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by Rémy Belleau (1527/8 - 1577)
Translation © by David Wyatt

Chant des nymfes de la Seine
Language: French (Français) 
Our translations:  ENG
Comme la corne argentine
De la lune en son croissant
Belle et disposte chemine
Sous le voyle brunissant
Parmy la gemmeuse presse
Des autres feus qu’elle suit
Ainsi la grace reluist
Des beautez de ma [Princesse]1.

Ce ne sont que fleurs escloses
Sur son jeune et tendre sein :
Ses levres ne sont que roses
Qu’yvoire sa blanche main :
Ses dents petites perlettes,
Ses yeux deux astres jumeaux
Ou mille et mille amoureaux
Trempent de miel leurs sagettes.

C’est une douceur benigne
Son ris et sa bouche aussi,
C’est une voute ebenine
Le croissant de son sourcy
Elle retient de son pere
Le port et la majesté.
Les vertus et la bonté
Et les graces de sa mere.

Et comme la branche tendre
Qui prend racine du bas
Du laurier se veut estendre
Et croistre ses petits bras 
Et rien que le ciel n’aspire
Monstrant son sein verdoyant
Et son beau corps ondoyant
Au doux souspirs de Zephire :

Ou comme la grace belle
D’un bouton à demy cloz
Monstre sa robbe nouvelle
Et son pourpre au fond encloz
Ne luy restans que [atente]2
Des rayons d’un beau soleil
Pour espandre le vermeil
De sa beauté rougisante.

Tout ainsi vient en croissance
Ceste vierge, qui de soy
Ja porte assez d’asseurance
Qu’elle est fille d’un grand Roy
Sans plus reste une rosee
Ou quelque douce chaleur
Pour faire espanir la fleur
De sa jeunesse espousee.

Je voy le Soleil qui lance
Desja ses raids dans les eaux,
Je voy la nuict qui s’advance
D’allumer ses clairs flambeaux,
Je la voy qu’elle s’appreste
De faire luire [le] feu
Du vespre qui peu à peu
Ja nous descouvre sa teste.

Je voy desja la nuict sombre
Qui sur la terre s’espand,
Je voy l’espais de son ombre
Qui par l’air ja [par l'air]3 :
Vien donc l’heure est opportune,
O nuict, et si tu reçois
Les doux accens de ma voix
Monstre nous ta face brune.

Or sus la nuict est ja close
L’avant coureur est au ciel
Sur ceste bouche desclose
Il vous faut cueiller le miel :
Il vous fault doucement joindre
A ce tetin nouvelet
Comme un bouton verdelet
Qui ne fait ores que poindre.

Comme la branche tortisse
De la vigne aux verds rameaux
Se pend, se [colle]4, et se plisse
[Aux]5 bras des jeunes ormeaux
Ou comme alors que fleuronne
La terre aux raids d’un beau jour
Les pigeons se font l’amour
De leur bouchette mignonne :

Ainsi l’estoile qui guide
Les petits amours dorez
Avec hymen qui preside
A ces festins honorez
Vous appelle et vous convie
Tous deux au col vous saisir
Pour favourer le plaisir
Le plus doux de nostre vie.

Sus donc avant que l’on sorte
Pages ostez la clarté
Nymphes qu’on serre la porte
Or sus c’est assez chanté
Prenez la ceincture belle
Que vous pourrez sur le flanc
Et serrez l’ivoyre blanc
De ceste espouse nouvelle.

Vostre ceincture ou les graces
Sont empraintes à l’entour
Et les plaisantes fallaces
Du cruel enfant Amour :
Vostre ceincture où sont mises
Les amorces et les traits
Et les amoureux attraits
De cent et cent mignardises.

La boucle est d’or estoffee
De fleches et d’un carquoys
Et l’entour est d’un trophee
Lacé de deux arcs Turquois
Les bouts sont faits d’une poincte
Qui porte un nouveau croissant
D’un lierre verdissant
Autour de ses flancs estrainte.

Atant les Nimpes sacrees
Les Nimphettes aux yeux verds
De leurs bouchettes succrees
Au lict chanterent ces vers
Prenans la boucle fatalle
De leur belle et blanche main
La bouclerent soubs le sein
De ceste Nymphe Royalle.

Couple d’Amans amiable
Que puissiez vous sans ennuys
[D’une]6 amitié perdurable
Passer les jours et les nuits
Sans que jamais ny l’envie
Ny le soing ny le couroux
Rouille ses yeux dessus vous
Pour tourmenter vostre vie.

Dieux faictes que de leur race
Puisse naistre un enfant beau
[Au front qui]7 porte la grace
Du pere dès le berceau
Et qui de beauté ressamble
A la mere, et de pouvoir
A ce roy qui s’est faict voir
Esgal à vous tous ensemble.

Available sung texts: (what is this?)

•   J. Chardavoine 

View original text (without footnotes)

Confirmed with Rémy Belleau, Epithalame sur le mariage de Monsieur le Duc de Lorraine, 1559.

