Chapter 1

Transcribed from the 1872 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David Price, email [email protected]

BALLADS AND LYRICS OF OLD FRANCE:

_WITH OTHER POEMS_.

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BY

A. LANG.

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LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 1872.

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TO

E. M. S.

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CONTENTS.

_TRANSLATIONS_. PAGE List of Poets translated 2 CHARLES D’ORLEANS: Spring 5 Rondel 6 FRANÇOIS VILLON: Rondel 7 Arbor Amoris 8 Ballad of the Gibbet 11 DU BELLAY: Hymn to the Winds 14 A Vow to Heavenly Venus 16 To his Friend in Elysium 17 A Sonnet to Heavenly Beauty 18 REMY BELLEAU: April 19 RONSARD: Roses 24 The Rose 25 To the Moon 27 To his Young Mistress 29 Deadly Kisses 30 Of his Lady’s Old Age 31 On his Lady’s Waking 32 His Lady’s Death 33 His Lady’s Tomb 34 JACQUES TAHUREAU: Shadows of his Lady 35 Moonlight 36 PASSERAT: Love in May 37 VICTOR HUGO: The Grave and the Rose 40 The Genesis of Butterflies 42 More Strong than Time 44 GÉRARD DE NERVAL: An Old Tune 46 ALFRED DE MUSSET: Juana 48 HENRI MURGER: Spring in the Student’s Quarter 51 Old Loves 53 Musette 55 BALLADS: The Three Captains 58 The Bridge of Death 63 Le Père Sévère 65 The Milk White Doe 68 A Lady of High Degree 72 Lost for a Rose’s Sake 75 BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE: The Brigand’s Grave 77 The Sudden Bridal 79 GREEK FOLK SONGS: Iannoula 85 The Tell-Tales 87 _AVE_. Twilight on Tweed 91 One Flower 93 Metempsychosis 94 Lost in Hades 95 A Star in the Night 96 A Sunset on Yarrow 97 _HESPEROTHEN_. The Seekers for Phæacia 101 A Song of Phæacia 104 The Departure from Phæacia 107 A Ballad of Departure 110 They hear the Sirens for the Second Time 111 Circe’s Isle revisited 114 The Limit of Lands 116 _VERSES ON PICTURES_. Colinette 121 A Sunset of Watteau 124 A Nativity of Sandro Botticelli 127 _SONGS AND SONNETS_. Two Homes 131 Summer’s Ending 133 Nightingale Weather 134 Love and Wisdom 136 Good-bye 138 An Old Prayer 140 Love’s Miracle 141 Dreams 142 Fairy Land 143 Two Sonnets of the Sirens 146 À la Belle Hélène 148 Sylvie et Aurélie 150 A Lost Path 152 The Shade of Helen 154 _SONNETS TO POETS_. Jacques Tahureau 159 François Villon 160 Pierre Ronsard 161 Gérard de Nerval 162 The Death of Mirandola 163

TRANSLATIONS.

LIST OF POETS TRANSLATED.

I. CHARLES D’ORLEANS, who has sometimes, for no very obvious reason, been styled the father of French lyric poetry, was born in May, 1391. He was the son of Louis D’Orleans, the grandson of Charles V., and the father of Louis XII. Captured at Agincourt, he was kept in England as a prisoner from 1415 to 1440, when he returned to France, where he died in 1465. His verses, for the most part roundels on two rhymes, are songs of love and spring, and retain the allegorical forms of the Roman de la Rose.

II. FRANÇOIS VILLON, 1431–14-? Nothing is known of Villon’s birth or death, and only too much of his life. In his poems the ancient forms of French verse are animated with the keenest sense of personal emotion, of love, of melancholy, of mocking despair, and of repentance for a life passed in taverns and prisons.

III. JOACHIM DU BELLAY, 1525–1560. The exact date of Du Bellay’s birth is unknown. He was certainly a little younger than Ronsard, who was born in September, 1524, although an attempt has been made to prove that his birth took place in 1525, as a compensation from Nature to France for the battle of Pavia. As a poet Du Bellay had the start, by a few mouths, of Ronsard; his _Recueil_ was published in 1549. The question of priority in the new style of poetry caused a quarrel, which did not long separate the two singers. Du Bellay is perhaps the most interesting of the Pleiad, that company of Seven, who attempted to reform French verse, by inspiring it with the enthusiasm of the Renaissance. His book _L’Illustration de la langue Française_ is a plea for the study of ancient models and for the improvement of the vernacular. In this effort Du Bellay and Ronsard are the predecessors of Malherbe, and of André Chénier, more successful through their frank eagerness than the former, less fortunate in the possession of critical learning and appreciative taste than the latter. There is something in Du Bellay’s life, in the artistic nature checked by occupation in affairs—he was the secretary of Cardinal Du Bellay—in the regret and affection with which Rome depressed and allured him, which reminds the English reader of the thwarted career of Clough.

