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 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 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
Delights which I must never more enjoy!

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!
And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure,
It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o'er thee.

Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend! when thou awakest,
Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise;
Thy mother's face thou never now mistakest,
And thou hast learn'd to look into her eyes.

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!
My infant love! my comfort, my delight!
I gaze on thee, and gazing o'er and o'er,
I blame the quick return of every night.

His little arms stretch forth-sleep o'er him steals

His 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!—
Awaken!-Fatal thought, thou art no more-
My child! one moment gaze upon the light,
And e'en with thy repose my life restore.

Blest error! still he sleeps-I breathe again—
May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!
But when will he, for whom I sigh-oh when
Will he, beside me, watch thine eyes unclose?

VOL. III.

G

When shall I see him who hath given thee life,
My youthful husband, noblest of his race?
Methinks I see, blest mother, and blest wife!
Thy little hands thy father's neck embrace.

How will he revel in thy first caress,

Disputing with thee for my gentle kiss! But think not to engross his tenderness, Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.

How will he joy to see his image there,
The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!

His noble forehead, and his graceful air,

Which Love himself might view with jealousy.

For me I am not jealous of his love,

And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee; Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove, But not, like him, give this anxiety.

I speak to thee-thou understand'st nie not-
Thou couldst not understand, though sleep were fled—
Poor little child! the tangles of his thought,
His infant thought, are not unravelled.

We have been happy infants, as thou art;
Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon;
Sleep in the calm repose that stills thy heart,

Ere long its very memory will be gone!"