×
Attention! Some of this material is not in the public domain.
It is illegal to copy and distribute our copyright-protected material without permission. It is also illegal to reprint copyright texts or translations without the name of the author or translator.
To inquire about permissions and rates, contact Emily Ezust at licenses@email.lieder.example.net
If you wish to reprint translations, please make sure you include the names of the translators in your email. They are below each translation.
Note: You must use the copyright symbol © when you reprint copyright-protected material.
by Joachim du Bellay (1525 - c1560)
Translation © by David Wyatt
La complainte du désespéré
Language: French (Français)
Our translations: ENG
Qui prestera la parolle A la douleur qui m'afolle ? Qui donnera les accens A la plainte qui me guyde ? Et qui laschera la bride A la fureur que je sens ? Qui baillera double force A mon âme, qui s'efforce De soupirer mes douleurs ? Et qui fera sur ma face D'une larmoyante trace Couler deux ruysseaux de pleurs ? Sus, mon cœur, ouvre ta porte. Affin que de mes yeux sorte Une mer à ceste foys Ores fault que tu te plaignes, Et qu'en tes larmes tu baignes Ces montaignes & ces boys. Et vous mes vers, dont la course A de sa première sourse Les sentiers habandonnez, Fuyez à bride avalée, Et la prochaine valée De vostre bruyt estonnez. Vostre eau, qui fut clere & lente Ores trouble & violente, Semblable à ma douleur soit, Et plus ne meslez vostre onde A l'or de l'arène blonde, Dont vostre fond jaunissoit. Mais qui sera la première ? Mais qui sera la dernière De voz plaintes ? O bons dieux ! La furie qui me domte, Las, je sens qu'elle surmonte Ma voix, ma langue & mes yeux. Au vaze estroict, qui dégoûte Son eau, qui veult sortir toute, Ores semblable je suis : Et fault (ô plainte nouvelle) Que mes plainctz je renovelle, Dont plaindre assez je ne puis. Quand toutes les eaux des nues Seraient larmes devenues, Et quand tous les ventz congnuz De la charette importune, Qui fend les champs de Neptune, Seroient soupirs devenuz : Quand toutes les voix encores Complaintes deviendroient ores, Si ne me suffiroient point Les pleurs, les soupirs, le plaindre, A vivement contrefeindre L'ennuy qui le cœur me poingt. Ainsi que la fleur cuillie Ou par la Bize assaillie Pert le vermeil de son teinct, En la fleur du plus doulx âage De mon palissant visage La vive couleur s'esteinct. Une languissante nue Me sille desja la vëue, Et me souvient en mourant Des doulces rives de Loyre, Qui les chansons de ma gloyre Alloit jadis murmurant : Alors que parmy la France Du beau Cygne de Florence J'alloys adorant les pas, Dont les plumes j'ay tirées, Qui des ailes mal cirées Le vol n'imiteront pas. Quel boys, quelle solitude, Tesmoing de l'ingratitude De l'archer malicieux, Ne resonne les alarmes Que les amoureuses larmes Font aux espris ocieux ? Les bledz ayment la rousée, Dont la plaine est arrousée : La vigne ayme les chaleurs, Les abeilles les fleurettes, Et les vaines amourettes Les complaintes & les pleurs. Mais la douleur véhémente, Qui maintenant me tormente, A repoussé loing de moy Telle fureur insensée, Pour enter en ma pensée Le trait d'un plus juste esmoy. Arrière, plaintes frivoles D'ung tas de jeunesses folles. Vous, ardens soupirs encloz, Laissez ma poictrine cuyte, Et traynez à vostre suyte Mile tragiques sangloz. Si l'injure desriglée De la fortune aveuglée, Si ung faulx bon-heur promis Par les faveurs journalières, Si les fraudes familières Des trop courtizans amis. Si la maison mal entière De cent procez héritière, Telle qu'on la peut nommer La gallere