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Letters to Dead Authors-Part2_ANDREW LANG(1844-1912)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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we know well the manner of thy chosen immortality. In the Plains

Elysian, among the heroes and the ladies of old song, there was thy



Love with thee to enjoy her paradise in an eternal spring.

Le du plaisant Avril la saison immortelle



Sans eschange le suit,

La terre sans labour, de sa grasse mamelle,



Toute chose y produit;

D'enbas la troupe sainte autrefois amoureuse,



Nous honorant sur tous,

Viendra nous saluer, s'estimant bien-heureuse



De s'accointer de nous.

There thou dwellest, with the learned lovers of old days, with



Belleau, and Du Bellay, and Baif, and the flower of the maidens of

Anjou. Surely no rumour reaches thee, in that happy place of



reconciled affections, no rumour of the rudeness of Time, the

despite of men, and the change which stole from thy locks, so early



grey, the crown of laurels and of thine own roses. How different

from thy choice of a sepulchre have been the fortunes of thy tomb!



I will that none should break

The marble for my sake,



Wishful to make more fair

My sepulchre!



So didst thou sing, or so thy sweet numbers run in my rude English.

Wearied of Courts and of priories, thou didst desire a grave beside



thine own Loire, not remote from

The caves, the founts that fall



From the high mountain wall,

That fall and flash and fleet,



With silver feet.

Only a laurel tree



Shall guard the grave of me;

Only Apollo's bough



Shall shade me now!

Far other has been thy sepulchre: not in the free air, among the



field flowers, but in thy priory of Saint Cosme, with marble for a

monument, and no green grass to cover thee. Restless wert thou in



thy life; thy dust was not to be restful in thy death. The

Huguenots, ces nouveaux Chretiens qui la France ont pillee,



destroyed thy tomb, and the warning of the later monument,

ABI, NEFASTE, QUAM CALCUS HUMU< SACRA EST,



has not scared away malicious men. The storm that passed over

France a hundred years ago, more terrible than the religious wars



that thou didst weep for, has swept the column from the tomb. The

marble was broken by violent hands, and the shattered sepulchre of



the Prince of Poets gained a dusty hospitality from the museum of a

country town. Better had been the laurel of thy desire, the



creeping vine, and the ivy tree.

Scarce more fortunate, for long, than thy monument was thy memory.



Thou hast not encountered, Master, in the Paradise of Poets,

Messieurs Malherbe, De Balzac, and Boileau-- Boileau who spoke of



thee as Ce poete orgueilleux trebuche de si haut!

These gallant gentlemen, I make no doubt, are happy after their own



fashion, backbiting each other and thee in the Paradise of Critics.

In their time they wrought thee much evil, grumbling that thou



wrotest in Greek and Latin (of which tongues certain of them had but

little skill), and blaming thy many lyric melodies and the free flow



of thy lines. What said M. de Balzac to M. Chapelain? "M. de

Malherbe, M. de Grasse, and yourself must be very little poets, if



Ronsard be a great one." Time has brought in his revenges, and

Messieurs Chapelain and De Grasse are as well forgotten as thou art



well remembered. Men could not always be deaf to thy sweet old

songs, nor blind to the beauty of thy roses and thy loves. When



they took the wax out of their ears that M. Boileau had given them

lest they should hear the singing of thy Sirens, then they were deaf



no longer, then they heard the old deaf poet singing and made answer

to his lays. Hast thou not heard these sounds? have they not



reached thee, the voices and the lyres of Theophile Gautier and

Alfred de Musset? Methinks thou hast marked them, and been glad



that the old notes were ringing again and the old French lyric




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