Part 3

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.

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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.