desarmée, Qui sans guide & mal ramée Vogue par la haulte mer : Si les passions cuyzantes A l'âme & au corps nuyzantes, Si le plus contraire effort D'une fiere destinée Si une vie obstinée Contre ung désir de la mort : Si la triste congnoissance De nostre fresle naissance, Et si quelque autre douleur Geynne la vie de l'homme, Je mérite qu'on me nomme L'esclave de tout malheur. Qu'ay-je depuis mon enfance Sinon toute injuste offence Senty de mes plus prochains ? Qui ma jeunesse passée Aux ténèbres ont laissée, Dont ores mes yeux sont plains. Et depuis que l'âge ferme A touché le premier terme De mes ans plus vigoreux, Las, hélas, quelle journée Peut onq' si mal fortunée Que mes jours les plus heureux ? Mes oz, mes nerfz & mes veines, Tesmoins secrez de mes peines, Et mile souciz cuyzans Avancent de ma vieillesse Le triste hyver, qui me blesse Devant l'esté de mes ans. Comme l'autonne saccage Les verdz cheveux du boccage A son triste advenement, Ainsi peu à peu s'efface Le crespe honneur de ma face Veufve de son ornement. Mon cœur ja devenu marbre En la souche d'ung vieil arbre A tous mes sens transmuez : Et le soing, qui me desrobe, Me faict semblable à Niobe Voyant ses enfans tuez. Quelle Medée ancienne Par sa voix magicienne M'a changé si promptement ? Fichant d'aiguilles cruelles Mes entrailles & moelles Serves de l'enchantement ? Armez vous contre elle donques, O vous mes vers ! & si onques La fureur vous enflamma, Faites luy sentir l'ïambe Dont contre l'ingrat Lycambe La rage Archiloq' arma. O nuict ! ô silence ! ô lune ! Que ceste vieille importune Ose du ciel arracher, Pourquoy ont la terre & l'onde, Mais pourquoy a tout le monde Conspiré pour me fâcher ? Ny toute l'herbe cuillie Par les champs de Thessalie, Ny les murmures secrez, Ny la verge enchanteresse, Dont la Dame vangeresse Tourna les visages Gréez : Ny les flambeaux qu'on allume Aux obsèques, ny la plume Des mortuaires oizeaux, Ny les oeufz qu'on teinct & mouille Dans le sang d'une grenouille, Ny les Avernales eaux : Ny les images de cire, Ny ce qui l'enfer attire, Ny tous les vers enchantez Par la vieille eschevelée D'une voix entremeslée Six & trois fois rechantez : Ny le menstrueux breuvage Meslé avecques la rage Qui s'enfle au front des chevaux, Ny les furies ensemble Enfanteroient (ce me semble) Le moindre de mes travaux. Moindre feu ne me consume, Et moindre peste ne hume La tiède humeur de mes oz, Que l'Herculienne flamme Ayant le don de sa femme Engravé dessus le doz. Les flotz courroussez, qui baignent Leurs rivages, qui se plaignent, Ne sont plus sourds que je suis : Ny ce peuple qui habite Ou le Nil se précipite Dedans la mer par sept huys. Les ventz, la pluye & l'orage N'exercent plus grand oultrage Sur les montz & sur les flotz, Que l'éternelle tempeste Qui brouille dedans ma teste Mile tourbillons encloz. Comme la foie prestresse, A qui le Cynthien presse 3Le cœur superbe & despit, Hérissant sa chevelure Contre-tourné son allure 6Par ung mouvement subit, Ainsi aveq' noire myne Tout furieux je chemine Par les champs plus eslongnez, Remaschant d'ung soucy grave Mile fureurs, que j'engrave Sur mes Zourciz renfrongnez. Tel est le Thebain Panthée, Quand son âme espouantée Voit le soleil redoublé : Tel, le vangeur de son père, Quand les serpents de sa mère Luy ont son esprit troublé. D'une entre-suyvante fuyte Il adjourne & puys annuyte : L'an d'ung mutuel retour Ses quatre saisons rameine : Et après la lune pleine Le croissant luist à son tour. Tout ce que le ciel entourne, Fuyt, refuyt, tourne & retourne, Comme les flotz blanchissans, Que la mer venteuse pousse, Alors qu'elle se