METASTASIO'S 2ND CANTATA
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[Note from Auguste de Labouisse:²

Focused as they are on particular eulogies, I had not planned to include these lyrics in my volume of idylls. However, to complete this collection of Metastasio's Cantatas, I am making use of prose translations. They are not mine, and I cannot even name the author; but they are by a hand so dear that I will be excused for not having attempted the rendering of the poetry into verse, and taking the opportunity to grace my trifles with these flowerings. She who created them, too modest to permit their publication, would have refused me a consent which I did not seek. In the unlikely event that these little pieces attract censure from people of taste, I alone am to blame. Perhaps over-sensitive critics will dare to pick up on some flaws, but I would remind them of these lines from Monsieur Bourgueil:

A critic whom nothing can touch,
as soon as he glimpses a blotch,
gets to work on making it stretch.
Far better simply to clear it.

I like to think others will regret I have confined myself to so scant a betrayal.]

ON the glorious name of MARIA-THERESA, reigning Empress.

SILENCE, Muses! Everyone, on this happy day, is praising Augusta's virtues, and Augusta forbids you to add your voice to the fray. A harsh edict, which you justifiably deplore. But who can avenge you? The gods? They are all on her side. Men? Where will you find one who is not her worshipper? Look for an arbiter on earth or in heaven and your protests will come echoing back. Better to obey her. Muses, be quiet.

SONG

DO not test, I urge you, the anger that ignites that striking, terrible gaze; that gaze, which requires the most fearless courage to meet; that gaze, which commands speech or impels silence.

You have no choice, so console yourself: Augusta's ban on speaking of her keeps you from running such a risk. What could you possibly say? What tributes could be strong enough to approach the truth? restrained enough to preserve her modesty? Whatever was said, you would diminish in the glare of all that praise, and appear a flatterer in her eyes. —By obeying her, everyone will honour her in a way that is worthy of her. Yes, to pronounce the sublime, unvanquished³ name of Theresa is at once to follow her orders and to say it all.

SONG

To recall the countless laurels that adorn her noble brow, to ensure her universal adoration, that name is enough; that name, which comprehends more accolades than one could bestow; that name, in which glories the century that owes her its success.

CANTATA III
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ON MARIA-THERESA's birthday

GOOD GODS, what is to become of me? What malignant deity lurks in my lyre today? I have been struggling to tune it so long. I change the strings, tighten them, slacken them, release them—they keep rebelling, grating on my ear, making sounds that confound and stun. You gave me this lyre, Muses. If, on such a solemn day, it is going to turn on me, take it back. Your gift has lost its charm.

SONG

Are you not, though, the same lyre that soothed so often my sorrows? the lyre whose chords unlocked heart and soul? the lyre that silenced, I remember, so many times, the pride in my beauty's breast?

How much do you not owe me, thankless lyre? Night and day I have grown pale around you, sweetening your sound and amplifying your fame; I lost myself; you so absorbed my attention you even made Nike jealous. And today ... oh treachery ... today ... oh gods! in my most urgent need! ... useless instrument! Far from me may herds trample you underfoot; may shepherds abuse you; may Arachne weave her sticky net over your dusty chest until no trace of your former lustre remains ... Fool! what am I saying? It is all my fault. Heaven punishes reckless ardour. August Queen, forgive me; I am sorry for my folly; I will be silent. This day will have to be celebrated in songs other than mine. He who in combat learns to match his exploits to his courage only becomes the wiser.

SONG

A little boat should never challenge a raging gale, nor provoke the wrath of a savage sea. Let it be content with the lesser glory of harrying the briny waters' dumb inhabitants.

CANTATA IV
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ON the birthday of Emperor FRANCIS I

SONG

Now the sun dispels the shadows: spread your wings, royal bird, salute the new day. This day, reborn, is the great day your Jupiter opened his eyes to the light.

