̓Ανστὰ, καὶ φρένα τέρπ, αὐραῖσιν ἐν εὐαρινῇσιν!
Ὀρχέεται, τὸ σοι ἄρτι κάλους μὲν ἐπεπνεῖ ὀνείρους,
Εὐκελαδὸν μάλα νᾶμ ̓ ἀκτῖσιν ἐν ἠελιοιῶ

Ως γλυκερὸν, ὡς λάμπρον ἴδ' εὔδιον ἦμαρ ἴδεσθαι !
Σοὶ φέρει εὐτυχίης γε, γυναὶ, περικαλλέα δώρα.

My fair friends will find the English of the above in the following exquisite little matin song by Joanna Baillie, although that lady did not know six words of Greek, and in this consists the droll curiosity of the thing.

When Young England made a courteous and gentle request of Beauty a year or two back to get up and go a-maying, and, giving the poor and the lowly a holiday, make them forget awhile, if not be altogether reconciled to the hardships of their lot, Young England got laughed at by the granite-faced cast-iron-hearted people as a boy patriot, or nick-named as worse, a mischievous intermeddler with "the order of things," an enemy to "the progress of society." The woods, the meadows, and the streams, are all alone now at early May-day dawn; they are left to themselves and their freshness, to the caroling of the birds, and to some solitary dreamer like myself to say with Sannazaro so musically

"O dolce primavera, o fior novelli,

O aure, o arboscelli,

O fresche erbette,

O piagge benedette,

O colli, o monti,

O valli, o fiumi, o fonti,
O verde rivi,

Palme laure ed olive,
Edere e mirti;

O gloriosi spirti

De gli boschi ;

O Eco, o antri foschi,
O chiare linfe,
O faretrate ninfe,

O agresti Pani,
O Satiri e Silvani,
O Fauni e Driadi,
Naiadi ed Amadriadi,

O Semidee,

Oreadi e Napee,-
Or siete sole !"

Thus sweetly turned into his mother tongue by Leigh Hunt:

"O thou delicious spring, O ye new

flowers,

O airs, O youngling bowers;
Fresh thickening grass,

And plains beneath heaven's face;
O hills and mountains,

Valleys, and streams, and fountains;

Banks of green

Myrtles and palms serene;
Ivies and bays;

And ye who warm'd old lays,

Spirits of the woods,
Echoes and solitudes,
And lakes of light;
O quiver'd virgins bright,
Pans rustical,

Satyrs and Sylvans all,
Dryads, and ye

That up the mountains be;
And ye beneath

In meadow or flowery heath ;-
Ye are alone!"

The Italian poetry of Sannazaro is but little known in these countries, and his Latin less. With respect to the former, the portion of it to which he chiefly owes his continental celebrity is the Arcadia, a delicious melange of prose and verse, far more readable and intelligible

than Sir Philip Sydney's, of which I never met the man or even the woman yet who asserted having made a clean straightforward perusal. If there be one bold enough to make the assertion, I shall willingly award the lady or gentleman the May-day first prize given by the people of Temple Sowerby, in Westmoreland, to the person who can come down with the greatest thumper.* As regards the Latin poetry of Sannazaro, it is my deliberate judgement, that no classical scholar should sleep easy on his pillow without having read "De Partu Virginis," the Piscatorial Eclogues, his epigrams, which form one of the most exquisite bouquets in the modern Latin anthology, his amatory epistles, which have all the warmth of the love lays of Tibullus without any of their grossness, his Sapphic odes to the Villa of Mergeline and the Fountain therein, the latter of which, perhaps the choicer of the two, has been exquisitely paraphrased by the Venerable Father Prout, and the former translated by myself. The following effort of his muse, "On due Observance of the May," to which I venture to subjoin a somewhat free translation, is one of the best specimens of his soft glowing style and pure Latinity.

CALENDÆ MAII.

