I may mention a few pieces that have struck a French friend as being among the best. I prefer his judgment to my own, as I am one of those who believe that no one can appreciate fully the poetry of another nation; but as, in this case, my own opinion agrees with that of my friend, I can take the responsibility of the judgment.
Coriolan Ardouin (mulatto) has written a very charming piece called “Alaïda,” beginning thus:—
“Sur la natte de jonc qu’aucun souci ne ronge,
Ses petits bras croisés sur un cœur de cinq ans,
Alaïda someille, heureuse, et pas un songe
Qui tourmente ses jeunes sens.”
There is no local colour in this sonnet beyond, perhaps, the natte de jonc. Only in the tropics are children to be seen sleeping on mats.
Dupré has written a patriotic hymn which might pass muster among many others of the same kind. It closes with the following ferocious sentiment:—
“Si, quelque jour, sur tes rives
Osent venir nos tyrans,