EAGLE, guardian of an august throne, today you must proclaim your joy among⁴ the common jubilation: if the birth of a Caesar is sacred to all, bestowing so many blessings and so much hope, it should not to you seem less momentous. Remember how, lost amidst the clouds and storm, you floundered in an unsure, wavering flight; remember the wild sky, the ominous stars, the treacherous blast, and know whose hand brought you home to your eyrie.

SONG

Go and place in this hand a new thunder to gather fresh trophies⁵ at his feet, avenge the oppressed and punish the guilty, leaving lasting marks of his noble fury.

SPRING
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CANZONET

NOW Spring is back with its trimmings of roses; a pleasant breeze frolicks through grasses and flowers; the trees regain their foliage, the meadows their greenery, and in my heart alone peace fails to return.

Phoebus' pure rays melt the frost on the mountain, which dons once more the green that had been stripped away, while the gentle brook murmuring along at its feet sends dissolving ripples to rebloom its banks.

Now, along the slopes of the Alps, the ancient oak shakes off with a shudder the frost from its thick branches; and a thousand quivering flowers, not yet cut by the cruel plough, vie to beautify our fields.

The swallow, abandoning the sands of Egypt, crosses the seas to return to the nest of its birth; as it quickens its flight, blind to the dangling nets, unsuspecting, it hits the hunter's traps.

The little lovelorn shepherdess, her brow less furrowed now, returns to the familiar spring to arrange her hair; the sheep go off to pasture; the fisherman hurries to leave the shore, and the traveller his home.

Even the gloomy pilot, having toyed with treacherous waves, shipwrecked, and back in his father's house—as soon as he sees them calm again, gladly weighs anchor, forgetting his dread of the storm.

And yet, Phyllis, you disdain to come to my rescue, as if I were not in pain because of you; but if I break my chains I will be free again, no longer my ankle dragging in shackles.

Many times, my brow circled with green laurel, I made my lyre's golden strings ring to the sound of your precious name; now you are even crueller to me, my rage will teach them the scorn lavished on my constancy.

Oh no, forgive these miserable complaints, my darling: my moaning is the token of true love. If it be your pleasure, graciously accept my tribute, or else despise me—tender or cruel, you are the soul of my being.

FREEDOM — TO NIKE
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CANZONET

THANKS to your faithlessness, Nike, I am breathing at last; the gods have taken pity on this unfortunate. I feel like my soul has burst its bonds, freedom a dream no longer.

The old fire in me is snuffed out and, so at peace am I, there is no more pressure to conceal a passion: when I hear your name my face does not falter, and my eyes turn on you without my pulse quickening.

I dream, but you are not the object of my dreams; I wake, and no more are you my first thought; I leave without the need to see you again; I see you again with neither pain nor joy.

I can speak of your beauty without emotion, recall my wrongs without indignation; when you come near, I am no longer awkward; I even talk of you with your favourite suitor.

Speak to me gently, look at me coldly—your care and your contempt are both in vain. Those lips no longer hold the same power over me, those eyes no longer have the way to my heart.

Whatever delights or displeases me—joys, sorrows—are no longer your gifts or your curses; without you the forests, the hills, the meadows, gladden me; I get bored with your tiresome stay.

See if I mean what I say. You are still beautiful to my eyes, but not the beauty who has no equal; also (may truth not offend) I detect in your face some defects that I once took for charms.

To my shame I confess, when I tore out the fatal arrow I felt my heart break, I thought I was dying; but to shake off intoxication, to break free of oppression, to be yourself again, you can endure anything.

Sometimes a bird caught in lime will, to regain its freedom, sacrifice feathers that can soon regrow and, wise from experience, never again allows itself to be trapped.⁶

You don't, I know, believe the old flame is out, because I talk of it so often; but realise that what makes me speak of you is the natural impulse to tell of evils from which we have been delivered.⁷

Just as the warrior, after a terrible battle, recounts his exploits and shows his scars; just as the freed slave will bring out the barbaric chains he once dragged.