"Maius adest; da serta, puer; sic sancta vetustas
Instituit; prisci sic docuere patres.

Junge hederam violis, myrtum subtexe ligustris ;
Alba verecundis lilia pinge rosis.

Grandia fumoso spument crystalla Lyæo:
Et bibat, in calices lapsa corona meos.

Post obitum non ulla mihi carchesia ponet
Eacus, infernis non viret uva jugis."

THE MAY-DAY.

'Tis May! merry May! Boy, the summer-wreath bring;
Bring flowers of the fairest that grow in the clime;
Brave welcome like this to the May morning,
Our forefathers gave in the good old time.
In the wreath let the ivy and myrtle combine;
The dew-sparkling violet its sweetness disclose;
Let the meek little privet-flower gently entwine
Round the snow of the lily, the blush of the rose.
'Tis May! merry May!

"A bowl of the largest, boy, fill, fill it up,

Red foaming, bright flashing with generous wine;
Should my garland fall in, let it drink of my cup;
Let it drink to sweet Nature, its mother divine.

There are, or used to be, three prizes, the first a grindstone, the second a hone, the third an inferior sort of whetstone, for three successful candidates of different degrees in the art of anti-truthfulness. "There is an anecdote," says a writer in the Every-day Book, "very current in the place, of a late Bishop of Carlisle passing through in his carriage on this particular day, when, his attention being attracted by the group of persons assembled together, he very naturally inquired the cause. His question was readily answered by a full statement of facts, which brought from his lordship a severe lecture on the iniquity of such a proceeding; and at the conclusion he said, 'For my part, I never told a lie in my life.' This was immediately reported to the judges, upon which, without any dissent, the hone was awarded to his lordship, as most deserving of it; and, as is reported, it was actually thrown into his carriage." There are some of our public men whom I would advise not to go through Temple Sowerby on the May-day. I mean those amongst them with whom, "in" and "out," are the little moral thumb-rules to measure truth and falsehood-verb. sap.

When I'm dead, and old Æacus sums up my case,
For me he'll allow no full measure to flow;
No vine ever bloom'd in that desolate place,
No grape ever smiled in the regions below.

'Tis May! merry May!"

Did you ever hear of the origin of the Floral Games of Toulouse? If you did, it was no doubt in some prose account or other, very unworthy of the subject. The old French ballad story, "Le Roman de Clemence Isaure" is a very scarce, and, between ourselves, a very soso affair. This sad eventful history has been lately chronicled in immortal verse, as it ought to be, under the influence of lobster-sallad and pine-apple punch, by one of the best makers living of both. More than one fair virgin that I know, if she had the distribution of the prize in her hands, would willingly give him the golden violet for his pains.

CLEMENCE ISAURE.

"Brightly shine the rays of morning on the towers of fair Toulouse,
Brightly on a summer garden glittering with a thousand hues ;
Close beneath the city walls, that rise above it frowning grim,
Lies the garden freshly smiling, with its walls and alleys trim;
There the marigold is blooming, nods the eglantine o'er head,
And the air is rich with odours from the lowly violet bed,
And the blush-rose there is clinging to the tower grey and cold;
Unto what would ye compare them, clinging rose and tower old?
On the wavy golden tresses of a beauteous demoiselle,
On her brow and flushing cheek a sunbeam tremblingly doth dwell;
Fain, I ween, 'twould wander further to her breast of virgin snow;
But the flowering linden branches o'er her form their shadows throw.
There are none of beauty brighter through the sunny realm of France,
None so maidenly and pure as Isaure's daughter, fair Clemence.
Shrinking half, and half advancing, timidly she looks around,
Now a moment backwards glancing, now her eyes upon the ground;
You may well-nigh hear her quicken'd heart within her bosom beat.
Stirs the wind the linden branches? No!-her lover 's at her feet.
'Haste thee, haste thee from the city, get thee hence without delay;
Put on, put on thy armour quickly, linger not upon the way.
Thou may'st rue a moment wasted, e'en the passing of a breath;
For my father's sworn an oath that he will track thee to thy death.
There is strife between our houses, and a wrathful man is he;
Sooner would he see me dying at his feet than wed to thee.'
Then a violet she gather'd, stooping to its lowly bed,

