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-- so Ronsard addresses his mistress; and the image is a charming one of quiet and refined old age, with its half-smiling memories of vanished loves. What had become, in the hands of Villon, a subject for grim jests and horrible descriptions, gave to Ronsard simply an opportunity for the delicate pathos of regret. Then again the note changes, and the pure, tense passion of Louise Labé-- Oh! si j'étais en ce beau sein ravie De celui-là pour lequel vais mourant-- falls upon our ears. And then, in the great sonnet sequence of Du Bellay--_Les Antiquités de Rome_--we hear a splendid sound unknown before in French poetry--the sonorous boom of proud and pompous verse.