without a rival, the favourite living poet of the French. Victor Hugo
was there, of course, until 1885--and posthumously until much later--but
he was a god, and the object of idolatry. All who loved human poetry,
the poetry of sweetness and light, took Sully-Prudhomme to their heart
of hearts. The _Stances et Poèmes_ of 1865 had perhaps the warmest
welcome that ever the work of a new poet had in France. Théophile
Gautier instantly pounced upon _Le Vase Brisé_ (since too-famous) and
introduced it to a thousand school-girls. Sainte-Beuve, though grown old
and languid, waked up to celebrate the psychology and the music of this
new poetry, so delicate, fresh and transparent. An unknown beauty of
extreme refinement seemed to have been created in it, a beauty made up
of lucidity, pathos and sobriety. Readers who are now approaching
seventy will not forget with what emotion they listened, for instance,
to that dialogue between the long-dead father and the newly-buried son,
which closes:--

"J' ai laissé ma sœur et ma mère
Et les beaux livres que j' ai lus;
Vous n'avez pas de bru, mon père,
On m'a blesse, je n'aime plus."

"De tes aïeux compte le nombre,
Va baiser leurs fronts inconnus,
Et viens faire ton lit dans l'ombre
A côté des derniers venus.

"Ne pleure pas, dors dans l'argile
En espérant le grand reveit."
"O père, qu'il est difficile
De ne plus penser au soleil!"