LES METAMORPHOSES ANGLAISES

Les Métamorphoses anglaises de Chatterton peuvent être regardées comme une imitation d'Ovide, un poème mythologique. On peut remarquer qu'il n'a point choqué la vraisemblance en les attribuant à Rowley, son moine idéal du quinzième siècle ; car je vois qu'il y avait une traduction française des Métamorphoses d'Ovide dans la bibliothèque du duc Humphrey, et une autre écrite par un ecclésiastique normand en 1467.

Ce poème est fondé sur une partie de l'histoire de 10 Geoffroy de Monmouth, qui décrit le débarquement de Brutus, le partage de son royaume, l'histoire de sa mort, et la fin de son fils aîné Locrine, dans la guerre que fit contre lui Guendoline, sa femme ; la vengeance qu'il tira d^Elstrida, sa maîtresse, et de sa sœur Sabrina, en les faisant noyer dans la Severne, et l'ordre qu'il donna que cette rivière portât son nom. Les prin-cipaux faits sont pris dans cette histoire. Il y avait eu aussi en Angleterre une tragédie sur ce sujet, intitulée Locrine, qui, pendant quelque temps, fut attribuée 20 à Shakespeare, mais rayée depuis de ses œuvres.

Voici le commencement de ce poème :

ENGLISH METAMORPHOSIS

BlE T. ROWLEIE BOOK I

Whanne Scythyannes, salvage as the wolves theie

chacde Peyncted in horrowe ' formes bie nature dyghte ^, ^ Unseemly, dîsagreeable. ^ Dressed.

CHATTERTON 8y

Heckled ^ yn beastskyns, slepte uponne the waste And wyth the morneynge rouzed the wolfe to fyghte, Swefte as descendeynge lemes ^ of roddie lyghte, Plonged to the hulstred ^ bedde of laveynge ^ seas, Gerd ^ the blacke mountayn okes in drybblets ^

twighte '^ And ranne yn thoughte alonge the azuré mees, Whose eyne dyd féerie sheene, like blue-hayred defs ^, What dreerie hange upon Dover's emblaunched ^ lo clefs.

Un mois avant sa mort, Chatterton envoya la ballade qui suit à l'éditeur du journal appelé Tozvn and Country Magazine. Ce sont les derniers vers qu'il ait écrits, et c'est pour cela que je les ai choisis. Outre une rare perfection de style et de rythme, j'y trouve le jeune poète mieux représenté que dans des œuvres plus imposantes ; j'y vois une morale pure et toute fraternelle, enveloppée dans une composition simple, qui rappelle la parabole du Samaritain ; une satire 20 très fine, amenée sans effort, et ne dépassant jamais les idées et les expressions du siècle où elle semble écrite ; et, au fond de tout cela, le sentiment sourd, profond, désolant, inexorable d'une misère sans espérance, et que la Charité même ne saurait consoler.

* Wrapped. ^ Rays. ^ Hidden secret. * Washing.

^ Broke, rent, struck. ^ Small pièces. '^ Pulled, rent. ® Vapours, raiher spectres. ^ White.

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

As Wroten bie THE GoDE Prieste Thomas Rowley, 1464

In Virgyne tlie sweltrie sun gan sheene, And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie ; The apple rodded his paHe greene, And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie ; The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie : 'T was nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, And eke the grounde was dighte in its mose defte aumere.

The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie ; Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue, 10 When from the sea arist in drear arraie A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face. And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace.

Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side, Which dide untoe Seyncte Godwine's covent lede, A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide, Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weed, 20

Longe bretful of the miseries of neede. Where from the hail-stone coulde the aimer flie ? He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.

Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne ; Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, frowynd, deade ! Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne ! Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde. Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie bedde, Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves ; Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gathered storme is rype ; the bigge drops falle ; 10 The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine ; The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall. And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine ; Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe ; The welkin opes ; the yellow levynne Aies ; And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.

Liste ! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge Sound Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs, 20 Shake the hie spyre, and losst, dispensed, drown'd, Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges ; The windes are up ; the lofty elmen swanges ; Again the levynne and the thunder poures, And the fulle cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers-

Spurreynge his palfrie oere the w^atrie plaine, The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes covente came ; His chapournette w^as drented with the reine. And his pencte gyrdle met v^^ith mickle shame ; 30 He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same ; The storme encreasen, and he drew aside, With the mist aimes craver neere to the holme to bide.

His cope was ail of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne ; His autremete was edged with golden twynne,

And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte hâve binne ; Full welle it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne ; The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.

An aimes, sir priest ! the droppynge pilgrim saide, O ! let me waite within your covente dore, Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade. And the loude tempeste of the aire is ore ; Helpless and ould am I, alas ; and poor ; No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche ; lo Ail yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.

Varlet, replyde the Abatte, cease your dinne ; This is no season aimes and prayes to give ; Mie porter never lets in faitour in ; None touche mie rynge who not in honour live. And nowe the sonne with the black cloudes did

stryve, And shettynge on the grounde his glarrie raie, The Abatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde

awaie. 20

Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder roldé; Faste reyneynge ore the plaine a priest was seen ; Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned in golde ; His cop and jape were graie, and eke were clene ; A Limitoure he was of order seene ; And from the pathwaie side then turned he, Where the pore aimer laie binethe the holmen tree.

An aimes, sir priest ! the droppynge pilgrim saide, For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake. The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade, 30 And did thereoute a groate of silver take ; The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. Hère take this silver, it maie eathe thie care ; We are Goddes stewards ail, nete of oure owne we bare.

But ah ! unhaillie pilgrim, lerne of me, Scathe anie give a rentroUe to their Lorde. Hère take my semecope, thou arte bare I see ; 'Tis thyne ; the Seynctes will give mie rewarde. He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, Or give the mitte will, or give the gode man power.