Ballads, Lyrics and Poems of Old France | Page 4

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 at random strown.
By this, their sure
example, be it known,
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,

Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,
Flowerlike, and brief of
days, as the flower sown.
Ah, time is flying, lady--time is flying;
Nay, 'tis not time that flies but
we that go,
Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of
our loving parley none shall know,
Nor any man consider what we
were;
Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.
THE ROSE.
RONSARD, 1550.
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose

Her purple mantle to the light,
Lost, before the day be dead,
The
glory of her raiment red,
Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours,
The petals of her purple flowers


All have faded, fallen, died;
Sad Nature, mother ruinous,
That seest
thy fair child perish thus
'Twixt matin song and even tide.
Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
Gather the fleet flower of your
youth,
Take ye your pleasure at the best;
Be merry ere your beauty
flit,
For length of days will tarnish it
Like roses that were loveliest.
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
shore,
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 passed 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