Sestina : Altaforte Analysis

Loquitur: En Bertrans de Born.

Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer

up of strife.

Eccovi!

Judge ye!

Have I dug him up again?

The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur.

"The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.



I



Damn it all! all this our South stinks of peace.

You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!

I have no life save when the swords clash.

But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing

And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,

Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.



II



In hot summer have I great rejoicing

When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,

And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,

And the fierce thunders roar me their music

And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,

And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.



III



Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!

And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,

Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!

Better one hour's stour than a year's peace

With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!

Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!



IV



And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.

And I watch his spears through the dark clash

And it fills all my heart with rejoicing

And pries wide my mouth with fast music

When I see him so scorn and defy peace,

His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.



V



The man who fears war and squats opposing

My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson

But is fit only to rot in womanish peace

Far from where worth's won and the swords clash

For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;

Yea, I fill all the air with my music.



VI



Papiols, Papiols, to the music!

There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,

No cry like the battle's rejoicing

When our elbows and swords drip the crimson

And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.

May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"



VII



And let the music of the swords make them crimson!

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!

Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace"!

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