existed between her and some other young females, which was strengthened by the ties of similar tastes and occupations.

In the year 1421, not long after the death of her mother, Clotilde became attached to Berenger de Surville, and they were soon afterwards married. Immediately after that event had taken place, M. de Surville was called on to join the standard of Charles VII. then Dauphin; and it was on this occasion, probably, that the beautiful verses which we shall shortly transcribe, may be presumed to have been written; and at this time also the "Heroide a son espoulx Berenger" was composed, which, it is said, was seen, though not admired, by Alain Chartier. The life of Berenger de Surville was not long-he perished the victim of his own valour, in a dangerous expedition which he undertook during the siege of Orleans, leaving only one son by his wife. Madame de Surville now devoted herself more assiduously to her poetical labours, and she gained considerable notice by some severe attacks on Alain Chartier, between whom and herself there existed much animosity. After the death of her daughter-in-law, Heloise de Vergy, who died in 1468, Madame de Surville found her only consolation in the society of her granddaughter Camilla, upon whose death she once more visited the place of her birth. In this retreat she appears to have passed the remainder of her life, writing, in her extreme age, verses which would have done honour to the freshest mind at a much more favourable period. The precise time of her death is not known; but she lived and composed to her ninetieth year.

The poems which are contained in this little volume are principally poems of sentiment and satire; but as the latter must necessarily have lost much of the poignancy, which is their chief merit, we shall confine ourselves, in the extracts which we are about to make, to a few of the former description. We have attempted an English translation of these extracts, which we were induced to make from the admiration which we felt for the beauty of the original, though not in the hope of being able, in any manner, to approach it. Even in the very title a translation is impossible.

VERSES TO MY FIRST-BORN.*

My cherish'd infant! image of thy sire!

Sleep on the bosom which thy small lip presses;
Sleep, little one, and close those eyes of fire,

Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses.

Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumber lend thee
Delights which I must never more enjoy!

I watch o'er thee, to nourish and defend thee,

And count these vigils sweet, for thee, my boy. Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure!

Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly bore thee!
And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure,
It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o'er thee.
Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend! when thou awakest,
Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise;

Thy mother's face thou never now mistakest,
And thou hast learn'd to look into her eyes.

What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,

The fountain which thy small lip press'd at pleasure? Couldst thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest!

Even then thou couldst not know my fond love's measure.

My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!
My infant love! my comfort, my delight!
I gaze on thee, and gazing o'er and o'er,

I blame the quick return of every night.

His little arms stretch forth-sleep o'er him steals—
His eye is closed-he sleeps-how still his breath!
But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals,

He seems to slumber in the arms of death.

Awake, my child!--I tremble with affright!-
Awaken!-Fatal thought, thou art no more-
My child! one moment gaze upon the light,
And e'en with thy repose my life restore.

Blest error! still he sleeps-I breathe again—
May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!
But when will he, for whom I sigh-oh when

Will he, beside me, watch thine eyes unclose?
When shall I see him who hath given thee life,
My youthful husband, noblest of his race?
Methinks I see, blest mother, and blest wife!
Thy little hands thy father's neck embrace.
How will he revel in thy first caress,

Disputing with thee for my gentle kiss! But think not to engross his tenderness, Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.

Bel amy, cher petiot, que ta pupille tendre
Gouste ung sommeil qui plus n'est faict pour moy!
Je veille pour te veoir, te nourrir, te defendre,

Ainx qu'il m'est doulx ne veiller que pour toy! &c &c.

How will he joy to see his image there,
The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!
His noble forehead, and his graceful air,
Which Love himself might view with jealousy.

For me--I am not jealous of his love,

And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee;
Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove,
But not, like him, give this anxiety.

I speak to thee-thou understand'st me not—
Thou couldst not understand, though sleep were fled—
Poor little child! the tangies of his thought,
His infant thought, are not unravelled.

We have been happy infants, as thou art;
Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon;
Sleep in the calm repose that stills thy heart,
Ere long its very memory will be gone!

There is a tenderness and a sportive beauty in these lines of Madame de Surville, which we have seldom seen equalled; and, undoubtedly, both the versification and the sentiments seem much superior to the age in which she lived. Whatever doubts, however, there may be of their authenticity, we think their merits and excellence are unquestionable. These lines are certainly far superior to the French taste of the present day, a circumstance which may be used in favour of their genuineness. Some of the turns of thought, though occasionally verging on concetti, are delicate and sweet in the extreme where the mother imagines the slumbers of her infant to be those of death, and where she compares his infantine thoughts to the confusion of entangled threads. The picture too of conjugal attachment is ardent, tender, and pure. It is in poetry like this that the genius of woman more particularly excels, and these verses are a beautiful instance of it. The following stanzas also are full of passionate affection:

BALLADE A MON ESPOULX,

Lors fut admiz des propres mains du Roy en l'Ordre et Corps de la Chevalerie.

