I rode past, thinking, recently,
Like one who’s sad and sorrowful,
Of that lament that renders me
Of all lovers the most mournful,
Since, with his dart so dreadful,
Death has stolen my mistress,
And left me lonely: left me dull,
In the sole charge of Sadness.
I said to myself: ‘I should cease
Writing and rhyming, it appears,
Abandon laughter, and be pleased
To replace all this with tears.
And so I must employ my years,
Without heart or inclination
To pen a single thing, I fear,
That pleases me, or anyone.
If any would constrain my will
To write of happy things,
My pen would not possess the skill,
Nor my tongue the power to sing.
My lips could never part, in smiling,
Without a gaze that lips betrayed,
Since my heart would claim denial
Through the tears my cheeks displayed.
I leave it to the lover, who nurses
Hopes that his wound might heal,
To make ballads, songs and verses,
That each might his own skill reveal.
My lady, by her will, did steal
At her Death, God save her soul,
And carry away, my power to feel,
That lies with her beneath the stone.
Another translation of a fragment from La Belle Sans Merci:
As late all pensively I rode,
Like one with sick and aching breast,
Laden with Sorrow’s heavy load,
Of lovers all, the wofullest;
Since with his dart has Death opprest,
And snatched my mistress from my side,
And left me lonely and distrest,
With melancholy for my guide.
Then said I: ‘Since no more, I trow,
Shall rhyming joy or solace lend,
Since I must laughter now forego
For tears which life alone shall end,
Yet I my time somehow must spend,
Since I nor solace feel nor ease,
Whether in writing or to send
What neither me nor others please.
‘Who is there would my will constrain
And force of happy things to write?
My pen could not such theme attain,
Nor my tongue tell of them aright,
Nor my lips shape to laughter bright;
My eyes would speak in other sense,
And my heart show, in their despite,
The truth by tears which issued thence.
‘To other lovers it belongs
Who still can hope, though grief molest,
To utter ballads, lays, and songs,
Each one as he may think it best.
My lady, in her last behest
(God keep her soul) when nigh to death,
My heart of joyance dispossest,
Which with her lies the shroud beneath.
“Twere fit my voice henceforth were mute;
Speech-weariness is o’er me cast-
I leave to those whom it may suit
To use their time; my own is past.
Fate has my coffer robbed at last,
Where had I heaped my treasure long,
And all the wealth which I amassed
In the good time when I was young.
‘Love ruled my heart with boundless might.
If wrong I did, God’s grace I pray;
If well, I thence have no delight,
It gives me nought nor takes away.
For since did Fate my lady slay,
With her has every joyance died;
Death does a limit round me lay,
In which my heart must ever bide.’
Alain Grandbois
(Alain Chartier)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, God Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Soul Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Hope Poems, Thought & Thinking PoemsBased on Keywords: coffer, pensively, inclination, renders, merci, amassed, dispossest, alain