Unfortunately, the neglect which has so long attended the old historic and heroic romances of the North of France has also befallen in some degree its early lyric poetry. Little has yet been done to discover and bring forth its riches; and doubtless many a sweet little ballad and melancholy complaint lies buried in the dust of the thirteenth century. It is not, however, my object, in this paper, to give a historical sketch of this ancient and almost forgotten poetry, but simply to bring forward a few specimens which shall exhibit its most striking and obvious characteristics.
In these examples it would be in vain to look for high-wrought expression suited to the prevailing taste of the present day. Their most striking peculiarity, and perhaps their greatest merit, consists in the simple and direct expression of feeling which they contain. This feeling, too, is one which breathes the languor of that submissive homage which was paid to beauty in the days of chivalry; and I am aware, that, in this age of masculine and matter-of-fact thinking, the love-conceits of a more poetic state of society are generally looked upon as extremely trivial and puerile. Nevertheless I shall venture to present one or two of these simple ballads, which, by recalling the distant age wherein they were composed, may peradventure please by the power of contrast.
I have just remarked that one of the greatest beauties of these ancient ditties is naïveté of thought and simplicity of expression. These I shall endeavour to preserve as far as possible in the translation, though I am fully conscious how much the sparkling beauty of an original loses in being filtered through the idioms of a foreign language.
The favorite theme of the ancient lyric poets of the North of France is the wayward passion of love. They all delight to sing “les douces dolors et It mal plaisant define amor.” With such feelings the beauties of the opening spring are naturally associated. Almost every love-ditty of the old poets commences with some such exordium as this:— “When the snows of winter have passed away, when the soft and gentle spring returns, and the flower and leaf shoot in the groves, and the little birds warble to their mates in their own sweet language, — then will I sing my lady-love!”
Another favorite introduction to these little rhapsodies of romantic passion is the approach of morning and its sweet-voiced herald, the lark. The minstrel’s song to his lady-love frequently commences with an allusion to the hour
“When the rose-bud opes its een,
And the bluebells droop and die,
And upon the leaves so green
Sparkling dew-drops lie.”
The following is at once the simplest and prettiest piece of this kind which I have met with among the early lyric poets of the North of France. It is taken from an anonymous poem, entitled “The Paradise of Love.” A lover, having passed the “livelong night in tears, as he was wont,” goes forth to beguile his sorrows with the fragrance and beauty of morning. The carol of the vaulting skylark salutes his ear, and to this merry musician he makes his complaint.
Hark! hark!
Pretty lark!
Little heedest thou my pain!
But if to these longing arms.
Pitying Love would yield the charms
Of the fair
With smiling air,
Blithe would beat my heart again.
Hark! hark!
Pretty lark!
Little heedest thou my pain!
Love may force me still to bear,
While he lists, consuming care;
But in anguish
Though I languish, Faithful shall my heart remain.
Hark! hark!
Pretty lark!
Little heedest thou my pain!
Then cease, Love, to torment me so;
But rather than all thoughts forego
Of the fair
With flaxen hair,
Give me back her frowns again.
Hark! hark!
Pretty lark!
Little heedest thou my pain!
Besides the “woful ballad made to his mistress’s eyebrow,” the early lyric poet frequently indulges in more calmly analyzing the philosophy of love, or in questioning the object and destination of a sigh. Occasionally these quaint conceits are prettily expressed, and the little song flutters through the page like a butterfly. The following is an example.
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Breathed so softly in my ear?
Say, dost thou bear his fate severe
To Love’s poor martyr doomed to die?
Come, tell me quickly, — do not lie;
What secret message bring’st thou here?
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Breathed so softly in my ear?
May Heaven conduct thee to thy will,
And safely speed thee on thy way;
This only I would humbly pray, —
Pierce deep, — but, O! forbear to kill.
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Breathed so softly in my ear?
