other pieces, which we have not the same means of comparing, is also genuine.

Quant revient la saison que l'herbe reverdoie
Que di fleons clerets la terre alme s'ondoie,
Qu'esjoissent oysels de lors gracieux chantz
Li bois, et la pré, e li chamz,

Soir et matin, filles, n'allez sollettes
Quierre ez gazons derraines violettes;
Serpent y gist que n'y mord au talon,
Por ce n'est il, tendres poulettes,
Por ce n'est il que plus felon.

WHEN Comes the beauteous summer time,
And grass grows green once more,
And sparkling brooks the meadows lave
With fertilizing power;-

And when the birds rejoicing sing

Their pleasant songs again,
Filling the vales and woodlands gay
With their enlivening strain ;—
Go not at eve nor morn, fair maids,
Unto the mead alone,

To seek the tender violets blue,

And pluck them for your own;
For there a snake lies hid, whose fangs
May leave untouch'd the heel,
But not the less-O not the less,

Your hearts his power shall feel.

BARBE DE VERRUE.

THIS lady (said to owe her name to a Comte de Verrue who adopted her) is the only other of M. de Surville's list whom we shall select. To her he attributes the beautiful romance of "Aucassin et Nicolette," and some other pieces ;;-on what authority is not told. The following song is at any rate pleasing and natural.

Voyd son hyver venir li sages
Come al fins biau jor, belle nuict;
Scet que sont roses por toz ages
Si por toz ages sont ennuict.

THE wise man sees his winter close
Like evening on a summer day;
Each age, he knows, its roses bears,
Its mournful moments and its gay.

Thus would I dwell with pleasing thought
Upon my spring of youthful pride;

Yet, like the festive dancer, glad

To rest in peace at eventide.

T

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 lays 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 ròmance 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;