens-tu te cacher en mon sein ?
Pourquoy fais-tu contre mes os la guerre ?
Pourquoy bois-tu mon pauvre sang humain ?

 

Pourquoy prens-tu de mon coeur nourriture ?

O fils d’un Tygre !  ô cruel animal !

Tu es un  Dieu de mechante nature !

Je suis à toy, pourquoy me fais-tu mal ?

 

 

 

                                                                      If heaven is your home and your father,
                                                                      If nectar is your rich wine,
                                                                      If Venus is your sensitive mother,
                                                                      If ambrosia is your blessed food;

 

                                                                      Why then have you come to live in our world?
                                                                      Why have you come to hide yourself in my heart?
                                                                      Why do you make war on my body?
                                                                      Why do you drink my poor human blood?

 

                                                                      Why do you take the sustenance from my heart?

                                                                      O daughter of a tiger! O cruel beast!

                                                                      You are divine, but with a wicked nature!

                                                                      I am yours, why do you do me wrong?

 

 

A delicate and attractive little poem; not surprisingly, perhaps, variants are minor. Blanchemain offers only a small change in the way he builds the first line of the second stanza:  “Pourquoy viens-tu te loger en la terre ?” (‘Why then have you come to live in the world?’)

 

This poem is based on one of Marullus’s most famous poems, and Ronsard follows it quite closely. What I enjoy is the way he is able to remain close to the original, but at the same time produce a lovely piece of French poetry with only minor adjustments to Marullus’s thought – for instance specifying the tiger rather than just ‘a beast’.

 

 

Si caelum patria est, puer, beatum,

si vere peperit Venus benigna,

si nectar tibi Massicum ministrat,

si sancta ambrosia est cibus petitus,

quid noctes habitas diesque mecum ?

Quid victum face supplicemque aduris ?

Quid longam lacrimis sitim repellis ?

Quid nostrae dape pasceris medullae ?

O vere rabidum genus ferarum !

O domo Styge patriaque digne !

Jam levis sumus umbra : quid lacessis ?

 

 

                                                                      If blessed heaven is your birthplace, my boy,

                                                                      If kindly Venus truly bore you,

                                                                      If she feeds you Massic nectar,

                                                                      If holy ambrosia is the food you seek,

                                                                      Then why do you spend your days and nights with me?

                                                                      Why do you burn me with your fire, though I’m a beaten man and a suppliant?

                                                                      Why do you quench your long thirst with my tears?

                                                                      Why do you make a feast of the marrow in my bones?

                                                                      Truly you are a rabid kind of wild beast!

                                                                      You are worthy of the Styx as your home and birthplace!

                                                                      I am now a thin shadow; why do you torture me?

 

(What Marullus means by ‘Massic nectar’ is open to interpretation: Fantuzzi in his translation makes this ‘Massic wine’, which was known to be excellent. I think Marullus is suggesting that Cupid fed, not on the best wine Earth could provide, but on a superior kind of nectar than that generally available to the gods – the best nectar the Heavens could provide.)