The Spike Victoria University College Review 1944
Three Translations by A.J. D. Barker
Three Translations by A.J. D. Barker
To His Soul
Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585).
Sweet little soul of mine,
Tiny being, frail and fine,
Dear-beloved guest within my head
Thou descendest, helpless one,
Poor, pale, friendless one,
To the chilly kingdom of the dead;
Simple still, without remorse
Of murder, poison, spitefulness,
Treasures deigning not to keep
So beloved of common men.
Go, thy fortune seek: then
Stir me not again: I sleep.
From "Regrets"
Happy who, like Ulysses voyaging,
Or bold as he that did the fleece obtain,
Has, skilled and wise, to home returned again,
Lifelong among his kinsmen tarrying!
But when shall I, alas, my village see,
Its curling smoke, and in how long a time
The croft of that poor mansion that is mine,
Which is my realm, and more than realm to me?
For lovelier the house my fathers made
Than Roman palaces on hills arrayed,
Its slates more beautiful than marble seem:
The Gaulish Loire is, more than Tiber, fine,
My Lyre than the mighty Palatine,
Than ocean air, the gentle Angevine.
Rondeau
Who more than rose art red, than lily white,
And splendid with an eastern ruby's fire,
Thy peerless charms I see with long delight,
Who more than rose art red, than lily white;
My heart so deeply lavished by thy sight
Would serve thee as the bonds oj love require,
Who more than rose art red, than lily white,
And splendid with an eastern ruby's fire.