So ouerlaid, but it should soone haue bote, And as I stood and cast aside mine eie, I was ware of the fairest medler tree And to the herber side was joyning The nightingale with so merry a note I stood astonied, so was I with the song Wherefore I waited about busily On euery side, if I her might see, And at the last I gan full well aspie Where she sat in a fresh grene laurer tree, On the further side euen right by me, Whereof I had so inly great pleasure, Was for to be, and no ferther passe And more pleasaunt to me by manifold, Of the world was neur seene or than And as I sat the birds harkening thus, That euer any wight I trow truly There is here no affected rapture, no flowery sentiment: the whole is an ebullition of natural delight "welling out of the heart," like water from a crystal spring. Nature is the soul of art: there is a strength as well as a simplicity in the imagination that reposes entirely on nature, that nothing else can supply. It was the same trust in nature, and reliance on his subject, which enabled Chaucer to describe the grief and patience of Griselda; the faith of Constance; and the heroic perseverance of the little child, who, going to school through the streets of Jewry, "Oh Alma Redemptoris mater, loudly sung," any and who after his death still triumphed in his song. Chaucer has more of this deep, internal, sustained sentiment, than other writer, except Boccaccio. In depth of simple pathos, and intensity of conception, never swerving from his subject, I think no other writer comes near him, not even the Greek tragedians. I wish to be allowed to give one or two instances of what I mean. I will take the following from the Knight's Tale. The distress of Arcite, in consequence of his banishment from his love, is thus described: "Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was, And shortly to concluden all his wo, So mochel sorwe hadde never creature, That is or shall be, while the world may dure. And solitary he was, and ever alone, Than wold he wepe, he might not be stent. And changed so, that no man coude know This picture of the sinking of the heart, of the wasting away of the body and mind, of the gradual failure of all the faculties under the contagion of a rankling sorrow, cannot be surpassed. Of the same kind is his farewel to his mistress, after he has gained her hand and lost his life in the combat: "Alas the wo! alas the peines stronge, That I for you have suffered, and so longe! Alas the deth! alas min Emilie! Alas departing of our compagnie ; Alas min hertes quene! alas my wif! Min hertes ladie, ender of my lif! What is this world? what axen men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave The death of Arcite is the more affecting, as it comes after triumph and victory, after the pomp of sacrifice, the solemnities of prayer, the celebration of the gorgeous rites of chivalry. The de scriptions of the three temples of Mars, of Venus, and Diana, of the ornaments and ceremonies used in each, with the reception given to the offerings of the lovers, have a beauty and grandeur, much of which is lost in Dryden's version. For instance, such lines as the following are not rendered with their true feeling. Why shulde I not as well eke tell you all Ther as Mars hath his sovereine mansion. Of stubbes sharpe and hidous to behold; In which ther ran a romble and a swough, As though a storme shuld bresten every bough." And again, among innumerable terrific images of death and slaughter painted on the wall, is this one: "The statue of Mars upon a carte stood The story of Griselda is in Boccaccio; but the |