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Pour quang il a dessous les cieulx
Autre niens ne souhaideroye;
Mon seul, &c.

My only love! my joy! my pride!

More dear than all the world beside! I pray thee now be blithe and gay, Soon will I come without delay; Brief space shall pass ere I to thee Will fly, so Heav'n be kind to me,—

My only love! my joy! my pride!

More dear than all the world beside!

And oh! if strong desire could place

Me by thy side but little space,

For all that is beneath the skies,

No boon so high my heart should prizer

My only love! my joy! my pride!

More dear than all the world beside!

Allez Tous en, allez, allez,
Soucy, soin, et melancolie; &c.

Hence away, anxious folly!

Care, depart, and melancholy!
Think ye all my life to measure
Like the past, at your good pleasure?

That, at least, ye shall not do;
Reason shall be lord o'er you:

Hence away, then, anxious folly!

Care, depart, and melancholy.

Should ye e'er return again
Hither with your gloomy train,
Cursed of the gods be ye,
And the hour ye come to me!Hence away, anxious folly, Care, and boding melancholy!

It is well known that Charles amused himself during his captivity by some attempts (rather awkward ones it is true) at his favourite rondeau in the English tongue. These curious pieces have been more than once published. The author of the "Memoirs of Jeanne d'Arc" (Lond. 1824) gives, as a specimen of the duke's poetic talent, what is in fact only a very indifferent Latin version (probably, however, by Charles himself) of one of the prettiest of his French rondeaus. Whether the author of these rambling, ill-arranged "Memoirs" was aware of this does not appear. It would seem scarcely probable that he should quote a lame Latin version, if he was acquainted

with and could have given his author's French; and yet one would suspect that he was so acquainted, when it is observed,—first, that the English translation which he has added contains thoughts which are in the French, but not in the Latin ;—and secondly, that the mode in which the Latin text is printed, renders it doubtful whether that language be not beyond the author's sphere of comprehension.

The rondeau is as follows, as printed in the "Poëtes Francais depuis le XIIe. siècle jusqu'à Malherbes."

Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure, et de pluye, Et s'est vestu de broderie, De soleil luisant, clair et beau;Il n'y a beste, ni oyseau Qu' en son jargon ne chante ou crie,
"Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye."

Riviere, fointaine et ruisseau
Portent en livrée jolie,
Gouttes d'argent d'orfavrerie:
Chascun s'habille de nouveau;
Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye.

The season now hath cast away

Its garb of cold, and wind, and sleet,

And decks itself in broidery

Of sunshine bright and flow'rets sweet;

And bird and beast doth each essay
In its own fashion to repeat,—
"The season now hath cast away
Its garb of cold, and wind, and sleet."

Fountain, and brook, and rivulet, In silver-spangled livery play, Sparkling, their holiday to greet:All things are clad in new array,
Because the season casts away
Its garb of cold, and wind, and sleet.

JEAN FROISSART.

This celebrated historian belongs to a considerably earlier period than the two last poets, having been born in 1337. He was the author of an immense quantity of ballads, lais, rondels, &c. now in MS. in the king's library at Paris.

Le corps s' en va, mais le coeur vous demeure;
Tres chere dame, adieu, jusqu' au retour, &c.

The body goes, the spirit stays;

Dear lady, till we meet, farewell! Too far from thee my home must be: The body goes, the soul delays;—

Dearest of ladies, fare thee well!

But sweeter thoughts that in me dwell
The anguish of my grief outweigh ;—

Dearest of ladies, fare thee well!
The body goes, the soul may stay.

Reviens, amy; trop longue est ta demeure; 4c.

Return, my love; too long thy stay;

Sorrow for thee my soul has stung; My spirit calls thee ev'ry day,—

Return my love, thou stay'st too long.

For nothing, wanting thee, consoles,
Or can console, till thou art nigh:

Return my love, thou stay'st too long,
And grief is mine till thou be by.

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