What more? Where is the third Calixt,
Last of that name now dead and gone,
Who held four years the Papalist?
Alphonso king of Aragon,
The gracious lord, duke of Bourbon,
And Arthur, duke of old Britaine?
And Charles the Seventh, that worthy one?
Even with the good knight Charlemain.
The Scot too, king of mount and mist,
With half his face vermilion,
Men tell us, like an amethyst
From brow to chin that blazed and shone;
The Cypriote king of old renown,
Alas! and that good king of Spain,
Whose name I cannot think upon?
Even with the good knight Charlemain.
No more to say of them I list;
’Tis all but vain, all dead and done:
For death may no man born resist,
Nor make appeal when death comes on.
I make yet one more question;
Where’s Lancelot, king of far Bohain?
Where’s he whose grandson called him son?
Even with the good knight Charlemain.
Where is Guesclin, the good Breton?
The lord of the eastern mountainchain,
And the good late duke of Alençon?
Even with the good knight Charlemain.
BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS
Albeit the Venice girls get praise
For their sweet speech and tender air,
And though the old women have wise ways
Of chaffering for amorous ware,
Yet at my peril dare I swear,
Search Rome, where God’s grace mainly tarries,
Florence and Savoy, everywhere,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
The Naples women, as folk prattle,
Are sweetly spoken and subtle enough:
German girls are good at tattle,
And Prussians make their boast thereof;
Take Egypt for the next remove,
Or that waste land the Tartar harries,
Spain or Greece, for the matter of love,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
Breton and Swiss know nought of the matter,
Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse;
Two fishwives here with a halfhour’s chatter
Would shut them up by threes and twos;
Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews,
(Names enow the mad song marries)
England and Picardy, search them and choose,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
Prince, give praise to our French ladies
For the sweet sound their speaking carries;
‘Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is,
But no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
BALLAD WRITTEN FOR A BRIDEGROOM
WHICH VILLON GAVE TO A GENTLEMAN NEWLY MARRIED TO SEND TO HIS WIFE WHOM HE HAD WON WITH THE SWORD
At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings,
No whit for grief, but noble heart and high,
With loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs,
And takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh;
Such good I wish you! Yea, and heartily
I am fired with hope of true love’s meed to get;
Know that Love writes it in his book; for why,
This is the end for which we twain are met.
Mine own heart’s lady with no gainsayings
You shall be always wholly till I die;
And in my right against all bitter things
Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try;
Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by
(Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret)
Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly;
This is the end for which we twain are met.
And, which is more, when grief about me clings
Through Fortune’s fit or fume of jealousy,
Your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings
As wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye.
Thus in your field my seed of harvestry
Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set;
God bids me tend it with good husbandry;
This is the end for which we twain are met.
Princess, give ear to this my summary;
That heart of mine your heart’s love should forget
Shall never be: like trust in you put I:
This is the end for which we twain are met.
BALLAD AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE
May he fall in with beasts that scatter fire,
Like Jason, when he sought the fleece of gold,
Or change from man to beast three years entire,
As King Nebuchadnezzar did of old;
Or else have times as shameful and as bad
As Trojan folk for ravished Helen had;
Or gulfed with Proserpine and Tantalus
Let hell’s deep fen devour him dolorous,
With worse to bear than Job’s worst sufferance,
Bound in his prisonmaze with Dædalus,
Who could wish evil to the state of France!
May he four months, like bitterns in the mire,
Howl with head downmost in the lakesprings cold,
Or to bear harness like strong bulls for hire
To the Great Turk for money down be sold;
Or thirty years like Magdalen live sad,
With neither wool nor web of linen clad;
Drown like Narciss’, or swing down pendulous
Like Absalom with locks luxurious,
Or liker Judas fallen to reprobance;
Or find such death as Simon sorcerous,
Who could wish evil to the state of France!
