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Updated: June 17, 2025
He notes the same genius of realism again when he is relating how Ronsard, on the eve of his death, as he was transported from priory to priory, in hope of relief in each new place, wrote a poem of farewell to his friends, in which he described the skeleton horrors of his state with a minute carefulness, Ronsard, indeed, showed himself a very personal chronicler throughout his work.
For one blinding second, Ronsard, buffeting the wild waves, saw the face of Gloria, that best-beloved fair face, angelic, pitying, loving to the last, shine on him like a star in the darkness! the next he was whelmed into the silence of the million dead worlds beneath the sea! So at last he paid his life's full debt. So, at last his atonement was fulfilled.
He was, as it were, a re-discovered fatherland. But his praise since then has been no mere task of patriotism. It has been a deep enthusiasm for literature. "You cannot imagine," wrote Flaubert, in 1852, "what a poet Ronsard is. What a poet! What a poet! What wings!... This morning, at half-past twelve, I read a poem aloud which almost upset my nerves, it gave me so much pleasure."
Following Ronsard, Gascoigne devotes a great deal of attention to what, borrowing the terminology of rhetoric, he calls "invention." But whereas Ronsard had meant by invention high, grand, and beautiful conceptions, Gascoigne means "some good and fine devise, shewing the quicke capacitie of a writer." That Gascoigne takes invention to mean a search for fancies is illustrated by his own example.
Max obeyed uncertainly, and as he took his seat a sudden fear of loss crushed him life became blank, the brightness of the sun was eclipsed. "Monsieur Ned!" he called. "Monsieur Ned! I shall see you again?" Blake was speaking to the cocher. 'Rue Ronsard! he heard him say. 'The corner of the rue André de Sarte! He leaned out of the window. "Monsieur Ned! Monsieur Ned! I shall see you again?
In poetry, the Gothic spirit in France had produced a thousand songs; and in the Renaissance, French poetry too did but borrow something to blend with a native growth, and the poems of Ronsard, with their ingenuity, their delicately figured surfaces, their slightness, their fanciful combinations of rhyme, are but the correlative of the traceries of the house of Jacques Coeur at Bourges, or the Maison de Justice at Rouen.
It is this secret contrariety of creative forces which produced the literary incompleteness, the licentious plays, the abortive drama of Dryden and Wycherly, the poor Greek importations, the gropings, the minute beauties and fragments of Ronsard and the Pleiad.
"Oh yes, I know!" responded Ronsard sternly and bitterly; "I know everything! There has been full confession! If the husband of my Gloria were more prince than man, my knife would have slit his throat! But he is more man than prince! and I have let him live for her sake!"
And in a voice like a drum he rolled the noble lines of Ronsard "Ou pour l'honneur de Dieu, ou pour le droit de mon prince, Navre, poitrine ouverte, au bord de mon province." "Sakes alive!" said the American gentleman, almost in an awed tone. Then he added, "Are there two maniacs here?" "No; there are five," thundered Moon. "Smith and I are the only sane people left."
Poetry, too, in my opinion, has flourished in this age of ours; we have abundance of very good artificers in the trade: D'Aurat, Beza, Buchanan, L'Hospital, Montdore, Turnebus; as to the French poets, I believe they raised their art to the highest pitch to which it can ever arrive; and in those parts of it wherein Ronsard and Du Bellay excel, I find them little inferior to the ancient perfection.
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