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; Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses. Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumber lend thee 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! Thy mother's face thou never now mistakest, 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! I blame the quick return of every night. His little arms stretch forth-sleep o'er him steals— He seems to slumber in the arms of death. Awake, my child!--I tremble with affright!- Blest error! still he sleeps-I breathe again— Will he, beside me, watch thine eyes unclose? 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 Ainx qu'il m'est doulx ne veiller que pour toy! &c &c. How will he joy to see his image there, For me--I am not jealous of his love, And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee; I speak to thee-thou understand'st me not— We have been happy infants, as thou art; 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, Cil qui soubmist et Carthage et Numance, Dieulx! que vouldroy, quand t'armeraz de lance Et qu'en tous lieulx, soict le ciel blanc ou noir, ENVOY. De t'accoler me meurs d'impatience; 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, 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, 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; Thy love, to me, stands surety for thy fame. O heaven! when thou art arm'd with lance and shield, And fondly guard thy knightly arms from stain! That through all time and place, through good and ill, ENVOY. Dying, once more to meet thy dear caress, I sit and languish in my loneliness Return, sweet friend, secure from doubt or blame; 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. 2 x |