May the old times come of fierce Octavian’s ire,
And in his belly molten coin be told;
May he like Victor in the mill expire,
Crushed between moving millstones on him rolled,
Or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad
Than in the whale’s bulk Jonas, when God bade:
From Phœbus’ light, from Juno’s treasurehouse
Driven, and from joys of Venus amorous,
And cursed of God most high to the utterance,
As was the Syrian king Antiochus,
Who could wish evil to the state of France!
Prince, may the brightwinged brood of Æolus
To seaking Glaucus’ wild wood cavernous
Bear him bereft of peace and hope’s least glance,
For worthless is he to get good of us,
Who could wish evil to the state of France.
THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND BODY OF FRANÇOIS VILLON
Who is this I hear? — Lo, this is I, thine heart,
That holds on merely now by a slender string.
Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart,
The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing,
Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering. —
Yea, and for what? — For that thy sense found sweet. —
What irks it thee? — I feel the sting of it. —
Leave me at peace. — Why? — Nay now, leave me at peace;
I will repent when I grow ripe in wit. —
I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. —
What art thou, trow? — A man worth praise, perfay. —
This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring. —
’Tis a mule’s age. — Art thou a boy still? — Nay. —
Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting,
Grasping thy throat? Know’st thou not anything? —
Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies,
I can make out. — No more? — Nay, in no wise.
Shall I begin again the count of these? —
Thou art undone. — I will make s
hift to rise. —
I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. —
I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart.
Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit,
Then might’st thou plead this pretext with thine heart;
But if thou know not good from evil a whit,
Either thy head is hard as stone to hit,
Or shame, not honour, gives thee most content.
What canst thou answer to this argument? —
When I am dead I shall be well at ease. —
God! what good hope! — Thou art over eloquent. —
I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. —
Whence is this ill? — From sorrow and not from sin.
When Saturn packed my wallet up for me
I well believe he put these ills therein. —
Fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee?
Hear now the wise king’s counsel; thus saith he:
All power upon the stars a wise man hath;
There is no planet that shall do him scathe. —
Nay, as they made me I grow and I decrease. —
What say’st thou? — Truly this is all my faith. —
I say no more. — I care not though thou cease. —
Wouldst thou live still? — God help me that I may! —
Then thou must — What? turn penitent and pray? —
Read always — What? — Grave words and good to say;
Leave off the ways of fools, lest they displease. —
Good; I will do it. — Wilt thou remember? — Yea. —
Abide not till there come an evil day.
I say no more. — I care not though thou cease.
EPISTLE IN FORM OF A BALLAD TO HIS FRIENDS
Have pity, pity, friends, have pity on me,
Thus much at least, may it please you, of your grace!
I lie not under hazel or hawthorntree
Down in this dungeon ditch, mine exile’s place
By leave of God and fortune’s foul disgrace.
Girls, lovers, glad young folk and newly wed,
Jumpers and jugglers, tumbling heel o’er head,
Swift as a dart, and sharp as needleware,
Throats clear as bells that ring the kine to shed,
Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?
Singers that sing at pleasure, lawlessly,
Light, laughing, gay of word and deed, that race
And run like folk lightwitted as ye be
And have in hand nor current coin nor base,
Ye wait too long, for now he’s dying apace.
Rhymers of lays and roundels sung and read,
Ye’ll brew him broth too late when he lies dead.
Nor wind nor lightning, sunbeam nor fresh air,
May pierce the thick wall’s bound where lies his bed;
Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?
O noble folk from tithes and taxes free,
Come and behold him in this piteous case,
Ye that nor king nor emperor holds in fee,
But only God in heaven; behold his face
Who needs must fast, Sundays and holidays,
Which makes his teeth like rakes; and when he hath fed
With never a cake for banquet but dry bread,
Must drench his bowels with much cold watery fare,
With board nor stool, but low on earth instead;
Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?
Princes aforenamed, old and young foresaid,
Get me the king’s seal and my pardon sped,
And hoist me in some basket up with care:
So swine will help each other ill bested,
For where one squeaks they run in heaps ahead.
Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?
THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD
WHICH VILLON MADE FOR HIMSELF AND HIS COMRADES, EXPECTING TO BE HANGED ALONG WITH THEM
Men, brother men, that after us yet live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
For if some pity of us poor men ye give,
The sooner God shall take of you pity.
Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;
Let no man laugh at us discomforted,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,
Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive
Have not wit alway to walk righteously;
Make therefore intercession heartily
With him that of a virgin’s womb was bred,
That his grace be not as a dry wellhead
For us, nor let hell’s thunder on us fall;
We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
The rain has washed and laundered us all five,
And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie,
Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive
Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee
Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free,
Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,
Drive at its wild will by the wind’s change led,
More pecked of birds than fruits on gardenwall;
Men, for God’s love, let no gibe here be said,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,
Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;
We have nought to do in such a master’s hall.
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
FROM VICTOR HUGO
Take heed of this small child of earth;
He is great: he hath in him God most high.
Children before their fleshly birth
Are lights alive in the blue sky.
In our light bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,
And his forgiveness in their smile.
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are hungry, Paradise
Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin’s ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.
Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,
When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
He sends us clothed about with wings,
And finds them ragged babes that weep!
NOCTURNE
La nuit écoute et se penche sur l’onde
Pour y cueillir rien qu’un souffle d’amour;
Pas de lueur, pas de musique au monde,
Pas de sommeil pour moi ni de séjour.
O mère, ô Nuit, de ta source profonde
Versenous, verse enfin l’oubli du jour.
Verse l’oubli de l’angoisse et du jour;
Chante; ton chant assoupit l’âme et l’onde:
Fais de ton sein pour mon âme un séjour,
Elle est bien lasse, ô mère, de ce monde,
Où le baiser ne veut pas dire amour,
Où l’âme aimée est moins que toi profonde.
Car toute chose aimée est moins profonde,
O Nuit, que toi, fille et mère du jour;
Toi dont l’attente est le répit du monde,
Toi dont le souffle est plein de mots d’amour,
Toi dont l’haleine enfle et réprime l’onde,
Toi dont l’ombre
a tout le ciel pour séjour.
La misère humble et lasse, sans séjour,
S’abrite et dort sous ton aile profonde;
Tu fais à tous l’aumône de l’amour:
Toutes les soifs viennent boire à ton onde,
Tout ce qui pleure et se dérobe au jour,
Toutes les faims et tous les maux du monde.
Moi seul je veille et ne vois dans ce monde
Que ma douleur qui n’ait point de séjour
Où s’abriter sur ta rive profonde
Et s’endormir sous tes yeux loin du jour;
Je vais toujours cherchant au bord de l’onde
Le sang du beau pied blessé de l’amour.
La mer est sombre où tu naquis, amour,
Pleine des pleurs et des sanglots du monde;
On ne voit plus le gouffre où naît le jour
Luire et frémir sous ta lueur profonde;
Mais dans les cœurs d’homme où tu fais séjour
La douleur monte et baisse comme une onde.
ENVOI
Fille de l’onde et mère de l’amour,
Du haut séjour plein de ta paix profonde
Sur ce bas monde épands un peu de jour.
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
Pour mettre une couronne au front d’une chanson,
Il semblait qu’en passant son pied semât des roses,
Et que sa main cueillît comme des fleurs écloses
Les étoiles au fond du ciel en floraison.
Sa parole de marbre et d’or avait le son
Des clairons de l’été chassant les jours moroses;
Comme en Thrace Apollon banni des grands cieux roses,
Il regardait du cœur l’Olympe, sa maison.
Le soleil fut pour lui le soleil du vieux monde,
Et son œil recherchait dans les flots embrasés
Le sillon immortel d’où s’élança sur l’onde
Vénus, que la mer molle enivrait de baisers:
Enfin, dieu ressaisi de sa splendeur premiére,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 68