I am only speaking for myself; without fretting over whether or not you believe me, without seeking your approval, without caring if you are troubled by what I say.

I am casting away a fickle heart, you are losing a true one. I know not which of us most needs consolation; but I do know that never again will Nike find so faithful a lover, while a false-hearted mistress is easy to find.⁸

DEPARTURE
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CANZONET

HERE is the dreaded moment. Goodbye Nike, my Nike. How shall I live, my love, so far from you? I shall be in constant grief, all comfort gone. And you, who knows if you will ever remember me?

Allow at least that in the remnants of my lost repose, my thoughts may still follow your tread; always I shall be walking beside you. And you, who knows if you will ever remember me?

Cheerless, turning my feet towards distant shores, I shall go and demand of the rocks, where is my darling Nymph? From one dawn to the next I shall call for you ceaselessly. And you, who knows if you will ever remember me?

Oh Nike, time after time I shall see the pleasant riverbank where I lived happy, living with you; a thousand times I shall be reminded, a thousandfold torment for my heart. And you, who knows if you will ever remember me?

Here, I shall say, is the spring where she turned her coldness on me⁹; then, as a pledge of peace, gave me her lovely hand. In cruel perturbation I wavered between hope and fear. And you, who knows if you will ever remember me?

When you arrive in your new place, so many suitors will be pressing around you advancing love and loyalty. O God, who knows—among so many sighs and salutations—who knows if you will ever remember me?

Think of that sweet wound you leave in my heart; think of Philene's hopeless love; think, my life, of this brutal, fatal farewell; think .... Ah! who knows if you will ever remember me?

EPISTLE
TO MADAME VERDIER D'UZÉS
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1802

I have read and reread these lines to your husband,
enraptured by the passion that arouses you.
Both glory and esteem are held to view
in your sweet depiction of pleasures most piquant.

How envious, Verdier, I am of your gifts!
You can take delight in your skill as a writer
without the sad toil that afflicts
one's peace, despoiling the hours with thankless labour.
Your lines flow naturally, and your easy muse
interweaves stylistic graces
with the heart's transparent discourse.

Famous in spite of yourself¹⁰, you work merrily
never needing to look to the future.
What a blessing to make ¹¹ enduring memories
celebrating what you hold dear!

REPLY
TO MONSIEUR BONNAFOS DE LATOUR, Officer of the Light Artillery¹², my husband's first cousin, who sent me a poem entitled: To the Most beautiful.

IN this portrait, not so faithful,
you praise my charms extensively.
Really! You have never met me,
yet I am the most beautiful?

Your lines are charming, elegant…
Beware that life belie your zeal.
Alas, as soon as we have met
you'll find me not most beautiful.

Who, me? I would be mortified
to pluck the crown I am not due!
Laud beauty that is bona fide
and say of me that she will do.

TO THE AUTHOR
OF LINES TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL
_____________________

N.B. Having painted a butterfly, Eleonore sent it to him with this note: Here, my dear cousin, a fantastical portrait of you, which I hope, however, proves a likeness.

THIS emblem of my invention,
my friend, you will repudiate,
enjoying too much ambition
to see yourself most delicate.

But look, I am oh-so discreet:
your blithesome idling and flitting
hides a secret these lines can keep.
You may safely stay most fickle.

Observe, meanwhile, this object's scope.
Is its beauty implacable?
Rather, is there not cause for hope
in a thing that's most likeable?

TO MY FATHER
WHO was about to leave to reclaim his colonial possessions, when his hopes were shattered by the outbreak of war.
_____________________

WHEN destiny speaks I should obey its decree,
but a wail of pain slips my lips in spite of me.
From your daughter, dear, kind father, you journey far
and, out of love, your happy family depart
in order to provide for us, to meet our needs,
and meet your own in your devotion to our ease.
I, with my dear husband, bereft at your absence,
shall grasp at hope to displace the pall of sadness.
Hope consoles, dulls the edges of adversity,
can even clear a breathing space in misery,
alleviates our griefs, evaporates our tears,
strikes a small light in the future's uncertainties.
Its envisionings string the eager heart along,
melancholy all forgotten, distress undone...
What am I saying? No ignominious cheer
could ever supplant the sorrow that lingers here
in the stricken hearts of this couple of lovers
whom a solemn oath has united forever.
Loving souls suffer so when a father is gone;
our hearts with you, to you our thoughts will always turn.
May impatient prayers hasten your homecoming,
where the tenderest love will be your welcoming.

