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OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)
IT should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to
what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple
love of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper poetic
sentiment inspired by their writings should be ascribed to a fact
which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as
a merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure,
he would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction, a
very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
now-we mean it only as against the poets thew. There is a growing
desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
sincere, and although very learned, still learned without art. No
188
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