de Poesie Francaise" (Bibliotheque de l'Echo de la Sorbonne, s.d.) a
teacher of the mechanical part of poetry. He does not, of course,
advance a paradox like that of Baudelaire, "that poetry can be
taught in thirty lessons." He merely instructs his pupil in the
material part--the scansion, metres, and so on--of French poetry.
In this little work he introduces these "traditional forms of
verse," which once caused some talk in England: the rondel,
rondeau, ballade, villanelle, and chant royal. It may be worth
while to quote his testimony as to the merit of these modes of
expression. "This cluster of forms is one of our most precious
treasures, for each of them forms a rhythmic whole, complete and
perfect, while at the same time they all possess the fresh and
unconscious grace which marks the productions of primitive times."
Now, there is some truth in this criticism; for it is a mark of
man's early ingenuity, in many arts, to seek complexity (where you
would expect simplicity), and yet to lend to that complexity an
infantine naturalness. One can see this phenomenon in early
decorative art, and in early law and custom, and even in the
complicated structure of primitive languages. Now, just as early,
and even savage, races are our masters in the decorative use of
colour and of carving, so the nameless master-singers of ancient
France may be our teachers in decorative poetry, the poetry some
call vers de societe. Whether it is possible to go beyond this, and
adapt the old French forms to serious modern poetry, it is not for
any one but time to decide. In this matter, as in greater affairs,
securus judicat orbis terrarum. For my own part I scarcely believe
that the revival would serve the nobler ends of English poetry. Now
let us listen again to De Banville.

"In the rondel, as in the rondeau and the ballade, all the art is to