NOTICE.
COLARDEAU had translated half of Tasso when he learned that his friend Watelet was at work on the same undertaking. He vowed at once to discontinue his version, even throwing into the flames what was already completed. Watelet's efforts proved no consolation for Colardeau's generous sacrifice. To avoid that offence, I want here to preserve two of Metastasio's cantatas in renditions by Monsieur de Kerivalant. He gave up, for my sake, his project of translating the rest, and entrusted these to me, so that no trace of them would remain in his hands. Grateful for a deference which is as flattering as it is good-natured, and which shows such respect for literature, I am publishing these two pieces without his knowledge, and here address to this worthy poet all the thanks which such a delicate attentiveness merits.
Although my verses are much inferior to those of Monsieur de Kerivalant, I set them beside his with confidence, based on this principle: that in prose, the aim being an elegant and accurate translation, there is only one proper result, whereas for its rival there may be a hundred. Poets claim the right, according to their fancy, to modify or alter any image they dislike, to prune or to add elements for the sake of lyrical harmony. And the strictest of critics will forgive a host of happy liberties which they would never excuse in a prose writer.
But since I am being so bold as to publish these two pieces by Monsieur de Kerivalant, it would be very remiss of me to let slip the opportunity of presenting other works by the same author. Where such a worthy friend is concerned, I may dispose of their goods without qualms. So here I include some of his imitations of the Italian and the English. May any future acclaim for these works urge him to complete his translation of Catullus, a difficult enterprise, but not, as he seems to fear, beyond his talent or strength.
THE NAME
TRANSLATION OF METASTASIO
_____________________
CHOSEN of the God of the Sun,
Laurel Tree, I would carve into your immortal arm
what is etched on my steadfast heart,
the name of the beauty for whom I die of love.
Chloris. May she remain faithful
until the day your leaves shrivel, dry as wafers,
and may the trust I have placed in her truth
never prove to be barren and fruitless as you.
You are now the luckiest of branches
for, every time that spring breaks through,
every year of brazen new green growth advancing,
you will see that lovely name blazon too.
The forest nymphs and the nymphs of the high mountains,
the deities who command the waters,
the spirits of all the land that sprawls around us
will be dancing to reed-pipes within your aura.
And now your kin in the forest,
surrendered to your primacy,
wonder-struck, honour you as their monarch.
The resilient pine, the beech, the cypress tree,
the old oak, proud of its massive lattice of boughs,
the palm, whose top is lost to view beyond the clouds,
pride themselves on being admitted to your court.
From now on, when I sing, I shall ensure
that none but your leaves may serve as my garland-crown.
You alone will know all the secrets of love's course.
You will hear first-hand of my lady's attributes,
the evils inflicted by her capricious moods,
the pains, the pleasures, the denials, the favours.
And so, for you, may the fleeting season of spring
prove an indolent lingerer.
May your leafy sanctuary
let no mean shepherdess or cheating amorist
rest in its freshened atmosphere.
May the raven's cold black lustre
never settle here like a bane,
but let it be the nightingale
that nestles with her young and forgets to suffer.
THE EXCUSE
TRANSLATION OF METASTASIO.
_____________________
I'M sorry, but I have no idea, Laura,
of the cause for this undue rage.
What did I say? Or do? Not knowing is torture!
I said I loved you with a love that's immortal;
I favoured you with all the sweetest names.
Is that such a crime? Such an odious offence
it infuriates not just you, but the heavens?
If adoring you is all it takes to transgress
anyone near you who has eyes may be sentenced.
Is there a man, too delightful Laura,
who, trying to resist your lure,
sees you and doesn't fall for you?
speaks to you and doesn't falter?
Find one, and your scolding of me might be called for.
But among so many who warrant your hardness
why to me alone play you the tartar?
How cruel! Is it my fault you are so winning?
Discard that impotent disdain,
be calm, and let your loveliness resume its place.
You don't see the damage your bad temper inflicts.
Let me show you exactly what I mean
in the clear mirror of this honest stream.
Am I telling the truth? Judge my veracity.
Take a look at how these rantings,
black tantrums and intractable glowers,
this moodiness which switches your whole countenance,
rob you of your enchantments.
If to keep saying I love you,
to cite you as my highest good,
is an insult terrible enough to avenge,
well, then, I say, insult me too.
I grant permission to offend.
From you I am ready to suffer anything.
Now that brings a smile to your lips.
Such a delicious smile! A smile that ravishes!
Look at the glow that is coming over you now.
If a smile can give your face such a lift
what grace might a tender gaze bring about.
Put it to the test, if only for a minute,
and check your image in the water-glass once more.
Your brow, soft with serenity,
now it has known the shape of human sympathy,
will never again be mangled by angry storms.
THE ABSENCE2
IDYLL
_____________________
GLOOMY and lonely grove, to you,
crushed by the press of my trouble,
I come to rest in the comfort
of your quiet and your shadow.
The things that used to bring me joy
are the things that now leave me dead.
At war always with my own self
my claim on happiness is void.
Is Sylvia hidden in there,
noble trees? It is her I seek,
her my eyes are longing to see.
Everything answers, She's nowhere.
How often your leafy cradles
kept our shy liaisons secret.
