—Froissart.
The weak point of the Triolet being the monotony of its refrain, every attempt, at giving a new accent to the words, short of actual punning, is welcomed as a relief. There is an air composed by Charles Delioux, to which all triolets in the pure form may be sung. De Banville quotes the melody in his "Odes Funnambulesques." Most people who have attempted to make rhymes know that when once a haunting melody gains control the words and sentences will try and fit themselves to it; so perhaps a would-be writer of triolets could secure correct form by learning this tune and writing his triolets to it. It is quite certain that this alone would not ensure a good poem, but it might keep one to the usual rhythm and exact number of syllables, with the correct musical accent, singularly near, if not identical, with the poetical one, when properly used. A quaint example found by Mr. Dobson in an old French play is given on page [214], as it has not hitherto been printed in England.
The Villanelle has been called "the most ravishing jewel worn by the Muse Erato." The large number of Villanelles in modern English was the most unexpected find that came to light in the course of collecting material for the present volume. Many of these fulfil a condition now held strictly binding, since promulgated by Joseph Boulmier in his own Villanelles—that is, that their length should imitate the example of Jean Passerat's famous model, and be complete in nineteen lines. The rules sound simple, and the result must read easily; but the ease is only to be attained by an elaborate amount of care in production, which those who read only would hardly suspect existed. The accepted model for all to follow will be found on page [242]. The example that follows is an interesting translation by Boulmier of Mr. Dobson's Villanelle, "When I saw you last, Rose," first printed by his permission in Longman's Magazine (under the heading "At the Sign of the Ship") for July 1887:—
ROSE.
Vous étiez encore petite
Rose, la dernière fois...
Dieu! que le temps passe vite.
Fleur innocente qu'abrite
Tendrement l'ombre des bois
Vous étiez encore petite.
Et déjà la marguerite
Va s'effeuillant sous vos doigts...
Dieu! que le temps passe vite!
Oh, comme se précipite
La vie. A peine j'y crois...
Vous étiez encor petite.
Dans votre sein qui palpite
Se glisse un hôte sournois...
Dieu! que le temps passe vite.
Chez vous Cupidon s'invite:
Adieu la paix d'autrefois!
Vous étiez encore petite:
Dieu! que le temps passe vite!