Ballads, Lyrics and Poems of Old France | Page 3

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.]
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 {1}?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