Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE WOODSMAN OF GASTINE, by PIERRE DE RONSARD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO THE WOODSMAN OF GASTINE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Stay, woodsman, stay thy hand awhile, and hark
Last Line: Matter abides forever, form is lost.
Subject(s): Echo (mythology); Forests; Goddesses & Gods; Mythology; Nymphs; Woods


STAY, woodsman, stay thy hand awhile, and hark --
It is not trees that thou art laying low!
Dost thou not see the dripping life-blood flow
From Nymphs that lived beneath the rigid bark?
Unholy murderer of our Goddesses,
If for some petty theft a varlet hangs,
What deaths hast thou deserved, what bitter pangs,
What brandings, burnings, tortures, dire distress!

O lofty wood, grove-dwelling birds' retreat,
No more shall stag and doe, with light-foot tread,
Feed in thy shadow, for thy leafy head
No more shall break the sun's midsummer heat.
The loving shepherd on his four-holed flute
Piping the praises of his fair Janette,
His mastiff near, his crook beside him set,
No more shall sing of love, but all be mute.
Silence shall fall where Echo spoke of yore,
And where soft-waving lay uncertain shade,
Coutler and plough shall pass with cutting blade
And frighted Pans and Satyrs come no more.

Farewell, thou ancient forest, Zephyr's toy!
Where first I taught my seven-tongued lyre to sing,
Where first I heard Apollo's arrows ring
Against my heart, and strike it through with joy;
Where first I worshipped fair Calliope
And loved her noble company of nine
Who showered their roses on this brow of mines;
Where with her milk Euterpe nurtured me.

Farewell, ye ancient oaks, ye sacred heads,
With images and flower-gifts worshipped erst,
But now the scorn of passers-by athirst,
Who, parched with heat the gleaming ether sheds
And robbed of your cool verdure at their need,
Accuse your murderers, and speak them scathe. . . .
Farewell, ye oaks, the valiant patriot's wreath,
Ye trees of Jove himself, Dodona's seed.

'Twas you, great oaks that gave their earliest food
To men, ungrateful and degenerate race,
Forgetful of your favors, recreant, base,
And quick to shed their foster-fathers' blood!

Wretched is he who sets his trust upon
The world! -- how truly speaks philosophy,
Saying that each thing in the end must die,
Must change its from and take another on.

Fair Tempe's vale shall be in hills uptossed,
And Athos' peak become a level plain;
Old Neptune's fields shall some day wave with grain.
Matter abides forever, form is lost.





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