that place of undisputed superiority over all other metres which it has
ever since held in French poetry.

But the _Pléiade's_ respect for classical models led to another and a
far less fortunate result. They allowed their erudition to impinge upon
their poetry, and, in their eagerness to echo the voice of antiquity,
they too often failed to realize the true bent either of their own
language or their own powers. This is especially obvious in the longer
poems of Ronsard--his _Odes_ and his _Françiade_--where all the effort
and skill of the poet have not been enough to save his verse from tedium
and inflation. The Classics swam into the ken of these early discoverers
in such a blaze of glory that their eyes were dazzled and their feet
misled. It was owing to their very eagerness to imitate their great
models exactly--to 'ape the outward form of majesty'--that they failed
to realize the true inward spirit of Classical Art.

It is in their shorter poems--when the stress of classical imitation is
forgotten in the ebullition of individual genius--that Ronsard and his
followers really come to their own. These beautiful lyrics possess the
freshness and charm of some clear April morning, with its delicate
flowers and its carolling birds. It is the voice of youth that sings in
light and varied measures, composed with such an exquisite happiness,
such an unlaboured art. The songs are of Love and of Nature, of roses,
skylarks and kisses, of blue skies and natural joys. Sometimes there is
a sadder note; and the tender music reminds us of the ending of
pleasures and the hurrying steps of Time. But with what a different
accent from that of the dark and relentless Villon! These gentle singers
had no words for such brutalities.

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle--