commander of an English vessel, of the name of Middleton, respecting the relative merits of the two nations. The editor of the poems informs us, that, in the year 1794, (but by what means he does not tell us,) he was favoured with a sight of M. de Surville's copy, and that afterwards, on his return to France from abroad, he succeeded, with much difficulty, in discovering it. But besides these poems, some MSS. of M. de Surville fell into his hands, containing accounts of several poetesses in the age of the Troubadours, and also a memoir of the writer of these singular poems, of which, as it is rather an interesting piece of biography, we shall give a slight sketch. Marguerite-Eleonore Clotilde de VallonChalys, afterwards Madame de Surville, was born in a beautiful chateau, on the left bank of the Ardêche, about the year 1405. Her mother, Pulcherie de Fay-Collan, passed some years in Paris, where she acquired a taste for literature, and learned to write a beautiful hand- -no mean accomplishment at that day. She was invited by Agnes of Navarre, the wife of Gaston-Phebus, Count de Foix, to the Court of that Prince, which was enriched by a valuable library, not only of classical MSS., but also of such of the Italian and French writers as were then extant. Under the direction of Froissard, and by the desire of the Countess, Pulcherie copied some of the works of the Trouveurs, and more especially of those poetesses who, after Heloise de Fulbert, had cultivated the French, or romance language. This valuable collection, both of ancient and modern poetry, on the death of her benefactress, Pulcherie was allowed by the Count to carry away with her. Peculiar misfortunes separated Madame de Vallon, for some time, from her husband and her sons; and on her return to Vallon, her great consolation was in the education of her daughter Clotilde. The talents of this child were very precocious. At eleven years of age, she translated into French verse one of the Odes of Petrarch, with considerable ability. Many circumstances concurred to develope the genius of Clotilde. A strict friendship 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 poetieal 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 grand-daughter 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 to a single extract from those of the former description; the beauty of which, amply compensates for its length. 66 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 I watch o'er thee, to nourish and defend thee, Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure! Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend! when thou awakest, 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 stealsHis eye is clos'd-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!— Blest error! still he sleeps-I breathe again- G |