Where are they now, those transient
fragments of time that sustained us?
Shall I ever see her again,
Elm, underneath your canopy?
Never, echoing back to me,
descends as a dismal omen.
Then suddenly comes a whisper
like a sigh from my beloved
making my dogged heart suspect
its longed-for object has returned.
No, it's just the brook that mutters
between the pebbles of its bed.
Almost it sounds like it laments
the bitter torments I suffer.
But that is that. For the future
what is there to hope for or plan?
The day she feels like coming back
my dust will be laid by her tears.
SOLITUDE3
_____________________
IDYLL
MERCIFUL lonesomeness,
vivifying ease,
there can be no equal
to this release.
The purest indulgence,
heavenliest peace,
no pretence, little fuss,
nature's disbursement
of perfect beauty.
When risen Aurora
engilds and embroiders
each radiant leaf,
each unfolding flower,
what pleasure it is
to admire, to sift
the free gifts of Flora.
Like this shrubbery
whose budding foliage
gives shade and relief
to the lawn's tender blades,
tempting truancy.
And, so sweet to the ear,
the water-ripples,
the breeze's whisper,
and delicate and clear
the birds, ever fond,
singing their love-songs
with their mates beside them.
Or, off in the pastures,
the spring lambs at play
capering and kicking,
and shepherds in place,
their pipes trilling strains
that echo and mingle,
rallying the strays.
THE ROSE
_____________________
A METAPHOR
TRUE pattern of the rose,
a maiden never dares
disclose the passion
that her heart has sprung.
The day the rose unfurls
barely has dawn breached
the sky's eastern verges
when a leading beam
picks out the deep bloom
of lush vermilion.
But when dancing Zephyr
leaves the ripe flower
on its thorny stalk
oh how it does mourn!
And if it is plucked?
Against a young breast
it rests and at once
a fresh flush of red
blossoms like sunset
and life is retouched.
A SONNET4
_____________________
GOLDEN hair, moulded by Love into fine tresses
where, like a fledgeling floundered into a net,
I find myself entangled by a sorceress
to whom, from now until the tomb, I shall be pledged.
I squeeze you, press you with kisses upon kisses,
you who conceal with a veil of gold the aspect
of one whom here below we might deem a goddess,
whose allurements the heavens secretly covet.
I hanker every day for that cherished presence,
for the sweet disclosures we made one another,
requiring to confide in you my life's burdens.
Pathetic derangement of a blind suppliant!
Far from unpicking the knots in which I suffer
I am fond of the locks that keep me imprisoned.
THE SHRUB
_____________________
IDYLL
IN rich soil, on the banks of a crystal river,
a fine little tree was growing,
already mantled in greenery and flowers.
A jealous hand chops it. In a blink is stolen,
to the wood-nymphs' profound lamentations,
the budding glory of its tender fronds.
Gone is the stream's loveliest ornament.
Victim of unjust violence,
wretched and vulnerable shrub,
must you, barely in your springtime,
perish so glorious, so lush?
In this shrub, Aegle, you may see my hopes and dreams
with the image of their ending.
Your favour was the author of my optimism,
your scorn, your ice, the warrant for its extinction.
One thing distinguishes this tree from me:
it can never rise from oblivion,
while at your voice I'll be alive again.
A HYMN ON THE SEASONS
BY THOMSON
_____________________
[Translator's Note: It might be fun to translate this back into English and compare the result with original, but I'm pretty bored with nymphs, shepherds and deities of either sex, so here is a link to Thomson's text: https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/works/o3549-w0050.shtml]
AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD
BY THOMAS GRAY
_____________________
[And here's a link to Gray's text: https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/works/o5155-w0010.shtml]
SENDING THE ABOVE ELEGY
TO MADAME B...
_____________________
WHY, in our present hour of genial folly,
should I compel my muse to form these mournful lines?
Rather than indulge myself in melancholy
by translocating Mr Gray's drear rustic shrines,
I see you, B—, so youthful and so lovely,
I am inspired to take up Albany as guide
and write of life, of freshness and frivolity.
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER
BY POPE
_____________________
[A link to Pope's text: https://www.bartleby.com/library/poem/4127.html]
ON THE POETRY
OF ELEONORE-CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE
Since we can never know for sure
who wrote this antique poem-trove
which France entire takes and admires
and from which readers scarcely move,
Clotilde, I think, asks us to dare
a little faith, a lot of love.
THE FIRE-SIDE
BY DOCTOR COTTON
_____________________
[Cotton's text: https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/works/o5155-w0510.shtml#text]
TO MADAME FANNY DE BEAUHARNAIS
Beauharnais, unvaunting
beauty,
you inveigh unduly against my sex and yours:
one your loveliness seduces,
the other your goodness enthralls.
THANKSGIVING FOR GOD'S PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE
BY JOSEPH ADDISON
_____________________
[Link to Addison: https://finestofthewheat.org/when-all-thy-mercies/]
REPARTEE
Ah! come along to our academy,
where genius appears on prizegiving day!
My friend, you'll have to excuse me,
I pray,
you well know how genies terrify me.
End of Monsieur de Kerivalant's Poems, and of Part One.
