Part 2 (1/2)

TO THE MOON.

RONSARD, 1550.

HIDE this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon; So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on thy breast; So shall no foul enchanter importune Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon, And through the friendly night unseen I fare, Who dread the face of foemen unaware, And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.

Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love; 'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move, For little price, thy heart; and of your grace, Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.

TO HIS YOUNG MISTRESS.

RONSARD, 1550.

FAIR flower of fifteen springs, that still Art scarcely blossomed from the bud, Yet hast such store of evil will, A heart so full of hardihood, Seeking to hide in friendly wise The mischief of your mocking eyes.

If you have pity, child, give o'er; Give back the heart you stole from me, Pirate, setting so little store On this your captive from Love's sea, Holding his misery for gain, And making pleasure of his pain.

Another, not so fair of face, But far more pitiful than you, Would take my heart, if of his grace, My heart would give her of Love's due; And she shall have it, since I find That you are cruel and unkind.

Nay, I would rather that it died, Within your white hands prisoning, Would rather that it still abide In your ungentle comforting.

Than change its faith, and seek to her That is more kind, but not so fair.

DEADLY KISSES.

RONSARD, 1550.

ALL take these lips away; no more, No more such kisses give to me.

My spirit faints for joy; I see Through mists of death the dreamy sh.o.r.e, And meadows by the water-side, Where all about the Hollow Land Fare the sweet singers that have died, With their lost ladies, hand in hand; Ah, Love, how fireless are their eyes, How pale their lips that kiss and smile!

So mine must be in little while If thou wilt kiss me in such wise.

OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE.

RONSARD, 1550

WHEN you are very old, at evening You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, 'Ah well, ah well-a-day!

When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.'

None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, Albeit with her weary task foredone, But wakens at my name, and calls you one Blest, to be held in long remembering.

I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, My love, your pride, remember and regret; Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, And gather roses, while 'tis called to-day.

ON HIS LADY'S WAKING.