courrousse Contre ses bords gemissans. Chacune chose décline Au lieu de son origine : Et l'an, qui est coustumier De faire mourir & naistre, Ce qui feut rien, avant qu'estre, Reduict à son rien premier. Mais la tristesse profonde, Qui d'ung pie ferme se fonde Au plus secret de mon cœur, Seule immuable demeure, Et contre moy d'heure en heure Acquiert nouvelle vigueur. Ainsi la flamme allumée, Que les ventz animée, Forcenant cruellement, En mile poinctes s'eslance, Dédaignant la violence De son contraire élément. Quand l'obscurité desserre Ses aisles dessus la terre, Et quant le présent des Dieux Pour emmieller la peine, De toute la gent humaine Charme doulcement les yeux, Lors d'une horreur taciturne Dessoubz le voyle nocturne Tout se fait paisible & coy : Toute manière de beste Au sommeil courbe la teste Dedans son privé recoy. Mais le mal, qui me reveille, Ne permet que je sommeille Ung seul moment de la nuict, Sinon que l'ennuy m'assomme D'ung espoiiantable somme, Qui plus que le veiller nuyt. Puis quand l'aulbe se descouche De sa jaunissante couche Pour nous esclerer le jour, Avec moy s'esveille à l'heure Le soing rongeard, qui demeure En mon familier séjour : Ou tout cela que l'on nomme Les bienheuretez de l'homme, Ne me sçauroit esjouyr, Privé de l'aise qu'aporte A la vie demy-morte Le doulx plaisir de l'ouyr. Et si d'ung pas difficile Hors du triste domicile Je me trayne par les champs, Le soucy, qui m'accompaigne, Ensemence la campaigne De mile regrez tranchans. Si d'avanture j'arrive Sur la verdoyante rive, J'essourde le bruyt des eaux : Si au bois je me transporte, Soudain je ferme la porte Aux doulx goziers des oyzeaux. Jadis la tourbe sacrée, Qui sur le Loyr se recrée, Me daignoit bien quelquesfois Guyder au tour des rivages, Et par les antres sauvages, Imitateurs de ma voix : Mais or' toute espoiiantée Elle fuyt d'estre hantée De moy despit & félon, Indigne que ma poictrine Reçoyve soubz la courtine Les sainctz presentz d'Apollon. Mesmes la voix pitoyable, Dont la plainte larmoyable Rechante les derniers sons, Dure & sourde à ma semonce, Dédaigne toute response A mes piteuses chansons. Quelque part que je me tourne, Le long silence y séjourne Comme en ces temples devotz, Et comme si toutes choses Pesle mesle estoyent r'encloses Dedans leur premier Caos. Mettez moy donq' ou la tourbe Du peuple estonné se courbe Devant le sceptre des Roys, Et en tous les lieux encore Ou plus la France décore Et ses armes & ses loix : Mettez moy ou Ion accorde La contr'-accordante chorde Par les discordans accords, Et ou la beauté des dames Souffle les secrettes flammes Qui bruslent dedans le corps. Mettez moy (si bon vous semble) Ou la Delienne assemble Sa bande apprise au labeur, A cry, à cor & à suyte Pressant la légère fuyte Des cerfz aislez par la peur. Mettez moy ou Cytherée En la saison altérée Sa jeune troppe conduict, Et sans craindre la froidure Dessus l'humide verdure Baie au serain de la nuict. Mettez moy là ou florissent Les arbres qui se nourrissent Au beau séjour d'Alcinoys, Et là ou le riche Autonne D'une main prodigue donne L'honneur du front d'Acheloys. Mettez moy ou plus abonde Tout ce qui plus en ce monde Contente l'humain désir, Si ne pouray-je en tel aise Trouver plaisir qui me plaise, Que l'obstiné déplaisir. Hélas, pourquoy tant s'augmentent Les malheurs qui me tormentent Désespéré d'avoir mieux ? Ou pourquoy à les accroistre, Par trop les vouloir congnoistre, Suys-je tant ingénieux ? Heureux, qui a par augures Preveu les choses obscures ! Et trop plus heureux encor' En qui des Dieux la largesse A respandu la sagesse, Des cieux le plus beau