The gazing crowds proclaim'd me fair,

Ere, autumn-touch'd, my green leaves fell : And now they smile, and call me good ;Perhaps I like that name as well.

On beauty, bliss depends not; then
Why should I quarrel with old time?
He marches on:-how vain his power
With one whose heart is in its prime !

Though now perhaps a little old,

Yet still I love with youth to bide; Nor grieve I if the gay coquettes Seduce the gallants from my side.

And I can joy to see the nymphs

For fav'rite swains their chaplets twine, In gardens trim, and bowers so green, With flowerets sweet and eglantine.

I love to see a pair defy

The noontide heat in yonder shade;

To hear the village song of love

Sweet echoing through the woodland glade.

I joy too (though the idle crew

Mock somewhat at my lengthen'd tale,)

To see how lay's of ancient loves

The listening circle round regale.

They fancy time for them stands still,
And pity me my hairs of gray,

And smile to hear how once their sires
To me could kneeling homage pay.

And I, too, smile, to gaze upon

These butterflies in youth elate,

So heedless, sporting round the flame

Where thousand such have met their fate.

THE AUTHOR OF THE PARADIS D'AMOUR.

THE "Paradis d'Amour" is a romance of the 13th century, of which Le Grand d'Aussy published a selected abridgement, and which Mr. Way translated with still greater deviations from the original. Le Grand gave only the first verse of the following song; but M. Roquefort has published the whole, from the MS. in the king's library, in his "Etat de la Poésie Françoise dans les XII & XIIIe siècles." It will be

best to introduce the song with Mr. Way's transla

tion of the preceding context.

Hé! aloete,

Joliete,

Petit t'est de mes maus.

S'amour venist a plesir

Que me vousissent sesir
De la blondette,
Saverousette,

J'en feusse plus baus.

Hé! aloete,

Joliete,

Petit t'est de mes maus.

THE livelong night, as was my wonted lot,
In tears had pass'd, nor yet day's orb was hot,
When forth I walk'd, my sorrows to beguile,
Where freshly smelling fields with dewdrops smile.

Already with his shrilling carol gay

The vaulting skylark hail'd the sun from far;
And with so sweet a music seem'd to play
My heart-strings round, as some propitious star
Had chased whate'er might fullest joyaunce mar :
Bath'd in delicious dews that morning bright,
Thus strove my voice to speak my soul's delight :-
Hark! hark!

Thou merry lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine;

Would but love my vows befriend, To my warm embraces send

That sweet fair one,

Brightest, dear one,

Then my joy might equal thine.

Hark! hark!

Thou merry lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine;
Let love, tyrant, work his will,
Plunging me in anguish still:
Whatsoe'er

May be my care,

True shall bide this heart of mine.

Hark! hark!

Thou merry

lark!

Reckless thou what griefs are mine ;

Come, relieve my heart's distress,

Though in truth the pain is less,

That she frown,

Than if unknown

She for whom I ceaseless pine.

Hark! hark!

Thou merry lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine.

FRAIGNE.

THIS poet belongs to the 14th century :-See Laborde, from whom the following specimen is taken.

Et ou vas tu, petit soupir,
Que j'ai oui si doulcement?
T'en vas tu mettre a saquement
Quelque povre amoureux martir?
Vien-ca, dy moy tost, sans mentir,
Ce que tu as en pensement.
Et ou vas tu, petit soupir,
Que j'ai oui si doulcement?

Dieu te conduye a ton desir,
Et te ramene a sauvement;
Mais je te requiers humblement,
Que ne faces ame mourir.
Et ou vas tu, petit soupir,
Que j'ai oui si doulcement?

AND where then goest thou, gentle sigh,

Passing so softly by?
Goest thou to carry misery

To some poor wretched lover?
Come, tell me all without deceit,

Thy secret aim discover;

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,

Passing so softly by?