The chant royal is a poetic form that consists of five eleven-line stanzas with a rhyme scheme a-b-a-b-c-c-d-d-e-d-E and a five-line envoi rhyming d-d-e-d-E or a seven-line envoi c-c-d-d-e-d-E. Poetry (ancient Greek: ποιεω (poieo) = I create) is traditionally a written art form (although there is also an ancient and modern poetry which relies mainly upon oral or pictorial representations) in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content. ... In poetry, a stanza is a unit within a larger poem. ... In poetry, an envoi is a short stanza at the end of a poem used either to address an imagined or actual person or to comment on the preceding body of the poem. ...

It was introduced into French poetry in the 14th century by Christine de Pizan and Charles d'Orléans and was introduced into England towards the end of the 19th century as part of a general revival of interest in French poetic forms. French poetry is a category of French literature. ... Christine de Pizan, showing the interior of an apartment at the end of the 14th or commencement of the 15th century Christine de Pizan (1364 -1430) was a remarkable medieval writer, rhetorician and critic, who strongly challenged misogynist thinking by successfully establishing her authority, even in the midst of the...

An Example

The Dance of Death

After Holbein

"Contra vim Mortis

Non est medicamen in hortis."

Austin Dobson

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,

Later or soon, the message of his might;

Princes and potentates their heads must hide,

Touched by the awful sigil of his right;

Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait

And pours a potion in his cup of state;

The stately Queen his bidding must obey;

No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;

And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith--

"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play."

There is no King more terrible than Death.

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,

He draweth down; before the armed Knight

With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;

He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;

The Burgher grave he beckons from debate;

He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,

Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;

No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;

E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,

Nor can the Leech* his chilling finger stay . . . [doctor]

There is no King more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betide

The Wine-bibber,--the Roisterer by night;

Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,

Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;

Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,

The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;

Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay;

Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey

With creeping tread the traveller harryeth:--

These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . . .

There is no King more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity, -- nor will be denied.

When the low hearth is garnished and bright,

Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,

And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;

He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:--

He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,

Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;

Nay, the tired Ploughman,--at the sinking ray,--

In the last furrow,--feels an icy breath,

And knows a hand hath turned the team astray . . .

There is no King more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,

Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,

That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,

He with the clatter of his drum doth fright.

He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;

The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate;

He hath no grace for weakness and decay:

The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,

The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,--

All these he leadeth by the lonely way . . .

There is no King more terrible than Death.

ENVOI

Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,

I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,

Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;

But know not less that there must come a day,--

Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,--

When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,--

There is no King more terrible than Death.