At the same time D'Annunzio has another style, principally exhibited in his minor lyrics and his ballad romances, where simple but perfect melody is mated with hearty vigour. The contrast between Tennyson's Palace of Art and his Edward Gray is hardly greater than that between the brilliant poetical landscape just quoted, and this joyous aubade:—
"While yet the veil of misty dew
Conceals the morning flush,
(How light of foot the foxes' crew
Are scampering in the bush!)
On damask bed my Clara spends
In dreams the idle hours:
(Warm the wet meadow's breath ascends,
And herbs are sweet as flowers.)
Lift, lovely lady all amort,
The glory of your head.
(The hounds are yelling in the court
Enough to wake the dead.)
Hears't not the note of merry horn
That calls thee to the chase?
(In glades of ancient oak and thorn
The deer hath left his trace.)
With manly vesture, trim and tight,
Those budding breasts be bounds;
(I hear thy jennet neigh delight,
And paw the paven ground.)
Soho! my beauty! down the stairs
At last? Aha! Huzza!
(Red morning o'er the mountain flares.)
To saddle! and away!"
It is manifest that although the Carduccis and D'Annunzios of the present day may not rank higher as poets than
