by
Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585)
D'un gosier masche‑laurier
Language: French (Français)
Available translation(s): ENG
D'un gosier masche-laurier
J'oy crier
Dans Lycophron ma Cassandre,
Qui prophetise aux Troyens
Les moyens
Qui les reduiront en cendre.
Mais ces pauvres obstinez,
Destinez
Pour ne croire à leur Sibylle,
Virent, bien que tard après,
Les feux Grecs
Forcenez parmy leur ville.
Ayans la mort dans le sein,
De la main
Plomboient leur poitrine nue,
Et tordant leurs cheveux gris,
De longs cris
Pleuroient qu'ils ne l'avoient creue.
Mais leurs cris n'eurent pouvoir
D'esmouvoir
Les Grecs, si chargez de proye,
Qu'ils ne laisserent sinon
Que le nom
De ce qui fut jadis Troye.
Ainsi, pour ne croire pas,
Quand tu m'as
Predit ma peine future,
Et que je n'aurois en don,
Pour guerdon
De t'aimer, que la mort dure,
Un grand brasier, sans repos,
Et mes os
Et mes nerfs et mon cœur brûle,
Et pour t'amour j'ay receu
Plus de feu,
Que ne fit Troye incredule.
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Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (David Wyatt) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: David Wyatt
This text was added to the website: 2014-10-27
Line count: 36
Word count: 148
Shouting with her laurel‑chewing throat
Language: English  after the French (Français)
Shouting with her laurel-chewing throat
I hear
My Cassandra in Lycophron
Prophesying to the Trojans
The way
They'll be reduced to ashes.
But those poor obstinate men,
Destined
Not to believe their Sybil,
Will see, though much later,
Greek fire
Raging through their town.
With death in their hearts,
With their hands
They sheathed their naked breasts in lead
And tearing their grey hairs
With long cries
They wept that they had not believed her.
But their cries had no power
To move
The Greeks, so laden with loot
That they left nothing
But the name
Of what once was Troy.
So, for not believing
When you told me
Of my future pain,
And that I should gain only,
As trophy
For loving you, the gift of harsh death,
A great fire ceaselessly
Burns
My bones and nerves and heart,
And for your love I've had
More fire
Than made Troy astonished.
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Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2014 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.
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Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2014-10-27
Line count: 36
Word count: 152