A marigold, and eglantine, as it nodded overhead,

Flowers three I give to thee:-bear the violet in thy crest,
Charging in the foremost battle, heart on fire, and lance in rest;
Keep the flower I love the best, the eglantine, while true thou art;
And the marigold, for token of the grief that wrings my heart.'
From the city gates advancing, man and horse for war array'd,
With pennons spread and spear-heads glancing, gaily pours a cavalcade.
At their head there rides a gallant, all in burnish'd armour drest,
And with his snowy plume he bears a violet in his crest.

He hath gather'd his retainers, and he speeds him to the north,
Where the power of France is met to chase the island Leopard forth:
Many a valiant knight is there, and many a lady's favour worn;
But ever foremost in the battle is the lowly violet borne.

"Brightly shine the rays of morning on the towers of fair Toulouse,
Brightly on a gallant army, glittering with a thousand hues ;
Round the leaguer'd city thickly rise its tents on every side,
Save where the bright Garonne reflects tower and wall within its tide.
There the hot assault is raging, there the arrows fly like hail,
Rattling quick on helm and hauberk, blazon'd shield and twisted mail.

Loud ringeth out the merry shout, St. George for England ho! advance!'

6

Loud from the rampart peals the cry, For France! Denis Montjoye for France!'
Many a soul from earth is sped, and many a gallant deed is done,

Ere shrink the wearied citizens, and the barriers are won.
Here the cry of battle sounds not, all is soft and still repose,
The husbandman pursues his labour, and his net the fisher throws;
None other living thing there is without the city walls in sight,
Save that across the plain there spurs right furiously a lonely knight.
Soil'd, and dint by many a blow, the burnish'd steel wherein he's drest,
But still untouch'd, he proudly wears a faded violet in his crest.

Now, warder! quick, let down the bridge, withdraw the bolts-for France am I ;
An' if I'm on the losing side, I'll strike a stroke before I die! '—

'Strike in, Sir Knight! we're one to ten, and at the least thou 'lt honour gain;
But fain, I ween, I would have seen a score of lances in thy train.'
O'er the bridge and through the portal rapidly the knight has sped,
And, striking deep his gilded spurs, full eagerly his way doth thread.
Many a woman terror-stricken, many a flying churl he meets-

"The strife is done, the walls are won!-the foe! the foe is in the streets!'
Still swerves he not, but grasps his lance, and tries his sword within its sheath,
His teeth are clench'd, his eyes gleam forth like fire his aventayle beneath;
So he wins the summer garden where his love he sadly left,

By her father's bitter hatred of his dearest hope bereft.
Through its well-known postern-gate with madly hurrying pace he stept--
Too late! too late!-the storm of strife but now across its lawns hath swept.
Many a ghastly relic's there, the fury of that storm to prove ;

But still the peaceful flowers smile on amid the wreck, like woman's love!
Anxiously he looks around him, moving on amongst the slain,

That he may some clue discover to the knowledge he would gain;

Till, a bowshot further onward, fast there falls upon his ear

The strife of war, the clash of swords, the dying groan, the victor's cheer.
O'ermatch'd, hemm'd in, a little band fights on, you scarce might count a score;
And on their leader's shield there gleam the haughty bearings of Isaure.

"Faintly shines the evening sun upon the towers of fair Toulouse,
Faintly on the summer garden, glittering with a thousand hues:
Mournfully the fair Clemence is straying there among the dead,
For she hopes to find her father ere life's latest spark be fled.