trésor ! Combien (si nous estions sages) Se demonstrent de présages, Avant-coureurs de noz maulx ? Soit par injure céleste Par quelque perte moleste, Ou par mort des animaulx. Mais la pensée des hommes, Pendant que vivans nous sommes, Ignore le sort humain : La divine prescience Par certaine expérience Le tient cloz dedans sa main. Seroit-point déterminée Quelque vieille destinée Contre les espriz sacrez ? Mile, qui dessus Parnaze Beurent de l'eau de Pegaze Ont faict semblables regrez. De la Lyre Thracienne Et de rÀmphionnienne 3Les malheurs je ne diray. De l'aveuglé Sthesicore, Et du grand aveugle encore 6Les labeurs je n'escriray. Je tays la mort d'Eurypide, Et la tortue homicide. Je laisse encore la faim De ce misérable Plaute, Et les peines de la faulte De l'amoureux escrivain. Seulement me plaist escrire Comment le Dieu qui inspire Le troppeau musicien, Mortel, soubz habit champestre, Sept ans les bœufz mena paistre Au rivaige Amphrysien. Mauldicte donq' la lumière Qui m'esclaira la première, Puys que le ciel rigoreux Assujetit ma naissance A l'indomtable puissance D'ung astre si malheureux. O Dieux vangeurs, que Ion jure, Dieux, qui punissez l'injure 7D'une rompue amitié, Si les dévotes prières Pour les injustes misères 0Vous émeuvent à pitié, Las, pourquoy ne se retire De moy ce cruel martyre, Si mes innocentes mains, Pures de sang & rapines, Ne feurent onques inclines A rompre les droictz humains ? Je ne suys né de la race Qui dessus les montz de Thrace, O Dieux, s'arma contre vous, Ny de l'hoste abhominable Qui pour son forfaict damnable Accreut le nombre des loups. Je n'ay hanté le collège De ce larron sacrilège Qui feut premier inventeur De feindre la congnoissance De vostre divine essence Par ung visage menteur. Je ne suys né de la terre Qui en la Thebaine guerre 1Huma le sang fraternel, Dont le mutuel oultrage Tesmoigna l'aveugle rage 4De l'inceste paternel. D'une cruaulté nouvelle Je n'ay rompu la cervelle De mon père, & si n'ay pas De ses entrailles saillantes Remply les gorges sanglantes Par ung nocturne repas. Si mon innocente vie Ne feut onques asservie Aux serves affections, Si l'avare convoitize, Si l'ambicion n'attize Le feu de mes passions : Si pour destruire ung lignage Par escrit ou tesmoignage, Ma langue n'a point menty, Si au sang de l'homme juste Avecques le plus robuste Jamais je n'ay consenty : Si la vieille depiteuse Du mal d'autruy convoiteuse 5Si l'ire, si la ranqueur (Et si quelque autre furie A sur l'homme seigneurie) 8Ne m'ont affolé le cœur, 9 Divine majesté haulte, D'où me viennent, sans ma faulte, Tant de remors furieux ? O malheureuse innocence, Sur qui ont tant de licence Les astres injurieux ! Heureuse la créature Qui a fait sa sépulture Dans le ventre maternel ! Heureux celuy dont la vie En sortant s'est veu ravie Par un sommeil éternel ! Il n'a senty sur sa teste L'inévitable tempeste Dont nous sommes agitez, Mais asseuré du naufraige De bien loing sur le rivaige A veu les flotz irritez. Sus, mon âme, tourne arrière, Et borne icy la carrière De tes ingrates douleurs. Il est temps de faire espreuve, Si après la mort on treuve La fin de tant de malheurs. Ma vie désespérée A la mort délibérée Ja-desja se sent courir. Meure donques, meure, meure, Celuy qui vivant demeure, Mourant sans pouvoir mourir. Ainsi le Devin d'Adraste, Qui pour le filz d'Iôcaste Encontre Thebes s'arma, S'eslançoit de grand' audace Dedans l'horrible crevace, Qui sur luy se referma. Vous, à qui ces durs allarmes Arracheront quelques larmes, Soyez joyeux en tout temps, Ayez le ciel favorable, Et plus que moy, misérable, Vivez heureux & contens.
