PÉRIODE DE LA RENAISSANCE

The Skylark.

(l’Alouette des champs).

Pierre de Ronsard.

Shall any poet dare deny,

Thee praise in verse, dear Lark®? Not I.

For me, thy warble I will well

O’er all the birds to celebrate

That poisoned are in cages strait

And all that in the green wood dwell.

How goodly thee it is to hear,

Whenas the fields the ploughers ear When the earth smells of coming Spring And blither is for thy sweet air

Than angered for the wound the share, Delves in its bosom furrowing !

As soon as by morning dew

At break of day thou’rt sprent anew With babblings of a thousand kinds The air thou fillest, wagg’st on high Thy wings, and hanging in the sky Thy loves thou tellest to the winds.

Then dropping down from Heaven’s height In some green furrow thou dost light Whether to lay thine eggs God wot,

Or sit and hatch or seek for food,

For bringing to thy fledgling brood, Worms, emmets, maggots or what not.

And I upon the sward recline,

With one ear to that tune of thine

J hearken, and with t’other one

I list the youngling Shepherd-maid Beneath some ferns concealing shade Who trills her ditty in the sun.

And ! Happy art thou over men, Thou lovesome skylark ! say I then, That fear of nothing hast nor care Nor aye to others good wast fain Nor ever heartache for disdain

Hast suffered of à cruel fair.

Indeed ïf any care thee fret

It is to sleep, when sun hath set

And with thy songs the morning-mirk When Eos’ hands begin to break

The hinds and shepherds to awake And cheer them to their daily work.

But I, in sorrow still I bide

For à fair cruel lady’s pride

My faith with falsehood who repays.

And who to lengthen evermo’

The sorry fabric of my woe

New labours still upon me lays.

Adieu to Life.

(Adieu à la vie).

Pierre de Ronsard.

My pleasaut youth is passed away.

Spent is the strength in me to-day.

Black are my teeth and white my head My nerves are slack and in my veins So cold my body is, remains

In lieu of blood, but water red.

Adieu, my lyre and lasses fair

That were my winsome loves whilere !

Adieu ! I feel mine end draw nigh.

No pastime of that youth of mine Save only bed and fire and wine

To comfort me in age have I.

All with infirmities and weight

Of years, astonied is my pate Cares pour all quarters bite on me And still where’er I go or stand

I fearful look on every hand Lest death upon my track I see.

Death anytide which may be, God wot Bear me where harbours I know not.

What manner Pluto, who an inn

For all keeps open, high and low Wbheras one enters eath enow

But whence none ever out might win.

April.

(Avril).

Selected Stanzas. (Stances choisies). Remi Belleau.

April, the pride of the days And the ways

April fair hope of the fruit

Still in the mothering gown Of the down

Fostering their youth in the shoot

April, the pride of the fields and the wealds Thou that the meadows with flowers Pers and ind, golden and blue Hue on hue, Gemm’st with thy life-giving showers.

April, the pride of the breeze in the trees.

Pride of the sprites of the air, That in the heart of the brake Weave and make.

Nets to catch Flora the fair.

Hearken how Philomel fair, Debonair,

Trills from her sylvan retreat

Broid’ring the murderous shade Of the glade

Stil with her canzonet sweet

But I forsooth, 1 give my voice and my choice To the month that its lovesome name owes To the Goddess so frank and «0 free

From the sea.

Of old that in bubbles arose!.

Of Poet’s Immortality.

(De l’Immortalité du Poète).

Stances Choisies. Joachim du Bellay.

Some men through divers dangers woo, The honours ot the conquering sword.

And some by Sea and flood ensue

Labour to swell their golden hoard

This of the palace studieth the report

And that the wind of favour still doth court.

But I whom dear the Muses hold

I hate the honours born to die

I hate the cares that make hearts cold,

I hate the goods for which men vie;

Nought pleaseth me of that which findeth grace In the gross eyes of the vile populace.