TO MY FIRSTBORN
A FREE IMITATION OF ELEONORE DE SURVILLE
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IT'S just his face, his look, it's everything I love
about him, the sweet smile and the roses
in his skin. I shouldn't be surprised. What other
being could grow from the seat of my soul?

Precious child, true copy of your father,
close those eyes that droop to the pull of sleep.
Rest now under the watch of your mother,
let go and doze on the breast your lips gripped.
Sleep, my son, let your little eyelids close.
Look how lovely he is! That bonny face!
May sweet dreams soothe away his wakefulness,
and cradle this newest springtime rose.

When, adorable child, you wake again
we two can hardly wait to hold you tight
and, at first sign of a smile, my husband,
in love with us both, doing as he likes,
will have you and your mother in his arms.

HEROID,
TO HER HUSBAND BERENGER
TRANSLATION
OF ELEONORE-CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE
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N.B. Whether Eleonore de Surville existed or is simply a creation of Monsieur de Surville's muse (which I doubt), these poems are none the less very pleasing and plausibly from the pen of an intelligent and sensitive woman. I am placing opposite them the verses which comprise our modern Eleonore's imitations. Taken from the Epistle to Berenger de Surville, they were included in a letter. I am publishing them without the consent of their author, whose modesty would have prevented her from granting it to me. There are 180 lines in the original Heroid, but at times it is a little too direct. In this short, lovely imitation, you can see how artfully many images have been softened or removed. Only taste and delicacy dictate such changes.

[Translator's Note: The fifteenth-century noblewoman-poet Eleonore de Surville does indeed appear to be an invention of the eighteenth-century Marquis de Surville, just as the medieval monk-poet Thomas Rowley was the invention of the Georgian Thomas Chatterton. In Idylls Auguste places the originals and his wife's versions side-by-side, but as the Middle French is bogus I see no point in trying to translate it here. Only the later, real, Eleonore's poem follows.]

TO AUGUSTE
1804

ELEONORE, to her Auguste, is sending
sweet memories, love, constancy.
Alas! While I, stalked by deep depression,
am seeking you by night, demanding you by day,
what, so far from me, are you doing and saying?
In what direction is fate taking you?
If my dread is consummated,
Auguste, I'll not be seeing you any time soon.
Forgive these misgivings of the one who loves you.
How to banish them though? You are no longer close.
Each morning as Olympus is suffused
with gold, your Eleonore, luckless,
has thoughts for nothing but Auguste.
Loosening my gaze to drift off far as it may
and surrendering to futile desires—
so daft!—because all I can do is wait
for you, I let delusions stand in for pleasures.
Nothing that doesn't chime with my undying crush.
I think I see you, hear you, speak with you.
That place, I say, was where first I received his touch,
felt myself burning in love's inferno.
There, beside an elm among the hawthorns,
crowned with flowers by the bounty of spring,
he said goodbye to me, spoke of his suffering.
Unbearable sobs suffocate my lungs
and my eyes with tides of tears are flooding.
Then there are times, casting off cruel memories,
retreated far into the woods' deepest reaches,
I seem to meld my ardent voice with Philomel's
threading the air with melody,
while you, to your muse's rhapsody abandoned,
are telling me again those lines, pleasure's teachers,
dictated by Apollo at blissful leisure...
But god! then I see how I am self-delusioned
and I am ready to collapse.
And often, in the semi-gloom of night,
I follow the glorious Ariege,
its swerving, crashing course of impetuous waves,
recalling the freedoms we enjoyed, hid from sight,
one beside the other, taking one place,
lost in sweet transports of the sweetest drunkenness
begrudged by the poor gods themselves.
When will you bring back the peace that's been snatched from me?
When can I crush you once again against my heart?
Auguste, my dearest Auguste, half of my being,
come home soon. Your return will guarantee
Eleonore's return to comfort.

