Previously on this blog you have found and read If I Could Tell You by W. H. Auden. It was a villanelle, a poetic form adopted by the English poetry in the 18th c. To England it came from Italy and Spain via France where it was known, respectively, as villanella, villancico, and villanelle. In all three countries it was a dance-song implying pastoral notes in the text. In the English-language literature, however, where it became one of the favourite genres, villanelle has practically abandoned its rustic roots. The poets, including Oscar Wilde, W. H. Auden, and Dylan Thomas pondered much more philosophical themes than their continental predecessors.
Below are two villanelles by Oscar Wilde. One is addressed to the ancient Greek Theocritus, celebrating the work of the great bucolic poet. Another is dedicated to Pan (Faun), a Greek mythological character, “the goat-foot God“.
Theocritus
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| William Holman Hunt, Amaryllis, 1884 |
O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!
Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Do thou remember Sicily?
Pan
-1-
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
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| Mikhail Vrubel, Pan, 1899 |
No more the shepherds lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Not through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thine vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
-2-
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satys and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady.
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
