aking its inspiration
directly from nature it abounds in realistic metaphor and in picturesque
and fantastic imagery. It must, of course, be admitted that there is a
conventionality of nature as there is a conventionality of art, and that
certain forms of utterance are apt to become stereotyped by too constant
use; yet, on the whole, it is impossible not to recognise in the Folk-
songs that the Countess Martinengo has brought together one strong
dominant note of fervent and flawless sincerity. Indeed, it is only in
the more terrible dramas of the Elizabethan age that we can find any
parallel to the Corsican voceri with their shrill intensity of passion,
their awful frenzies of grief and hate. And yet, ardent as the feeling
is, the form is nearly always beautiful. Now and then, in the poems of
the extreme South one meets with a curious crudity of realism, but, as a
rule, the sense of beauty prevails.

Some of the Folk-poems in this book have all the lightness and loveliness
of lyrics, all of them have that sweet simplicity of pure song by which
mirth finds its own melody and mourning its own music, and even where
there are conceits of thought and expression they are conceits born of
fancy not of affectation. Herrick himself might have envied that
wonderful love-song of Provence:

If thou wilt be the falling dew
And fall on me alway,
Then I will be the white, white rose
On yonder thorny spray.
If thou wilt be the white, white rose
On yonder thorny spray,
Then I will be the honey-bee
And kiss thee all the day.

If thou wilt be the honey-bee
And kiss me all the day,
Then I will be in yonder heaven
The star of brightest ray.
If thou wilt be in yonder heaven
The star of brightest ray,
Then I will be the dawn, and we
Shall meet at break of day.

How charming also is this lullaby by which the Corsican mother sings her
babe to sleep!

Gold and pearls my vessel lade,
Silk and cloth the cargo be,
All the sails are of brocade
Coming from beyond the sea;
And the helm of finest gold,
Made a wonder to behold.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.

After you were born full soon,
You were christened all aright;
Godmother she was the moon,
Godfather the sun so bright.
All the stars in heaven told
Wore their necklaces of gold.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;