TO MISS L_____
IN REPLY to lines accompanying a bunch of Helichrysum
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I received your delightful lines
with the bunch of Helichrysum.
Despite their flattering designs
I like you so much more than them!
True, I have at times been martyr to the Muses
but their betrayal cannot make me glum.
I shall go halves so you may take your rightful praises.
What do I care, Aglaia, if they are fickle?
your friendship is far preferable
to the Muses' false caresses.

_____________________

SONG

Love, I implore of you a boon:
to heal my heart's sad malady.
Well-being, peace and gaiety
are lost to me while he is gone.

IDYLL
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“What winter is to the earth
indifference is to the heart”

(Madame DESHOULIERES)
1805

AS soon as I wake I hear them,
spring's love-birds, carolling anthems of endearments,
quivering with joy among my roses,
marking with song the banishment of night's shadows,
eager, bursting with ardour, just like their mistress,
applauding the dawn, and Phoebus who soon follows,
painting in perfect refrains their own love-stories.

Complete with joy and well-being,
together they sip the freshness of the morning.
Too lucky birds, how envious of you I am!
You are not stricken by the twist of the heart-string.
Never, never have you suffered the pang
of an invidious absence.
May you, as you go frolicking deep in the grass,
stay safe from the bird-catcher's treacherous scheming.

Sing out, ever joyful, from the heathland,
drunken on love, drunken on luxury,
and let no cold-blooded, murderous hand
dare to put a blight on such gaiety.
Make merry beneath my window,
jaunty birds, with nothing to dread,
no cruel master to cast their shadow.
Is liberty not your rightful estate?
May it never be unjustly wrested from you!
Happiness is fleeting—why cut it shorter?
For my part, in my bereavement, I would grieve you.
No, no. Fearlessly here you may frisk and flutter.

And, all the time, mother and wife,
I am sharing in the evils my eyes witness.
Come forward kindly, vision of blissfulness,
and distract me a moment from this bitter grief.

GOODBYE TO THE MUSES
_____________________
26 July 1805

DEAR sisters, please accept this fond farewell.
It's what the youngest of the gods has willed,
that I depart the bounds of Parnassus.
He is home. He is home again with me.
I owe him everything. May my sweet ministry
be the fitting recompense of his tenderness.

Pure objects of my earliest desire
you spurred my first rush of pleasure,
sparked my first daze of drunkenness.
But now these lines reveal the unfitness
of indulging in such futile leisure.

Today is when I renounce these pointless trifles.
Only the Verdiers or the Beauforts
of this world can blithely devise immortal lines:
I grind away, draining time and effort.

You know, Muses, how hustle-bustle are my days,
invested in other duties.
No longer have I the space to blithely idle;
and I would be crazier than Astolphe,
to spend hours attending to rhymes and syllables
instead of to my own Adolphe.
Pledge of wedlock, prized treasure, my delight,
how proud it makes your besotted mother
to see in your face all the traits of your father.
May I also find his virtues inside your heart.

Divine daughters of memory,
I am out of the fold of your enchanted woods,
interested only in my child, my glory.
Who cares for the success of odes?
—accomplished always through torture!
A writer is burdened with petty dreads,
her mind, like a convict, arrested in fetters.
My heaven is written in my husband and son:
my work has to be to make them happy.
Farewell Muses. So rare a privilege, to me,
is far more precious than posterity's renown.
Let us part now, without further delay.
Timeless fame, for me, has small attraction.
Go on without me. Good night. Safe journey.

End of Madame Eleonore's Poems and Translations.