No longer beats that gallant heart, no longer sternly flash those eyes!
Soon, yet, alas! too late, she finds him cold and lifeless where he lies,

And lovingly beside him stretch'd, hand clasp'd in hand, and breast to breast,
That other sleeps whose batter'd helm still bears the violet in its crest.
Oh! 'twas a piteous sight to see, as o'er the dead that maiden hung,
How fast the tears ran down her cheeks, how franticly her hands she wrung.
Now to her lover's corpse she clung, now kiss'd her father's lips so cold,
Even like the blush-rose clinging to the tower grey and old.

"From that time forth she slowly pined, hour by hour, and day by day,
Or e'er the earliest May-flower died to those she loved she pass'd away;
And she hath given her father's lands, and many a golden merk beside,
That gentle hearts may tune their lays in honour of the brave who died.
And, ever as the May returns, a loving contest there they hold,
And in the victor's flowering wreath they bind a violet of gold."

Pierre Caseneuve, in his "Inquiry into the Origin of the Floral Games at Toulouse," argues from an infinity of data that they were instituted about a couple of hundred years before the fair Clemence flourished. In reply to this, I have only to say, that if she was not the foundress of the gentle sports, she ought to have been; and this species of answer in other respects I commend to all those who wish to smash everything like a stupid controversy.

Whilst on the subject of love and murder, I cannot help quoting the following not ungraceful trifle, from the forthcoming second volume of the "Arundines Cami; or, Reeds of the Cam." It has been

upset into Latin elegiacs by the head-master of E-, for the same work; and I was to have had a copy of these longs and shorts, in time to interweave them with my May Garland; but, somehow or other, the editor of the "Arundines" forgot me, amidst the warm and very startling theological controversy which has just sprung up in his classic locality. The lovers of the silver-fork school of poetry must not turn up their noses at what they may fancy a vulgar provincial lilt. With equal justice might they sneer at Robert Burns, or Barnes, who has not long since written some poems in the Dorsetshire dialect, equal in beauty to the happiest efforts of the Ayrshire ploughman's muse.

THE ROMANCE OF WILKINS AND DINA.

""Twas of a licker marchint who in London did dwell,
He had but one darter, a most beautiful young gal.
Her name it vas Dinar, just sixteen years old,
And she had a large fortin in silvyer and gould.

Sing ri fol de rol, &c.

"She had twenty thousand when her mother should die,
Which caused many lovyers to sigh and draw nigh.
As Dinar was a hairing of herself in the garding one day,
Her fayther cum to her, and thus he did say-

Ri fol de rol, &c.

"Go dress yourself, Miss Dinar, in your bridal array,
For I've met vith a young man so gallyant and gay;
I've met vith a young man of ten thousand a-year,
Who swears as he 'll make you his love and his dear.'
Singing ri fol de rol, &c.

"O fayther, O fayther, I am but a child,
And to marry this moment is not to my mind;
But all my large fortin I'll freely give o'er,
If you let me be single for one year or more,'

To sing ri fol de rol,' &c.

"Go! go, boldest darter,' the fayther replied;
'Since you refuse to be this nice young man's bride,
I'll give your large fortin to the nearest of kin,
And you'll not reap the benefit of one single pin.'

Singing ri fol de rol, &c.

"As Villikins was vallikin in the garding all round,
He seed his dear Dinar lying dead upon the ground,
With a cup of cowld pison a lying by her side,
And a billy-doo vich said as how for young Villikins she died,
Singing ri fol de rol, &c.

"Then he kissed her cowld corpus a thousand times o'er,
And he call'd her his jewel, though she was no more,
And he tuck the cowld pison, like a lovyer so brave,
And young Villikins and his Dinar lie buried in one grave,
Singing ri fol de rol, &c.

MORAL.

"Now all ye nice young laydies don't go to fall in love, nor,
Like villful Miss Dinar, go for to wex the guv'nor;
And you cruel peerints, ven your darters clap eyes on
Young men like young Villikins, remember the pison.
Singing ri fol de rol, &c."