Part 5

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 dead. The first is Chastity, that vanquished The archer Love, that held joint empery With the sweet beauty that made war on me, When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed.

Their strife the Fates have closed, with stern control, The earth holds her fair body, and her soul An angel with glad angels triumpheth; Love has no more that he can do; desire Is buried, and my heart a faded fire, And for Death’s sake, I am in love with Death.

HIS LADY’S TOMB.

RONSARD, 1550.

AS in the gardens, all through May, the rose, Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled, Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; Graces and Loves within her breast repose, The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose,—

So this, the perfect beauty of our days, When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise, The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes; And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, That dead, as living, she may be with roses.

SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.

JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.

WITHIN the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? What highest circle of the Heavens above Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes? And where is the rich sea whose coral vies With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof The fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise?

What Parian marble that is loveliest, Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast? When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade? Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!

MOONLIGHT.

JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.

THE high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a shining star in shining skies, And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. Far in dim fields cicalas jargonéd A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, With pallor of the sad moon overspread.

Then came my lady to that lonely place, And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, And sweeter is the shadow than the light, Since night has made me such a happy lover.

LOVE IN MAY.

PASSERAT, 1580.

OFF with sleep, love, up from bed, This fair morn; See, for our eyes the rosy red New dawn is born; Now that skies are glad and gay In this gracious month of May, Love me, sweet, Fill my joy in brimming measure, In this world he hath no pleasure, That will none of it.

Come, love, through the woods of spring, Come walk with me; Listen, the sweet birds jargoning From tree to tree. List and listen, over all Nightingale most musical That ceases never; Grief begone, and let us be For a space as glad as he; Time’s flitting ever.

Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears Wings swift in flight; All our happy life he bears Far in the night. Old and wrinkled on a day, Sad and weary shall you say, ‘Ah, fool was I, That took no pleasure in the grace Of the flower that from my face Time has seen die.’

Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears Till we be old; Young we are, and of our years Till youth be cold Pluck the flower; while spring is gay In this happy month of May, Love me, love; Fill our joy in brimming measure; In this world he hath no pleasure That will none thereof.