K. Miehling sets stanzas 1, 6
Text Authorship:
- by Joachim du Bellay (1525 - c1560), "La complainte du désespéré" [author's text checked 2 times 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 Klaus Miehling (b. 1963), "La complainte du désespéré", op. 47 no. 5 (1994), stanzas 1,6 [ SATB chorus ], from Douze Airs de cour à plusieurs voix, no. 5 [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (David Wyatt) , "The lament of the desperate", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , David Wyatt
This text was added to the website: 2014-09-16
Line count: 510
Word count: 2327
The lament of the desperate
Language: English after the French (Français)
Who will lend the word For the sadness which maddens me? Who will add accents to The lament which guides me? And who will give rein To the frenzy which I feel? Who will lend double strength To my soul, which is forced To sigh for my sadness? And who will make down my cheeks, With their tearful track, Run two rivers of weeping? Up, my heart, open your door. Since from my eyes flows A sea at this time, So must you weep And in your tears bathe These mountains and these woods. And you, my verse, whose course Has from its very beginnings Abandoned trodden paths, Run with slack rein, And with your sound Stun the next valley. Your waters, which were clear and slow Should now be troubled and violent, Like my grief; No longer mix your waves With the gold of the yellow sand Which makes your bed yellow. But which will be first? Which will be last Of your laments? Good gods, The madness which defeats me I feel now overcoming My voice, my tongue and my eyes. Like the narrow vase, which disgusts The water in it, which all wants to get out, I am now; And I must (a new lament!) Renew my laments, Of which I cannot lament enough. When all the water of the clouds Had become tears, And when all the winds known To the unwelcome chariot Which cuts through Neptune’s fields Had become sighs, When every voice too Had become laments, Still I would not have enough Tears, sighs, lamenting To pretend I was lively and did not feel The pain which stings my heart. Like a flower which is plucked Or assailed by the north wind, Loses the redness of its tint, In the flower of its sweetest age The lively colour of my Pale face has disappeared. A slow-moving cloud Already blinds my sight, And as I die reminds me Of the sweet banks of the Loire, Which used to run by, murmuring The songs of my glory, While I adored the steps Of Florence’s fair swan Throughout France: His feathers I’ve plucked But with poorly-waxed wings They won’t imitate his flight. What wood, what lonely place, Witness to the ingratitude Of the malicious archer, Does not resound with the alarms Which lovers’ tears Offer to lazy spirits? Wheat loves the dew Which waters the plain, The vine loves hot days, Bees love flowers, And vain love-affairs Their laments and tears. But the vigorous grief Which now torments me Has driven far from me Those senseless rages To drive into my thoughts The arrow of a juster pain. Behind me, trivial laments Of heaps of silly youths. You, the burning sighs inside me, Leave my breaths cooked, And draw in your train A thousand tragic sobs. If the troubled wound Of blinded fortune, Or false happiness promised By day-to-day favours, Or the familiar deceptions Of too-kind friends, Or a house entirely upset, Heir to a thousand lawsuits, The kind you could call A disarmed galley Which wanders, un-guided and Badly-rowed on the deep sea, Or burning passions Destroying soul and body, Or the strongest opposition Of proud destiny, Or a life obstinate In the face of the desire for death, Or the sad understanding Of our frail birth, Or any other sadness Troubles the life of man, I deserve to be called The slave of every misfortune. What have I had, since my childhood, But every unjust offence From my nearest and dearest? They left my departed youth For the shades Which now fill my eyes. And since strict age Has reached the term Of my first, vigorous years, Alas, what day Can now be so unfortunate As my happiest days? My bones, my nerves, my veins, The secret witnesses of my pains, And a thousand burning cares Bring in the sad winter Of my old age, which falls on me Before the summer of my years. As autumn ransacks The green locks of the trees At his sad coming, So little by little disappears The crimped glory of my head Widowed of its beauty. My heart, already turned into marble In the stump of an ancient tree, Has transformed all my senses; And care which has robbed me Makes me like Niobe Watching her children killed. What antique Medea With her sorcerer’s voice Has changed me so quickly? Has pierced with cruel talons My entrails and marrow, Slaves to her enchantment? Arm yourselves against her, then, My verses! And if ever Madness inflames you, Strike back with the iambic [verse] With which fury armed Archilochus against ungrateful Lycambe1. O night, o silence, o moon! You old unwelcome hag, I wish Someone dared to drag you from the heavens! Why have earth and sea, No, why has the entire world Conspired to frustrate me? Not all the grass