Everything is Oll Korrect!

An eclectic bibliophile's journal…

Category: 100 Friends (100 Poems 100 Poets)

Twenty-Second Friend: François Villon, “Ballade des dames du temps jadis”

In ABC of Reading, Ezra Pound wrote that a man can’t fully understand poetry if he reads only one language. Later on, when listing authors important to the development of English poetry he also included a few Frenchman. With both those points in mind, I thought it would be appropriate to include a few French poets even though the focus of this list is on English authors. So, today we’ll meet M. François Villon.

M. Villon is a pseudonym for François de Montcorbier or François des Loges, who was born in Paris in 1431. He led such an eventful life that it’s worth reading at least an article about him, but in short he spent much of his life in prison and banishment, for such crimes as robbery and killing a priest during a fight between them and some drinking friends, and traveling around France. The last we hear of him, he was on death row for his part in a brawl, but that sentence was commuted to ten years banishment from Paris by the Parlement in January 1563. What happened to him next is unkown.

As for his poetry, I’m not familiar enough with French verse to offer HSOs of my own so I’ll have to lean on others’ accounts. His poetry is technically impressive with difficult metres and rhyme schemes, and he was quite knowledgeable of the world of poetry past and present. It seems that his medieval university education did indeed take hold, despite his raucous lifestyle. His best-known work is the long poem Le Testament, which expresses his fears and laments his wasted youth. Let’s take a look at a selection from Le Testament, “Ballade des dames du temps jadis” (“Ballade of Ladies of Time Gone By”).

Dictes moy où, n’en quel pays,
Est Flora, la belle Romaine ;
Archipiada, ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine;
Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine
Dessus rivière ou sus estan,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Où est la très sage Heloïs,
Pour qui fut chastré et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart à Sainct-Denys?
Pour son amour eut cest essoyne.
Semblablement, où est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust jetté en ung sac en Seine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

La royne Blanche comme ung lys,
Qui chantoit à voix de sereine;
Berthe au grand pied, Bietris, Allys;
Harembourges qui tint le Mayne,
Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine,
Qu’Anglois bruslerent à Rouen;
Où sont-ilz, Vierge souveraine ?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Prince, n’enquerez de sepmaine
Où elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu’à ce refrain ne vous remaine:
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!…

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Vingt-et-deuxième Ami: François Villon, “Ballade des dames du temps jadis”

Dans ABC of Reading, Ezra Pound a écrit qu’un homme ne peut pas comprendre la poésie s’il ne lit qu’une seule langue. Il a énuméré des auteurs importants pour le développement de la poésie anglaise et il a inclus quelques Français. En gardant ce point à l’esprit, j’ai pensé qu’il serait approprié de discuter d’un des poètes mentionnés par Pound comme étant importants pour la poésie anglaise. Nous allons donc rencontrer aujourd’hui François Villon.

François Villon c’est un pseudonyme de François de Montcorbier ou François des Loges, qui est né à Paris en 1431. Sa vie était très intéressante, alors il vaut la peine de lire au moins un article à son sujet, mais, brièvement, il passa une grande partie de sa vie en prison et au bannissement pour des crimes comme le brigandage et l’assassinat d’un prêtre lors d’une bagarre.  La dernière chose que nous savons de lui, en janvier 1463, il a était condamnés à mort pour sa part dans une bagarre, mais cette peine a été commuée en bannissement à Paris par le Parlement. Le reste de sa vie est inconnu.

Quant à sa poésie, je ne connais pas très bien le vers français, je devrai donc me fier aux descriptions des autres. Sa poésie est techniquement impressionnante, avec des compteurs et des schémas de rimes difficiles. Il semble que ses études universitaires médiévales se soient effectivement établies malgré sa vie de bohème. Son œuvre la plus connue est le long poème Le Testament, qui exprime ses peurs et déplore sa jeunesse perdue. Jetons un coup d’oeil à une sélection du Testament, “Ballade des dames du temps jadis”.