1 Chardavoine: "maistresse"
2 Chardavoine: "l’entente"
3 Chardavoine: "se respand"
4 Chardavoine: "noue"
5 Chardavoine: "Du"
6 Chardavoine: "D’un"
7 Chardavoine: "Qui au front"

Text Authorship:

  • by Rémy Belleau (1527/8 - 1577), "Chant des nymfes de la Seine" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):

  • by Jean Chardavoine (c1537 - c1580), "Chant des nymfes de la Seine", from Recueil des voix de ville [sung text checked 1 time]
  • by Pierre Cléreau (c1515 - 1569), "Chant des nymfes de la Seine" [sung text not yet checked]

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English (David Wyatt) , "Song of the nymphs of the Seine", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Researcher for this page: David Wyatt

This text was added to the website: 2017-06-11
Line count: 136
Word count: 683

Song of the nymphs of the Seine
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
As the silvery horns
Of the crescent moon
Journey fair and eager
Beneath the darkening sky
Among the jewelled press
Of the other fires which she follows,
So does grace illuminate
The beauty of my [princess]1.

Those are but flowers blooming
On her young, tender breast;
Her lips are but roses,
Her white hand but ivory;
Her teeth little pearls,
Her eyes two twin stars
In which thousands of cupids
Soak their arrows with honey.

A benign sweetness is
Her smile and her lips too,
An ebony arc is
The crescent of her eyebrow,
She retains her father’s
Bearing and majesty,
The virtues and goodness
And graces of her mother.

And as a tender branch
Which roots itself at the foot
Of a laurel seeks to extend
And grow its little arms,
And aims at nothing less than the heavens,
Showing its green breast
And fine fluttering form
To the soft sighs of Zephyr;

Or as the fair grace
Of a half-closed bud
Shows its new dress
And the purple hidden in its depths,
Awaiting only the expectation
Of the rays of a fair sun
To spread out the crimson
Of its blushing beauty;

Just so comes growing 
This maid, who in herself
Already bears enough assurance
That she is a king’s daughter,
And just needs a little dew
Or some slight warmth
To make bloom the flower
Of her betrothed youthfulness.

I see the sun throwing
His rays already into the waters,
I see the night advancing
To light his bright torches,
I see her hurrying
To set alight the fire
Of evening which little by little
Reveals to us her head.

I see already dark night
Spreading over the earth,
I see his deep shadow
Now spreading through the air;
Come now, the time is right,
O night, and if you hear
The soft accents of my voice,
Show us your darkened face.

Up now, night is now close,
The fore-runner [the evening star] is in the sky;
You should gather the honey
From these open lips,
You should softly touch yours
To this youthful breast,
Like a green bud
Which is just opening.

As the branch twisted
With the vine and its green boughs
Bows down, [sticks to]2, and bends itself
In the arms of the young elms,
Or as, when the earth
Blooms in the light of a lovely day,
The pigeons make love
With their dear little beaks;

So the star which guides
The little golden cupids
Who preside with Hymen [god of marriage]
At this honourable festival
Call you and invite you
Both to cling to each other’s neck
To bring into harmony the sweetest
Pleasure in our lives.

Up now, before they leave, 
Pages, take up the lights,
Nymphs, close the door;
Up, that’s enough singing,
Take the lovely belt
On her waist, as you can,
And squeeze the white ivory
Of this new bride.

Your belt on which the Graces
Are printed all round,
And the pleasant tricks
Of that cruel boy, Love;
Your belt on which are placed 
The bait and shafts
And lures of love
Of hundreds of sweet nothings.

The buckle is of golden stuff
With arrows and a quiver,
And around them is a trophy
Enslaved with two Turkish bows.
The ends are made in a point
Carrying a new crescent
Of green ivy
Enfolded around her waist.

So much have the sacred nymphs 
And nymphettes with their green eyes
Sung with their sugared lips
These verses around the bed,
Taking the fatal buckle
In their fair, white hands
Buckled it under the breast
Of this royal nymph.

O couple of loving lovers,
May you be able without troubles
To spend your days and nights
In ever-enduring love
Without envy, care
Or anger ever
Rolling their eyes upon you
To torment your lives.

Gods, make from their line
Be born a fine child
Which bears on its brow the grace
Of its father from the cradle,
And which resembles in beauty
Its mother, and in power
This king who you can see 
Is the equal of you all together.

View original text (without footnotes)
1 Chardavoine: "mistress"
2 Chardavoine: "knots itself"

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2017 by David Wyatt, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
    Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net

Based on:

  • a text in French (Français) by Rémy Belleau (1527/8 - 1577), "Chant des nymfes de la Seine"
    • Go to the text page.

 

This text was added to the website: 2017-06-11
Line count: 136
Word count: 685

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This website began in 1995 as a personal project by Emily Ezust, who has been working on it full-time without a salary since 2008. Our research has never had any government or institutional funding, so if you found the information here useful, please consider making a donation. Your help is greatly appreciated!
–Emily Ezust, Founder

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