SONGS FROM COURTLY VERSAILLES

Vaucluse He Leaves Vaucluse, but His Spirit Remains There with Laura Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374)   Petrarch’s Sonnets on Vaucluse. I. The loved hills where I left myself behind, Whence ever ’t was so hard my steps to tear, Before me rise; at each remove I bear The dear load to my lot by Love consigned. Often I wonder inly in my mind,          That still the fair yoke holds me, which despair Would vainly break, that yet I breathe this air; Though long the chain, its links but closer bind. And as a stag, sore struck by hunter’s dart, Whose poisoned iron rankles in his breast,          Flies and more grieves the more the chase is pressed, So I, with Love’s keen arrow in my heart, Endure at once my death and my delight, Racked with long grief, and weary with vain flight. The Troubadour Queen Hortense (1783–1837)   Translated by Sir Walter Scott Glowing with love, on fire for fame,   A Troubadour that hated sorrow Beneath his lady’s window came,   And thus he sung his last good-morrow: “My arm it is my country’s right,            My heart is in my true-love’s bower; Gayly for love and fame to fight   Befits the gallant Troubadour.”   And while he marched with helm on head   And harp in hand, the descant rung,          As faithful to his favorite maid,   The minstrel-burthen still he sung: “My arm it is my country’s right,   My heart is in my lady’s bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight,            I come, a gallant Troubadour.”   Even when the battle-roar was deep,   With dauntless heart he hewed his way Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,   And still was heard his warrior-lay;          “My life it is my country’s right,   My heart is in my lady’s bower; For love to die, for fame to fight,   Becomes the valiant Troubadour.”   Alas! upon the bloody field            He fell beneath the foeman’s glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,   Expiring sung the exulting stave: “My life it is my country’s right,   My heart is in my lady’s bower;          For love and fame to fall in fight,   Becomes the valiant Troubadour.” Versailles

