Ballads, Lyrics and Poems of Old France | Page 3

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.]
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,