cut In the fields of Thessaly, Not the secret murmurs Or the magic wand With which the avenging lady [Circe] Transformed those Greeks’ appearance, Not the torches which light Funerals, not the feathers Of the birds of death, Not the eggs which are dyed and soaked In the blood of a frog, Not the waters of Avernus, Not waxen images, Not what draws up hell, Not all the magical verses Six and three times sung In different voices By a dishevelled old hag; Not the monstrous drink Mixed with madness Which swells on horses’ brows, Not all the furies together – [Not all these] could be the origin, it seems to me, Of the least of my troubles. No lesser fire consumes me, No lesser plague warms The slow warmth of my bones, Than that flame [that burned] Hercules When he had his wife’s gift Soldered under the skin of his back. The angry waves, which bathe Their banks, lamenting, Are no more deaf than I am ; Nor that people who live Where the Nile throws itself Into the sea by its seven mouths. The winds, the rain, the storm Do no greater damage On the mountains and waves Than the eternal tempest Which boils up a thousand Maelstroms enclosed in my head. Like the faithful priestess [Cassandra?] Whose proud heart the Cynthian Oppresses and scorns, Tearing her locks, Her attractions overturned By a sudden movement, Just so with a black look I stride furiously Through the furthest fields Chewing over a thousand furies With heavy concern, which I imprint On my creased brow. Just so was Theban Pentheus When his terrified soul Saw the sun doubled2: Just so was the father’s avenger [Orestes] When his mother’s serpents Troubled his spirit. In a flight which is sometimes a pursuit It becomes day and then becomes night; The year in its continual return Brings back its four seasons; And after the full moon The crescent shines in its turn. Everything heaven contains Flies and flies again, turns and turns again, Like the whitened waves Which the wind-blown sea drives When it angrily attacks Its complaining shores. Each thing moves back towards The place of its origin; And the year, which is used To making die and be born Things which were nothing before being, Returns to its original nothing. But the deep sadness, Which has with a firm step buried itself In the most hidden place of my heart, Alone remains unchangeable, And against me hour by hour Gains new strength. Just so does the burning flame Which the winds make grow Burst out in a thousand tongues, Driving on cruelly, Ignoring the violence Of the element which is its opposite. When darkness spreads His wings upon the earth, And when the gift of the gods For softening pain Sweetly charms the eyes Of all mankind, Then with silent horror Everything becomes peaceable and quiet Beneath Night’s veil; All manner of beasts Bend their heads to sleep Within their own refuge. But the ills which keep me awake Do not allow me to sleep A single moment of the night, Without my grief assaulting me With an exhilarating sleep Which does more harm than waking. Then when dawn leaves Her yellow bed To lighten the day for us, In me awakens immediately A gnawing pain which remains Throughout my usual day; In which all that which is called Man’s good fortune I cannot enjoy, Deprived of the ease which brings To a half-dead life The sweet pleasure of listening. And if with difficult steps I drag myself out into the fields From my sad home, Care which accompanies me Seeds the countryside With a thousand deep regrets. If by chance I reach Some verdant riverbank, I blot out the sound of the waters; If I take myself to the woods, Suddenly I close the door To the sweet throats of the birds. In the past, the sacred troop Which plays upon the Loir Deigned often To guided me around the banks And into wild caverns Which imitated my voice: But now, all exhilarated, They flee from being haunted By me, a bitter oath-breaker Unworthy that my breast Should receive beneath its curtain The holy gifts of Apollo. Even the pitying voice Whose tearful lament Sings again its last songs, [Echo] Harsh and deaf to what I offer, Disdains to make any response To my pitiful songs. Wherever I turn Long silence remains As in those sacred temples, And as if everything Were shut up again pell-mell In its original chaos. Put me, then, where the crowd Of wondering people bow Before the sceptre of kings, And in all places With which France glorifies Its arms and laws; Put me where Ion strikes Chords counter-harmonising With discordant harmonies, And where the beauty of women Snuffs out the hidden flames Which burn within the body. Put me, if it pleases you, Where the Delran one gathered Her band, ready for work, With cries, horns and pursuit Pursuing the light-footed flight Of stags, given wings by fear. Put me where the Cytherian one As the season changes Leads her young troop, And without fearing the cold Upon the damp grass Yawns in the peace of the night. Put me where blossom The trees which grow In the pleasant home of Alcinous, And where rich Autumn With generous hand gives A crown for the brow of Achelous. Put me where abound All things which most in this world Content