The ancient lyric poets of France are generally spoken of as a class, and their beauties and defects referred to them collectively, and not individually. In truth, there are few characteristic marks by which any individual author can be singled out and ranked above the rest. The lyric poets of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries stand upon nearly the same level. But in the fifteenth century there were two who surpassed all their contemporaries in the beauty and delicacy of their sentiments; and in the sweetness of their diction, and the structure of their verse, stand far in advance of the age in which they lived. These are Charles d’Orléans and Clotilde de Surville.
Charles, Duke of Orléans, the father of Louis the Twelfth, and uncle of Francis the First, was born in 1391. In the general tenor of his life, the peculiar character of his mind, and his talent for poetry, there is a striking resemblance between this noble poet and James the First of Scotland, his contemporary. Both were remarkable for learning and refinement; both passed a great portion of their lives in sorrow and imprisonment; and both cheered the solitude of their prison-walls with the charms of poetry. Charles d’Orléans was taken prisoner at the battle of Agincourt, in 1415, and carried into England, where he remained twenty-five years in captivity. It was there that he composed the greater part of his poetry.
The poems of this writer exhibit a singular delicacy of thought and sweetness of expression. The following little Renouveaux, or songs on the return of spring, are full of delicacy and beauty.
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.
The second upon the same subject presents a still more agreeable picture of the departure of winter and the return of spring.
Gentle spring! — in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display!
For winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou, — thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires
, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round in a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, — and winter surly,
Who has toiled for naught both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.
The only person of that age who can dispute the laurel with Charles d’Orléans is Clotilde de Surville. This poetess was born in the Bas-Vivarais, in the year 1405. Her style is singularly elegant and correct; and the reader who will take the trouble to decipher her rude provincial orthography will find her writings full of quiet beauty. The following lines, which breathe the very soul of maternal tenderness, are part of a poem to her first-born.
Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face,
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s breast!
Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come that cometh not to me!
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; —
‘T is sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee!
His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, — how still and calm!
Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow,
Would you not say he slept on death’s cold arm?
Awake, my boy! — I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought! — unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light!
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!
Sweet error! — he but slept; — I breathe again; —
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!
O, when shall he for whom I sigh in vain
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?
But upon this theme I have written enough, perhaps too much.
“‘This may be poetry, for aught I know,
Says an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning
Over my shoulder as I write,— ‘although
I can’t exactly comprehend its meaning.’”
I have touched upon the subject before me in a brief and desultory manner, and have purposely left my remarks unencumbered by learned reference and far-sought erudition; for these are ornaments which would ill become so trivial a pen as this wherewith I write, though, perchance, the want of them will render my essay unsatisfactory to the scholar and the critic. But I am emboldened thus to skim with a light wing over this poetic lore of the past, by the reflection, that the greater part of my readers belong not to that grave and serious class who love the deep wisdom which lies in quoting from a quaint, forgotten tome, and are ready on all occasions to say, “Commend me to the owl!”
THE BAPTISM OF FIRE.
The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise; the Christian blood you spill is like the seed you sow, — it springs from the earth again and fructifies the more.
TERTULLIAN.
As day was drawing to a close, and the rays of the setting sun climbed slowly up the dungeon wall, the prisoner sat and read in a tome with silver clasps. He was a man in the vigor of his days, with a pale and noble countenance, that wore less the marks of worldly care than of high and holy thought. His temples were already bald; but a thick and curling beard bespoke the strength of manhood; and his eye, dark, full, and eloquent, beamed with all the enthusiasm of a martyr.
The book before him was a volume of the early Christian Fathers. He was reading the Apologetic of the eloquent Tertullian, the oldest and ablest writer of the Latin Church. At times he paused, and raised his eyes to heaven as if in prayer, and then read on again in silence. At length a passage seemed to touch his inmost soul. He read aloud: —
“Give us, then, what names you please; from the instruments of cruelty you torture us by, call us Sarmenticians and Semaxians, because you fasten us to trunks of trees, and stick us about with fagots to set us on fire; yet let me tell you, when we are thus begirt and dressed about with fire, we are then in our most illustrious apparel. These are our victorious palms and robes of glory; and, mounted on our funeral pile, we look upon ourselves in our triumphal chariot. No wonder, then, such passive heroes please not those they vanquish with such conquering sufferings. And therefore we pass for men of despair, and violently bent upon our own destruction. However, what you are pleased to call madness and despair in us are the very actions which, under virtue’s standard, lift up your sons of fame and glory, and emblazon them to future ages.”
