Ballads, Lyrics, and Poems of Old France Part 2

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 sh.o.r.e, 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

MY lady woke upon a morning fair, What time Apollo's chariot takes the skies, And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes His empty quiver, Love was standing there: I saw two apples that her breast doth bear None such the close of the Hesperides Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these, Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.

Even such a bosom, and so fair it was, Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, That sad Andromeda's discomfiture Left bare, when Perseus pa.s.sed her on a day, And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.

HIS LADY'S DEATH.

RONSARD, 1550.

TWAIN that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled; One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun, A light of love among the loveless dead.

The first is Chast.i.ty, that vanquished The archer Love, that held joint empery With the sweet beauty that made war on me, When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed.

Their strife the Fates have closed, with stern control, The earth holds her fair body, and her soul An angel with glad angels triumpheth; Love has no more that he can do; desire Is buried, and my heart a faded fire, And for Death's sake, I am in love with Death.

HIS LADY'S TOMB.

RONSARD, 1550.

AS in the gardens, all through May, the rose, Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled, Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; Graces and Loves within her breast repose, The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose,-

So this, the perfect beauty of our days, When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise, The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes; And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, That dead, as living, she may be with roses.

SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.

JACQUES TAHUREAU, 15271555.

WITHIN the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?

What highest circle of the Heavens above Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?

And where is the rich sea whose coral vies With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?

What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof The fled soul lives in her cheeks' rosy guise?

What Parian marble that is loveliest, Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast?

When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade?

Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabaean, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!