Ballads, Lyrics and Poems of Old France | Page 2

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 siecle, et le plus dextre a 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.

GERARD 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. Ampere.
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.]
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.]
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 Francois Villon wrote of
himself and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.]
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