t title of "_Poesies legeres,"_ and sometimes it has been
significantly called "_Vers de Societe_." The French writers have formed a
body of this fugitive poetry which no European nation can rival; and to
which both the language and genius appear to be greatly favourable.

The "_Poesies legeres_" are not merely compositions of a light and gay
turn, but are equally employed as a vehicle for tender and pathetic
sentiment. They are never long, for they are consecrated to the amusement
of society. The author appears to have composed them for his pleasure, not
for his glory; and he charms his readers, because he seems careless of
their approbation.

Every delicacy of sentiment must find its delicacy of expression, and
every tenderness of thought must be softened by the tenderest tones.
Nothing trite or trivial must enfeeble and chill the imagination; nor must
the ear be denied its gratification by a rough or careless verse. In these
works nothing is pardoned; a word may disturb, a line may destroy the
charm.

The passions of the poet may form the subjects of his verse. It is in
these writings he delineates himself; he reflects his tastes, his
desires, his humours, his amours, and even his defects. In other poems the
poet disappears under the feigned character he assumes; here alone he
speaks, here he acts. He makes a confidant of the reader, interests him in
his hopes and his sorrows; we admire the poet, and conclude with esteeming
the man. The poem is the complaint of a lover, or a compliment to a
patron, a vow of friendship, or a hymn of gratitude.

These poems have often, with great success, displayed pictures of manners;
for here the poet colours the objects with all the hues of social life.
Reflection must not be amplified, for these are pieces devoted to
the fancy; a scene may be painted throughout the poem; a sentiment
must be conveyed in a verse. In the "Grongar Hill" of Dyer we discover
some strokes which may serve to exemplify this criticism. The poet,
contemplating the distant landscape, observes--

A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass.

It must not be supposed that, because these poems are concise, they
are of easy production; a poet's genius may not be diminutive because
his pieces are so; nor must we call them, as a fine sonnet has been
called, a difficult trifle. A circle may be very small, yet it