He arose and paced the dungeon to and fro, with folded arms and a firm step. His thoughts held communion with eternity.
“Father which art in heaven!” he exclaimed, “give me strength to die like those holy men of old, who scorned to purchase life at the expense of truth. That truth has made me free; and though condemned on earth, I know that I am absolved in heaven!”
He again seated himself at his table, and read in that tome with silver clasps.
This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourg; a man who feared not man; once a merciful judge in that august tribunal upon whose voice hung the life and death of those who were persecuted for conscience’s sake, he was now himself an accused, a convicted heretic, condemned to the baptism of fire, because he would not unrighteously condemn others. He had dared to plead the cause of suffering humanity before that dread tribunal, and, in the presence of the king himself, to declare that it was an offence to the majesty of God to shed man’s blood in his name. Six weary months, — from June to December, — he had lain a prisoner in that dungeon, from which a death by fire was soon to set him free. Such was the clemency of Henry the Second!
As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled with tears. He still gazed upon the printed page, but it was a blank before his eyes. His thoughts 9
were far away amid the scenes of his childhood, amid the green valleys of Riom and the Golden Mountains of Auvergne. Some simple word had called up the vision of the past. He wàs a child again. He was playing with the pebbles of the brook, — he was shouting to the echo of the hills, — he was praying at his mother’s knee, with his little hands clasped in hers.
This dream of childhood was broken by the grating of bolts and bars, as the jailer opened his prison-door. A moment afterward, his former colleague, De Harley, stood at his side.
“Thou here!” exclaimed the prisoner, surprised at the visit. “Thou in the dungeon of a heretic! On what errand hast thou come?”
“On an errand of mercy,” replied De Harley. “I come to tell thee—”
“That the hour of my death draws near?”
“That thou mayst still be saved.”
“Yes; if I will bear false witness against my God, — barter heaven for earth, — an eternity for a few brief days of worldly existence. Lost, thou shouldst say, — lost, not saved!”
“No! saved!” cried De Harley with warmth; “saved from a death of shame and an eternity of woe! Renounce this false doctrine, — this abominable heresy, — and return again to the bosom of the church which thou dost rend with strife and dissension.”
“God judge between thee and me, which has embraced the truth.”
“His hand already smites thee.”
“It has fallen more heavily upon those who so unjustly persecute me. Where is the king? — he who said that with his own eyes he would behold me perish at the stake? — he to whom the undaunted Du Faur cried, like Elijah to Ahab, ‘It is thou who troublest Israel!’ — Where is the king? Called, through a sudden and violent death, to the judgment-seat of Heaven! — Where is Minard, the persecutor of the just? Slain by the hand of an assassin! It was not without reason that I said to him, when standing before my accusers, ‘Tremble! believe the word of o
ne who is about to appear before God; thou likewise shalt stand there soon, — thou that sheddest the blood of the children of peace.’ He has gone to his account before me.”
“And that menace has hastened thine own condemnation. Minard was slain by the Huguenots, and it is whispered that thou wast privy to his death.”
“This, at least, might have been spared a dying man!” replied the prisoner, much agitated by so unjust and so unexpected an accusation. “As I hope for mercy hereafter, I am innocent of the blood of this man, and of all knowledge of so foul a crime. But, tell me, hast thou come here only to embitter my last hours with such an accusation as this? If so, I pray thee, leave me. My moments are precious. I would be alone.”
“I came to offer thee life, freedom, and happiness.”
u Life, — freedom, — happiness! At the price thou hast set upon them, I scorn them all! Had the apostles and martyrs of the early Christian church listened to such paltry bribes as these, where were now the faith in which we trust? These holy men of old shall answer for me. Hear what Justin Martyr says, in his earnest appeal to Antonine the Pious, in behalf of the Christians who in his day were unjustly loaded with public odium and oppression.”
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 189