man’s desire; Still will I be able in such ease To find no pleasure which pleases me But obstinate displeasure. Alas, why do they grow, These misfortunes which torture me, Though I am desperate to have better? Why to gather more, To want to know them too well, Am I so ingenious? Fortunate he who has by omens Foreseen hidden things! And still more fortunate He on whom the generosity of the gods Has lavished wisdom, The fairest treasure of the heavens! How much, if we were wise, Would omens explain themselves, Those fore-runners of our ills? Whether by some celestial harm, By some damaging loss, Or by the death of animals. But man’s thoughts While we live Do not understand man’s lot; Divine foreknowledge By sure experience Keeps it shut in its hand. Shall not some ancient fate Be ordained Against such holy spirits? A thousand who upon Parnassus Have drunk the waters of Pegasus Have had similar regrets. I shall not speak of the misfortunes Of the Thracian lyre [Orpheus] Or the Amphionian [Amphion, husband of Niobe]; I shall not write of the labours Of blinded Stesichorus And the great blind poet [Homer]; I shall be silent on the death of Euripides, And the homicidal tortoise3; I shall leave aside the famine Which took that wretched Plautus, And the troubles brought by the fault Of the writer in love. It only pleases me to write How the god who inspires The band of musicians, [Apollo] As a mortal, in rustic clothes, For seven years led his cattle To the banks of Amphrysos. Cursed then be the light Which first shone on me, Since severe heaven Put my birth under The unconquerable power Of so unfortunate a star. O avenging gods, by whom Ion swore, Gods who punish the wrong Of a broken love-bond, If devoted prayers For the unjustly-wretched Move you to pity, Alas, why then not take From me this cruel punishment, Since my innocent hands, Pure from blood and pillage, Were never inclined To smash man’s rights? I was not born of the race Which, on the mountains of Thrace, Armed itself against you, o gods, Nor of the abominable host Who, as their cursed forfeit, Increased the number of the wolves. I have not haunted the school Of that sacrilegious scoundrel Who first had the idea Of pretending an understanding Of your divine essence Under his lying appearance. I was not born of the land Which in the Theban war Shed brothers’ blood, A mutual outrage Which bore witness to the blind rage Of the incestuous father [Oedipus]. With no novel cruelty Have I split the head Of my father, nor have I With his still-jiggling entrails Filled my bloody throat In a nocturnal feast. If my innocent life Has never been the subject Of slavish affections; If greedy covetousness And ambition have not inflamed The fire of my passions; If for the destruction of a family By written deed or witness My tongue has never lied; If to take the bold of a just man I have never consented With the strongest; If the old spiteful Covetousness for another’s ill, If anger, if rancour (And any other madness Which has lordship over men) Have not made my heart foolish; Then, divine king on high, From where come on me, without my fault, Such furious regrets, O unfortunate innocence, Which the stars have so much Freedom to harm! Happy the being Who made his tomb In his mother’s belly! Happy he whose life As he left it was taken By eternal sleep! He did not feel upon his head The inevitable storm Which rocks us, But safe from shipwreck Watched the waves stirred up From far off on the shore. Up, my soul, turn back, Mark the limit here of the career Of your unwelcome grief. It is time to make trial Whether after death we find An end to so many misfortunes. My despairing life Now already feels itself crushing To a much-considered death. Die then, die, die, You who remain alive, Dying without being able to die. Just so the prophet of Adrastus, Who armed himself against Thebes For the son of Jocasta [Polyneices] Threw himself with great bravery Into the terrible crevasse Which closed over him. You, from whom these harsh alarms Will drag some tears, Remain happy at all times, May heaven favour you, And – more than me, wretched as I am – Live on happy and contented.
View original text (without footnotes)
1 Translator's note: Archilochus, a Greek poet, was in love with Lycambe but her ingratitude led to his Invectives, the first entirely subjective poetry – and written in iambics.
2 Translator's note: driven mad by Dionysis, Pentheus sees a double-sun (Euripides, Bacchae).
3 Translator's note: Aeschylus was killed by a tortoise dropped by an eagle flying overhead
1 Translator's note: Archilochus, a Greek poet, was in love with Lycambe but her ingratitude led to his Invectives, the first entirely subjective poetry – and written in iambics.
2 Translator's note: driven mad by Dionysis, Pentheus sees a double-sun (Euripides, Bacchae).
3 Translator's note: Aeschylus was killed by a tortoise dropped by an eagle flying overhead
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 Joachim du Bellay (1525 - c1560), "La complainte du désespéré"
This text was added to the website: 2017-06-10
Line count: 510
Word count: 2477