Still, methinks, there was a book in the hand of the grave and learned poet;
still thou wouldst carry thy Horace, thy Catullus, thy Theocritus, through the
gem-like weather of the _Renouveau_, when the woods were enamelled with
flowers, and the young Spring was lodged, like a wandering prince, in his
great palaces hung with green:

Orgueilleux de ses fleurs, enfle' de sa jeunesse,
Loge' comme un grand Prince en ses vertes maisons!

Thou sawest, in these woods by Loire side, the fair shapes of old religion,
Fauns, Nymphs, and Satyrs, and heard'st in the nightingale's music the plaint
of Philomel. The ancient poets came back in the train of thyself and of the
Spring, and learning was scarce less dear to thee than love; and thy ladies
seemed fairer for the names they borrowed from the beauties of forgotten days,
Helen and Cassandra. How sweetly didst thou sing to them thine old morality,
and how gravely didst thou teach the lesson of the Roses! Well didst thou know
it, well didst thou love the Rose, since thy nurse, carrying thee, an infant,
to the holy font, let fall on thee the sacred water brimmed with floating
blossoms of the Rose!

Mignonne, allons voir si la Rose,
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,
A point perdu ceste vespree
Les plis de sa robe pourpree,
Et son teint au votre pareil.

And again,