“Vois-tu comme ces fleurs languissent tristement?”
  Me dit, en soupirant, ce moraliste aimable,
    “De leur fraicheur, en un moment,
  S’est eclipse le charme peu durable.

    Tel est, helas! notre destin;
  Fleur de beaute ressemble a celles des prairies;
  On les voit toutes deux naitre avec le matin,
    Et des le soir etre fletries.

  Estelle hier encor brillait dans nos hameaux,
  Et l’amour attirait les bergers sur ses traces;
  De la mort, aujourd’hui, I’impitoyable faulx
    A moissonne sa jeunesse et ses graces.

  Soumise aux memes lois, peut-etre que demain,
  Comme elle aussi, Damon, j’aurai cesse de vivre.... 
  Consacre dans tes vers la cause du chagrin
    Auquel ton amante se livre.”

  p. 92.

The last and not the least of book-collectors, which I have had an opportunity of visiting, is MONSIEUR RIAUX.  With respect to what may be called a ROUENNOISE LIBRARY, that of M. Riaux is greatly preferable to any which I have seen; although I am not sure whether M. Le Prevost’s collection contain not nearly as many books.  M. Riaux is himself a man of first-rate book enthusiasm; and unites the avocations of his business with the gratification of his literary appetites, in a manner which does him infinite honour.  A city like Rouen should have a host of such inhabitants; and the government, when it begins to breathe a little from recent embarrassments, will, I hope, cherish and support that finest of all patriotic feelings,—­a desire to preserve the RELICS, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS of PAST AGES.  Normandy is fertile beyond conception in objects which may gratify the most unbounded passion in this pursuit.  It is the country where formerly the harp of the minstrel poured forth some of its sweetest strains; and the lay and the fabliaux of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, which delight us in the text of Sainte Palaye, and in the versions of Way, owed their existence to the combined spirit of chivalry and literature, which never slumbered upon the shores of Normandy.

Farewell now to ROUEN.[77] I have told you all the tellings which I thought worthy of communication.  I have endeavoured to make you saunter with me in the streets, in the cathedral, the abbey, and the churches.  We have, in imagination at least, strolled together along the quays, visited the halls and public buildings, and gazed with rapture from Mont Ste. Catharine upon the enchanting view of the city, the river, and the neighbouring hills.  We have from thence breathed almost the pure air of heaven, and surveyed a country equally beautified by art, and blessed by nature.  Our hearts, from that same height, have wished all manner of health, wealth, and prosperity, to a land thus abounding in corn and wine, and oil and gladness.  We have silently, but sincerely prayed, that swords may for ever be “turned into plough-shares, and spears into pruning-hooks:”—­that