Quoy! mon Espoulx, à payne hors de l'enfance,
Vient des guerriers la palme recevoir,
Et son aurore obtient la recompense
Qui ne s'atteinct qu'à l'estoyle du soir!
Pourquoy n'auroit? Icel prilx percevoir
Veulent haults faictz, non triste sapience,
Que de succès sur toy voyray pleuveoir,
Si (car mon cueur ne peult me decevoir),
M'est ton amour garant de ta vaillance!

Cil qui soubmist et Carthage et Numance,
Cil qui soubmist l'Asie au sien manoir,
Vantez chascung de rare continence,
Furent du monde a ton aage, l'espoir :
Comme eulx, au droict joinz le ferme vouloir,
Humain propoz, sagesse et bienveillance!
Si nestre roy ne fust en ton pouvoir,
Du sang des roys te feraz apparoir-
M'est ton amour garant de ta vaillance.

Dieulx! que vouldroy, quand t'armeraz de lance
Varlet feal, te suibvre aux champs du Loir!
Qu'à te servir auroy de vigilance!
Comme sauroy bien tienne armuce chaloir!
Se ne se peult te fayz ramentevoir
Qu'avouz tissue plus estroite alliance,

Et qu'en tous lieulx, soict le ciel blanc ou noir,
Dusses forcier ma tendresse à douloir,
M'est ton amour garant de ta vaillance.

ENVOY.

De t'accoler me meurs d'impatience;
Seulette icy plus ne peulx ene souloir;
Revienz, amy; seray sans defiance,
Se dict bayzer, que ja sens m'esmouvoir
Que ton amour ne cede à ton vaillance.

We confess we have made several attempts to transmute these tender and simple stanzas into English verse, for we could not forbear quoting them, as they may lead our readers to judge for themselves of the merits of this fascinating little volume. We add the following translation, which contains the sentiments of these lines, though it is impossible to catch their naïvetè.

STANZAS TO MY HUSBAND,

On his admission, by the King's own hand, into the Order and Company of Knighthood.

What! in the very morning of his days,

My husband's hand has grasp'd the palm of war,
And his young brow is circled with the rays
That seldom beam, but from life's evening star?
Why should it not be so? This lofty prize
High deeds of arms, not subtle counsels, claim:

I see a thousand triumphs round thee rise,

If (and I boldly trust my heart's surmise)

Thy love, to me, stands surety for thy fame.

He, whose young arm struck Carthage to the ground,
He, who smote Asia with the Grecian power,

For noble continence alike renown'd,

In years like thine, were the world's hope and flower,

Like them, with firm will hold the right alone;
Be wisdom, virtue, courtesy thine aim:
If fortune grant thee not a kingly throne,
Be kingly blood in every action shewn-

Thy love, to me, stands surety for thy fame.

O heaven! when thou art arm'd with lance and shield,
That I might follow to Loire's martial plain;
A faithful squire, to tend thee in the field,

And fondly guard thy knightly arms from stain!
That may not be.-Then, love, bethink thee still
The ties that bind us own a sweeter name,

That through all time and place, through good and ill,
Though tender fears, the while, my bosom fill,
Thy love, to me, stands surety for thy fame.

ENVOY.

Dying, once more to meet thy dear caress,

I sit and languish in my loneliness

Return, sweet friend, secure from doubt or blame;
One kiss, which seems even now my lips to bless,
Shall say thy love is matchless as thy fame.

R.

ON THE ORIGIN OF THE DEBASEMENT OF NATIONAL

SPIRIT IN ITALY.

WHEN we revert to the circumstances under which Italy has been moulded into its present mishapen form, we shall perhaps cease to wonder at the deformity which the national character of the Neapolitan has recently exhibited: and we shall be led to conclude, that the attitude he lately assumed, originated rather in the desperate intrigues of a faction, than in that staid wisdom of genuine patriotism, which moves not without a deep calculation of the aids, resources, and alliances, whence its efforts shall derive the assurance of success in the end, and of support and renovation under temporary miscarriages. This impression will strike with the more force when we contemplate the divisions, which have so long enslaved and de-nationalized the posterity of the illustrious Roman. In tracing our way through the continuous chain of vicissitudes which marks Italian story, we shall not fail to discover the sinister causes that have contributed to debase and extirpate all national consanguinity between the distracted states of Italy. In our search for these causes, we must commence our enquiries with a remote period of the Roman annals.

The maxim of transforming men in one day from enemies into fellow-citizens, has been attributed to the first of the kings of Rome, whose necessities early impressed upon her its strengthen

VOL. I. NO. VI.

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