IV. REMY BELLEAU, 1528–1577. Du Belleau’s life was spent in the household of Charles de Lorraine, Marquis d’Elboeuf, and was marked by nothing more eventful than the usual pilgrimage to Italy, the sacred land and sepulchre of art.

V. PIERRE RONSARD, 1524–1585. Ronsard’s early years gave little sign of his vocation. He was for some time a page of the court, was in the service of James V. of Scotland, and had his share of shipwrecks, battles, and amorous adventures. An illness which produced total deafness made him a scholar and poet, as in another age and country it might have made him a saint and an ascetic. With all his industry, and almost religious zeal for art, he is one of the poets who make themselves, rather than are born singers. His epic, the Franciade, is as tedious as other artificial epics, and his odes are almost unreadable. We are never allowed to forget that he is the poet who read the Iliad through in three days. He is, as has been said of Le Brun, more mythological than Pindar. His constant allusion to his grey hair, an affectation which may be noticed in Shelley, is borrowed from Anacreon. Many of the sonnets in which he ‘petrarquizes,’ retain the faded odour of the roses he loved; and his songs have fire and melancholy and a sense as of perfume from ‘a closet long to quiet vowed, with mothed and dropping arras hung.’ Ronsard’s great fame declined when is Malherbe came to ‘bind the sweet influences of the Pleiad,’ but he has been duly honoured by the newest school of French poetry.

VI. JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555. The amorous poetry of Jacques Tahureau has the merit, rare in his, or in any age, of being the real expression of passion. His brief life burned itself away before he had exhausted the lyric effusion of his youth. ‘Le plus beau gentilhomme de son siècle, et le plus dextre à toutes sortes de gentillesses,’ died at the age of twenty-eight, fulfilling the presentiment which tinges, but scarcely saddens his poetry.

VII. JEAN PASSERAT, 1534–1602. Better known as a political satirist than as a poet.

POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

VICTOR HUGO.

ALFRED DE MUSSET, 1810–1857.

GÉRARD DE NERVAL, 1801–1855.

HENRI MURGER, 1822–1861.

BALLADS.

The originals of the French folk-songs here translated are to be found in the collections of MM. De Puymaigre and Gerard de Nerval, and in the report of M. Ampère.

The verses called a ‘Lady of High Degree’ are imitated from a very early _chanson_ in Bartsch’s collection.

The Greek ballads have been translated with the aid of the French versions by M. Fauriel.

SPRING.

CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465.

The new-liveried year.—_Sir Henry Wotton_.

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THE year has changed his mantle cold Of wind, of rain, of bitter air; And he goes clad in cloth of gold, Of laughing suns and season fair; No bird or beast of wood or wold But doth with cry or song declare The year lays down his mantle cold. All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled, The pleasant summer livery wear, With silver studs on broidered vair; The world puts off its raiment old, The year lays down his mantle cold.

RONDEL.

CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465.

To his Mistress, to succour his heart that is beleaguered by jealousy.

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STRENGTHEN, my Love, this castle of my heart, And with some store of pleasure give me aid, For Jealousy, with all them of his part, Strong siege about the weary tower has laid. Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid, Too weak to make his cruel force depart, Strengthen at least this castle of my heart, And with some store of pleasure give me aid. Nay, let not Jealousy, for all his art Be master, and the tower in ruin laid, That still, ah Love! thy gracious rule obeyed. Advance, and give me succour of thy part; Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart.

RONDEL.

FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460

GOODBYE! the tears are in my eyes; Farewell, farewell, my prettiest; Farewell, of women born the best; Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes. Farewell! with many vows and sighs My sad heart leaves you to your rest; Farewell! the tears are in my eyes; Farewell! from you my miseries Are more than now may be confessed, And most by thee have I been blessed, Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs; Goodbye! the last of my goodbyes.

ARBOR AMORIS.

FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460

I HAVE a tree, a graft of Love, That in my heart has taken root; Sad are the buds and blooms thereof, And bitter sorrow is its fruit; Yet, since it was a tender shoot, So greatly hath its shadow spread, That underneath all joy is dead, And all my pleasant days are flown, Nor can I slay it, nor instead Plant any tree, save this alone.

Ah, yet, for long and long enough My tears were rain about its root, And though the fruit be harsh thereof, I scarcely looked for better fruit Than this, that carefully I put In garner, for the bitter bread Whereon my weary life is fed: Ah, better were the soil unsown That bears such growths; but Love instead Will plant no tree, but this alone.

Ah, would that this new spring, whereof The leaves and flowers flush into shoot, I might have succour and aid of Love, To prune these branches at the root, That long have borne such bitter fruit, And graft a new bough, comforted With happy blossoms white and red; So pleasure should for pain atone, Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead Plant any tree, but this alone.

L’ENVOY.

Princess, by whom my hope is fed, My heart thee prays in lowlihead To prune the ill boughs overgrown, Nor slay Love’s tree, nor plant instead Another tree, save this alone.

BALLAD OF THE GIBBET.

An epitaph in the form of a ballad that François Villon wrote of himself and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.

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BROTHERS and men that shall after us be, Let not your hearts be hard to us: For pitying this our misery Ye shall find God the more piteous. Look on us six that are hanging thus, And for the flesh that so much we cherished How it is eaten of birds and perished, And ashes and dust fill our bones’ place, Mock not at us that so feeble be, But pray God pardon us out of His grace.

Listen, we pray you, and look not in scorn, Though justly, in sooth, we are cast to die; Ye wot no man so wise is born That keeps his wisdom constantly. Be ye then merciful, and cry To Mary’s Son that is piteous, That His mercy take no stain from us, Saving us out of the fiery place. We are but dead, let no soul deny To pray God succour us of His grace.

The rain out of heaven has washed us clean, The sun has scorched us black and bare, Ravens and rooks have pecked at our eyne, And feathered their nests with our beards and hair. Round are we tossed, and here and there, This way and that, at the wild wind’s will, Never a moment my body is still; Birds they are busy about my face. Live not as we, nor fare as we fare; Pray God pardon us out of His grace.

L’ENVOY.

Prince Jesus, Master of all, to thee We pray Hell gain no mastery, That we come never anear that place; And ye men, make no mockery, Pray God pardon us out of His grace.

HYMN TO THE WINDS.

DU BELLAY, 1550.

The winds are invoked by the winnowers of corn.

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TO you, troop so fleet, That with winged wandering feet, Through the wide world pass, And with soft murmuring Toss the green shades of spring In woods and grass, Lily and violet I give, and blossoms wet, Roses and dew; This branch of blushing roses, Whose fresh bud uncloses, Wind-flowers too. Ah, winnow with sweet breath, Winnow the holt and heath, Round this retreat; Where all the golden morn We fan the gold o’ the corn, In the sun’s heat.

A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.

DU BELLAY, 1500

WE that with like hearts love, we lovers twain, New wedded in the village by thy fane, Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is We bring these amaranths, these white lilies, A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray, Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay; Like these cool lilies may our loves remain, Perfect and pure, and know not any stain; And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.

TO HIS FRIEND IN ELYSIUM.

DU BELLAY, 1550.

SO long you wandered on the dusky plain, Where flit the shadows with their endless cry, You reach the shore where all the world goes by, You leave the strife, the slavery, the pain; But we, but we, the mortals that remain In vain stretch hands; for Charon sullenly Drives us afar, we may not come anigh Till that last mystic obolus we gain.

But you are happy in the quiet place, And with the learned lovers of old days, And with your love, you wander ever-more In the dim woods, and drink forgetfulness Of us your friends, a weary crowd that press About the gate, or labour at the oar.

A SONNET TO HEAVENLY BEAUTY.

DU BELLAY, 1550.

IF this our little life is but a day In the Eternal,—if the years in vain Toil after hours that never come again,— If everything that hath been must decay, Why dreamest thou of joys that pass away, My soul, that my sad body doth restrain? Why of the moment’s pleasure art thou fain? Nay, thou hast wings,—nay, seek another stay.

There is the joy whereto each soul aspires, And there the rest that all the world desires, And there is love, and peace, and gracious mirth; And there in the most highest heavens shalt thou Behold the Very Beauty, whereof now Thou worshippest the shadow upon earth.

APRIL.

REMY BELLEAU, 1560.