Madame Pompadour

Versailles!—Up the chestnut alley,
All in flower, so white and pure,
Strut the red and yellow lacqueys
Of this Madame Pompadour.
“Clear the way!” cry out the lacqueys,
Elbowing the lame and poor
From the chapel’s stately porches,—
“Way for Madame Pompadour!”
Old bent soldiers, crippled veterans,
Sigh and hobble, sad, footsore,
Jostled by the chariot-horses
Of this woman—Pompadour.
Through the levée (poet, marquis,
Wistful for the opening door),
With a rippling sweep of satin,
Sailed the queenly Pompadour.
Sighs by dozens, as she proudly
Glides, so confident and sure,
With her fan that breaks through halberds,—
In went Madame Pompadour.
Starving abbé, wounded marshal,
Speculator, lean and poor,
Cringe and shrink before the creatures
Of this harlot Pompadour.
“Rose in sunshine! Summer lily!”
Cries a poet at the door,
Squeezed and trampled by the lacqueys
Of the witching Pompadour.
“Bathed in milk and fed on roses!”
Sighs a pimp behind the door,
Jammed and bullied by the courtiers
Of this strumpet Pompadour.
“Rose of Sharon!” chants an abbé,
Fat and with the voice of four,
Black silk stockings soiled by varlets
Of this Rahab Pompadour.
“Neck so swan-like,—Dea certe!
Fit for monarchs to adore!”
“Clear the way!” was still the echo,
“For this Venus—Pompadour.”
Open!—with the jar of thunder
Fly the portals,—clocks strike four:
With a burst of drums and trumpets
Come the King and Pompadour. Versailles On Three Steps of Rose-Coloured Marble Alfred de Musset (1810–1857) I do not think that on this earth,          Mid its most notable plantations, Has been a spot more praised, more famed, More choice, more cited, oftener named, Than thy most tedious park, Versailles! O gods! O shepherds! rocky vales!          O sulky Termes, satyrs old! O pleasing scenes! O charming views! Sweet landscape, where one may behold, Ranged onion-wise, the little yews; O quincunx! fountain, bowling-green,          Where every summer Sabbath-e’en, On pleasure bent, one yawning sees So many honest families. And ye, imperial Roman shades! Ye naiads, pale and stony maids,          Holding your hands outstretched to all And shivering in your waterfall! Stiles, modelled in obliging bushes; Ye formal groves, wherein the thrushes Seek plaintively their native cry;          Ye water-gods, who vainly try Beneath your fountains to be dry; Ye chestnut-trees, be not afraid That I shall vex your ancient shade, Knowing that at sundry times          I have perpetrated rhymes: No such ruthless thought is mine. No! I swear it by Apollo, I swear it by the sacred Nine, By nymphs within their basins hollow,          Who softly on three flints recline, By yon old faun, quaint dancing-master, Who trips it on the sward in plaster, By thee thyself, august abode, Who know’st save Art no other guest,          I swear by Neptune, watery god, My verses shall not break your rest! I know too well what is the matter; The god of song has plagued you sore; The poets, with their ceaseless chatter,          You brood in mournful silence o’er; So many madrigals and odes, Songs, ballads, sonnets, and epodes, In which your wonders have been sung Your tired ears have sadly wrung,          Until you slumber to the chimes Of these interminable rhymes.     Amid these haunts where dwells ennui For mere conformity I slept, Or ’t was not sleep that o’er me crept,          If, dreaming, one awake may be. O, say, my friend, do you recall Three marble steps, of rosy hue, Upon your way toward the lake, When that delicious path you take          That leads the orangery through, Left-turning from the palace wall? I would wager it was here Came the monarch without peer, In the sunset, red and clear,          Down the forest dim to see Day take flight and disappear,— If the day could so forget What was due to etiquette. But what pretty steps are those!          Cursed be the foot, said we, That would stain their tints of rose,— Say, do you remember yet?     With what soft shades is clouded o’er This defaced and broken floor!          See the veins of azure deep Through the paler rose-tints creep; Trace the slender, branching line In the marble, pure and fine; So through huntress Dian’s breast          White and firm as Alpine snows, The celestial ichor flows; Such the hand, and still more cold, Led me leashed in days of old. Don’t confound these steps so rare          With that other staircase where The monarch grand, who could not wait, Waited on Condé, stair by stair, When he came with weary gait, War-worn and victorious there.          Near a marble vase are these, Of graceful shape and white as snow, Whether ’tis Classic or Chinese, Antique or modern, others know. I leave the question in their hands;          It is not Gothic, I can swear; Much I like it where it stands, Worthy vase, and neighbour kind, And to think it I ’m inclined Cousin to my rosy stair,          Guarding it with jealous care. O, to see in such small space So much beauty, so much grace!     Lovely staircase, tell us true, How many princes, prelates proud,          Kings, marquises,—a pompous crowd,— And ladies fair, have swept o’er you? Ah, these last, as I should guess, Did not vex thee with their state, Nor didst thou groan beneath the weight          Of ermine cloak or velvet dress: Tell us of that ambitious band Whose dainty footstep lightest fell; Was it the regal Montespan? Hortense, a novel in her hand?          De Maintenon, with beads to tell? Or gay Fontanges, with knot and fan? Didst ever look on La Vallière? And tell us, marble, if you can, Which of the twain you thought most fair—          De Parabère or De Sabran? ’Twixt Sabran and De Parabère The very Regent could not choose When supper did his wits confuse. Didst ever see the great Voltaire,          Who waged such war on superstition, Who to defy the Christ did dare; He, who aspired to the position Of sexton to Cytherea’s fane, When to the Pompadour he brought          His compliments, and fulsome strain, The holy water of the court. Hast beheld the plump Dubarry Accoutred like a country lass, Sipping milk, beside thee tarry,          Or tripping barefoot through the grass?     Stones who know our country’s story, What a variegated throng In your bygone days of glory Down your steps have swept along!          The gay world lounged beneath these trees, Lords and lackeys drank the breeze; There was every sort of cattle; O the duchesses! the tattle, O the brave red heels that dangled          Round the ladies, flounced and spangled! O the gossip! O the sighs! O the flash of brilliant eyes! O the feathers! O the stoles! O the powder on their polls!          O the furbelows and breeches Underneath those spreading beeches! How many folk—not counting fools— By the ancient fountain-pools! Ah! it was the good old time          Of the periwig sublime; Lives the cockney who dares grudge One iota of its state, He deserves, as I adjudge, On his thick plebeian pate          Now and evermore to wear Other ornament than hair. Century of mocking wood, Age of powder and of paste, He who does not find thee good          Writes himself devoid of taste, Lacking sentiment, and stupid, Votary abhorred by Cupid. Rosy marble, is ’t not so? Yet, despite myself, I trow          Though here thy fate is fixed by chance, Other destiny was thine; Far away from cloudy France, Where a warmer sun doth shine, Near some temple, Greek or Latin,          The fair daughters of the clime With the scent of heath and thyme Clinging to their sandalled feet, Treading thee in rhythmic dance, Were a burden far more sweet          Than court-ladies, shod with satin. Could it be for this alone Nature formed thee in the earth, In whose beauteous, virgin stone Genius might have wrought a birth          Every age had joyed to own? When with trowel and with spade In this muddy, modern park Thou in solemn state wert laid, Then the outraged gods might mark          What the times had brought about,— Mansard, in his triumph, flout Praxiteles’ injured shade There should have come forth of thee Some new-born divinity.          When the marble-cutters hewed Through thy noble block their way, They broke in, with footsteps rude, Where a Venus sleeping lay; And the goddess’ wounded veins          Coloured thee with roseate stains.