Dictes moy où, n’en quel pays,
Est Flora, la belle Romaine ;
Archipiada, ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine;
Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine
Dessus rivière ou sus estan,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Où est la très sage Heloïs,
Pour qui fut chastré et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart à Sainct-Denys?
Pour son amour eut cest essoyne.
Semblablement, où est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust jetté en ung sac en Seine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

La royne Blanche comme ung lys,
Qui chantoit à voix de sereine;
Berthe au grand pied, Bietris, Allys;
Harembourges qui tint le Mayne,
Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine,
Qu’Anglois bruslerent à Rouen;
Où sont-ilz, Vierge souveraine ?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Prince, n’enquerez de sepmaine
Où elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu’à ce refrain ne vous remaine:
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

C’est excellent et j’aime beaucoup la ligne “Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!” L’image de la neige fonctionne bien car elle est belle tant qu’elle dure, mais bien sûr, elle ne dure pas très longtemps. La ligne “La royne blanche comme un lys” est astucieux. Ce poème est aussi une longueur parfaite, assez long pour qu’il cite plusieurs exemples de femmes célèbres du passé (et gardez à l’esprit, un thème du Le Testament est la mort et la vieillesse) et donne son point être ennuyeux.…

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Twenty-First Friend: Sir John Denham, “A Song”

Our next friend is another one of our good ol’ Cavalier buddies. Sir John Denham was born in Dublin in 1615 and lived to 1669, a lawyer and the son of the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench in Ireland. That sounds like an impressive title, and when his father died Sir John did inherit a great deal of property. During the English Civil War he was sheriff of Surrey and made a brief attempt to defend Farnham Castle against Parliamentary forces; after the war his estates were confiscated and he lived abroad with Charles II, though Cromwell did give him permission to live in Suffolk in 1658.

In literature, he’s best-known for two works, a blank verse tragedy called The Sophy, and a pastoral poem called “Cooper’s Hill.” Fans of the latter include no lesser figure than Dr. Samuel Johnson, who, despite a few criticisms, said that it “is the work that confers upon him the rank and dignity of an original author.” He adds:

To trace a new scheme of poetry has in itself a very high claim to praise, and its praise is yet more when it is apparently copied by [Samuel] Garth and [Alexander] Pope; after whose names little will be gained by an enumeration of smaller poets, that have left scarce a corner of the island not dignified either by rhyme or blank verse.

He also has good things to say about Sir John’s poem written on the death of Abraham Cowley, whom we’ve met previously.

Today I’ll share a shorter poem, simply titled “A Song” and which is taken from The Sophy.

Somnus, the humble god, that dwells
In cottages and smoky cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down,
And, though he fears no prince’s frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod
Dipped in the Lethean lake,
O’er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep and never wake.

Nature, alas, why art thou so
Obligéd to thy greatest foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.

“Somnus,” as you may guess, is the god of sleep. “Charming” is meant in the sense of spellbinding.

Though overall a solid poem, I’m not a big fan of the conclusion since the comparison of sleep to death has been done multiple times elsewhere, and done better. I also prefer John Donne’s more take optimistic take on the subject with this same analogy. That said, this is taken from a play so I’m obviously missing some context here, so I won’t judge it too harshly.…

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Twentieth Friend, William Cecil, 1st Lord Burghley “To his Daughter Ann, New Year’s Day, 1567”

Today we’ll meet William Cecil, 1st Lord Burghley. He’s another Elizabethan, living 1520-98, but he’s not well-known as a poet. Rather, his legacy lies in the world of political history, especially as Queen Elizabeth I’s principal adviser. An outline of his political career would be well beyond the scope of this series, but in short he seems to have been quite competent, though as one would expect of an adviser to Elizabeth, one’s ultimate judgement of him comes down to what one thinks of Elizabeth, which often depends on whether one is Catholic or Protestant.

So, let’s set Lord Burghley’s career aside and instead join him and his family with this poem addressed to his then eleven year old daughter Ann, “New Year’s Day, 1567.”

As years do grow, so cares increase,
And time will move to look to thrift.
These years in me work nothing less,
Yet for your years and New Year’s gift
To set you on work, some thrift to feel,
I send you now a spinning wheel.

But one thing first I wish and pray,
Lest thirst of thrift might soon you tire,
Only to spin one pound a day
And play the rest, as time require,
Sweat not (O fie!), fling work in fire!
God send, who sendeth all thrift and wealth,
You long years and your father health.

“Thrift” here means “home economy.”

This is likely technically the least exciting poem so far, but I enjoy it nonetheless. Children often look forward to and try to imitate adult duties, and so Lord Burghley sends Ann a spinning wheel. However, she is still a child and so he urges her to spend more time in play (“fling work in fire” is rather strong, but hey, it gets the point across). There is some irony here in that Lord Burghley himself was a tireless worker, and continued serving the Queen even as his health declined to the day he died.

I’ll finish up this post by wishing all of you a happy New Year, and remember to work hard – but be sure to spend at least some time in play as you can.…

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