 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
339
RONSARD.
341
341
SONNETS AND CHANSONS.
“Voici le bois que ma saincte Angelette.”
Here is the wood that freshen'd to her song:
See here the flowers that keep her footprints yet:
Where, all alone, my saintly Angelette
Went wandering with her maiden thoughts along:
See here the flowers that keep her footprints yet:
Where, all alone, my saintly Angelette
Went wandering with her maiden thoughts along:
Here is the little rivulet where she stopp'd:
And here the greenness of the grass shows where
She linger'd through it, searching here and there
Those daisies dear which in her breast she dropp'd:
And here the greenness of the grass shows where
She linger'd through it, searching here and there
Those daisies dear which in her breast she dropp'd:
Here did she sing: and here she wept: and here
Her smile came back: and there I seem to hear
Those faint half-words wherewith my heart is rife:
There did she sit: there childlike did she dance
To some vague impulse of her own romance.
Ah, Love on all these thoughts unwinds my life!
Her smile came back: and there I seem to hear
Those faint half-words wherewith my heart is rife:
There did she sit: there childlike did she dance
To some vague impulse of her own romance.
Ah, Love on all these thoughts unwinds my life!
“Cache pour cest nuict.”
Hide for a night thy horn, good Moon! Fair fortune
For this shall keep Endymion ever prest
Deep-dreaming amorous on thine argent breast,
Nor ever shall enchanter thee importune.
For this shall keep Endymion ever prest
Deep-dreaming amorous on thine argent breast,
Nor ever shall enchanter thee importune.
342
Hateful to me the day: most sweet the night!
I fear the myriad meddling eyes of day:
But courage comes with night. Close, close, I pray,
Your curtains, dear dark skies, on my delight!
I fear the myriad meddling eyes of day:
But courage comes with night. Close, close, I pray,
Your curtains, dear dark skies, on my delight!
Thou, too, thou Moon, thou too hast felt love's power!
Pan with a white fleece won thee for an hour.
And you, siderial signs in yonder blue,
Favour the fire whereby my heart is moved!
Forget not, signs, the greater part of you
Was only set in heaven for having loved.
Pan with a white fleece won thee for an hour.
And you, siderial signs in yonder blue,
Favour the fire whereby my heart is moved!
Forget not, signs, the greater part of you
Was only set in heaven for having loved.
“Page suy moy.”
Follow, my Page, where the green grass embosoms
The enamell'd season's freshest-fallen dew:
Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew
Of frail-lived April's newliest-nurtured blossoms.
The enamell'd season's freshest-fallen dew:
Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew
Of frail-lived April's newliest-nurtured blossoms.
Take from the wall, now, my song-tunèd lyre.
Here will I sit, and charm out the sweet pain
Of a dark eye whose light hath burn'd my brain,
The unloving loveliness of my desire!
Here will I sit, and charm out the sweet pain
Of a dark eye whose light hath burn'd my brain,
The unloving loveliness of my desire!
And here mine ink, and here my papers, place:
A hundred pages white, whereon to trace
A hundred words of desultory woe:
Words which shall last like graven diamonds sure,
That some day hence a future race may know,
And ponder on, the pain that I endure.
A hundred pages white, whereon to trace
A hundred words of desultory woe:
Words which shall last like graven diamonds sure,
That some day hence a future race may know,
And ponder on, the pain that I endure.
343
“Les espics sont à Ceres.”
Ceres hath her harvests sweet:
Chloris hath the young green grass:
Woods for Fauns with cloven feet:
His green laurel Phœbus has:
Minerva hath her olive tree:
And the pine's for Cybele.
Chloris hath the young green grass:
Woods for Fauns with cloven feet:
His green laurel Phœbus has:
Minerva hath her olive tree:
And the pine's for Cybele.
Sweet sounds are for Zephyr's wings:
Sweet fruit for Pomona's bosom:
For the Nymphs are crystal springs:
And for Flora bud and blossom:
But sighings, weepings, sad ideas,
These alone are Cytherea's.
Sweet fruit for Pomona's bosom:
For the Nymphs are crystal springs:
And for Flora bud and blossom:
But sighings, weepings, sad ideas,
These alone are Cytherea's.
“Ma douce jouvence.”
My sweet youth now is all done:
The strength and the beauty are gone:
The tooth now is black: and the head now is white:
And the nerves now are loos'd: in the veins
Only water (not blood now) remains
Where the pulse beat of old with delight.
The strength and the beauty are gone:
The tooth now is black: and the head now is white:
And the nerves now are loos'd: in the veins
Only water (not blood now) remains
Where the pulse beat of old with delight.
Adieu! O my lyre! O adieu
You sweet women, my lost loves! and you,
Each dead passion! The end creepeth nigher.
Not one pastime of youth has kept pace
With my age: nought is left in their place
But the bed, and the cup, and the fire.
You sweet women, my lost loves! and you,
Each dead passion! The end creepeth nigher.
Not one pastime of youth has kept pace
With my age: nought is left in their place
But the bed, and the cup, and the fire.
344
My head is confused with low fears,
And sickness, and too many years,
Some care in each corner I meet.
And wherever I linger, or go,
I turn back, and look after, to know
If Death be still dogging my feet:
And sickness, and too many years,
Some care in each corner I meet.
And wherever I linger, or go,
I turn back, and look after, to know
If Death be still dogging my feet:
Dogging me down the dark stair
That windeth, I cannot tell where,
To some Pluto, that opens for ever
His cave to all comers: alas,
How easily down it all pass,
And return from it—never, ah never!
That windeth, I cannot tell where,
To some Pluto, that opens for ever
His cave to all comers: alas,
How easily down it all pass,
And return from it—never, ah never!
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |