Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RONSARD'S TOMB, by PIERRE DE RONSARD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RONSARD'S TOMB, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: O caves, and you, o springs
Last Line: Of whoso hears.
Subject(s): Death; Fate; Flowers; Graves; Heaven; Mythology - Classical; Pan (mythology); Time; Dead, The; Destiny; Tombs; Tombstones; Paradise


O CAVES, and you, O springs
The lofty mountain flings
Downward along his sides
With leaps and glides,

O woods, and sun-shot gleams
Of wandering meadow-streams,
And banks with flowers gay,
List what I say --

When Fate and Heaven decree
My hour is come to be
Snatched from the light away
Of common day,

Let none bring granite stones
To build above my bones
A tomb of noble height
In Time's despite --

Not marble, but a tree
Set to cast over me
Shadows of billowy sheen,
Forever green,

And from my earth let spring
An ivy, garlanding
The grave, and round it wind
Twisted and twined.

There shepherds with their sheep
Coming each year to keep
My festival, shall pay
Their rites, and say:

"Fair isle, great is thy grace,
To be his resting-place,
While all the universe
Repeats his verse.

"He taught the Muses' pride
To love our country-side,
And dance our flowers among,
To songs he sung.

"He struck his lyre on high
Fore'er to glorify
Our mountains, crofts, and wealds,
And blosmy fields.

"Let gentle manna fall
Alway, above his pall,
And dew that soft and still
Spring nights distil.

"And let us keep his name,
And glorying in his fame
Each year bring him again
Praise, as to Pan."

Thus shall the shepherd-troop
Speak, and from many a cup
Pour wine and milk for food
And young lambs' blood

Above me, who shall then
Be dwelling far from men,
Where happy spirits blest
Take their long rest,

Where Zephyr breathes his love
O'er field and myrtle-grove
And meadows at all hours
New-decked with flowers,

Where care comes not, nor hate,
Nor envy spurs the great
To spread fell sorrow's dower
For lust of power;

In brotherly good-will
All join, and follow still
The crafts they used to love
On earth above.

Ah, God! to think, mine ear
Alcaeus' lyre shall hear,
And Sappho's, over all
Most musical!

See how the happy throngs
Press near to hear their songs
Till souls in woe rejoice
Listing their voice,

Till Sisyphus forget
His rock-worn toil and sweat,
Till Tantalus obtain
Surcease of pain. . . .

The sweet-toned lyre alone
Can comfort hearts that moan
And charm away all cares
Of whoso hears.




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