APRIL, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days, April, bringing hope of prime, To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheath Are guarded in their tender time;

April, pride of fields that be Green and free, That in fashion glad and gay, Stud with flowers red and blue, Every hue, Their jewelled spring array;

April, pride of murmuring Winds of spring, That beneath the winnowed air, Trap with subtle nets and sweet Flora’s feet, Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;

April, by thy hand caressed, From her breast Nature scatters everywhere Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, Buds and blooms, Making faint the earth and air.

April, joy of the green hours, Clothes with flowers Over all her locks of gold My sweet Lady; and her breast With the blest Birds of summer manifold.

April, with thy gracious wiles, Like the smiles, Smiles of Venus; and thy breath Like her breath, the Gods’ delight, (From their height They take the happy air beneath;)

It is thou that, of thy grace, From their place In the far-oft isles dost bring Swallows over earth and sea, Glad to be Messengers of thee, and Spring.

Daffodil and eglantine, And woodbine, Lily, violet, and rose Plentiful in April fair, To the air, Their pretty petals do unclose.

Nightingales ye now may hear, Piercing clear, Singing in the deepest shade; Many and many a babbled note Chime and float, Woodland music through the glade.

April, all to welcome thee, Spring sets free Ancient flames, and with low breath Wakes the ashes grey and old That the cold Chilled within our hearts to death.

Thou beholdest in the warm Hours, the swarm Of the thievish bees, that flies Evermore from bloom to bloom For perfume, Hid away in tiny thighs.

Her cool shadows May can boast, Fruits almost Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, That complete Her flower garland fresh and new.

Nay, but I will give my praise, To these days, Named with the glad name of Her {23} That from out the foam o’ the sea Came to be Sudden light on earth and air.

ROSES.

RONSARD, 1550.

I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown, And woven flowers at sunset gathered, Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown. By this, their sure example, be it known, That all your beauties, now in perfect flower, Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour, Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.

Ah, time is flying, lady—time is flying; Nay, ’tis not time that flies but we that go, Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying, And of our loving parley none shall know, Nor any man consider what we were; Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.

THE ROSE.

RONSARD, 1550.

SEE, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose Her purple mantle to the light, Lost, before the day be dead, The glory of her raiment red, Her colour, bright as yours is bright?

Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, The petals of her purple flowers All have faded, fallen, died; Sad Nature, mother ruinous, That seest thy fair child perish thus ’Twixt matin song and even tide.

Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, Gather the fleet flower of your youth, Take ye your pleasure at the best; Be merry ere your beauty flit, For length of days will tarnish it Like roses that were loveliest.

TO THE MOON.

RONSARD, 1550.

HIDE this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon; So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on thy breast; So shall no foul enchanter importune Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon, And through the friendly night unseen I fare, Who dread the face of foemen unaware, And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon. Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love; ’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move, For little price, thy heart; and of your grace, Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.

TO HIS YOUNG MISTRESS.

RONSARD, 1550.

FAIR flower of fifteen springs, that still Art scarcely blossomed from the bud, Yet hast such store of evil will, A heart so full of hardihood, Seeking to hide in friendly wise The mischief of your mocking eyes.

If you have pity, child, give o’er; Give back the heart you stole from me, Pirate, setting so little store On this your captive from Love’s sea, Holding his misery for gain, And making pleasure of his pain.

Another, not so fair of face, But far more pitiful than you, Would take my heart, if of his grace, My heart would give her of Love’s due; And she shall have it, since I find That you are cruel and unkind.

Nay, I would rather that it died, Within your white hands prisoning, Would rather that it still abide In your ungentle comforting. Than change its faith, and seek to her That is more kind, but not so fair.

DEADLY KISSES.

RONSARD, 1550.

ALL take these lips away; no more, No more such kisses give to me. My spirit faints for joy; I see Through mists of death the dreamy shore, And meadows by the water-side, Where all about the Hollow Land Fare the sweet singers that have died, With their lost ladies, hand in hand; Ah, Love, how fireless are their eyes, How pale their lips that kiss and smile! So mine must be in little while If thou wilt kiss me in such wise.

OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE.

RONSARD, 1550

WHEN you are very old, at evening You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day! When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’ None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, Albeit with her weary task foredone, But wakens at my name, and calls you one Blest, to be held in long remembering.

I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, My love, your pride, remember and regret; Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, And gather roses, while ’tis called to-day.

ON HIS LADY’S WAKING.

RONSARD, 1550