"But as God would, of swough she abraide,
And gan to sighe, and Troilus she cride,
And he answerde: Lady mine, Creseide,
Live ye yet?' and let his swerde doun glide:
'Ye herte mine, that thanked be Cupide,'
(Quod she), and therewithal she sore sight,
And he began to glade her as he might.

"Took her in armes two and kist her oft,
And her to glad, he did al his entent,
For which her gost, that flikered aie a loft,
Into her wofull herte ayen it went:
But at the last, as that her eye glent
Aside, anon she gan his sworde aspie,
As it lay bare, and gan for feare crie.

"And asked him why had he it out draw,

And Troilus anon the cause her told,

And how himself therwith he wold have slain,
For which Creseide upon him gan behold,

And gan him in her armes faste fold,

And said: 'O mercy God, lo which a dede!

Alas, how nigh we weren bothe dede!'" 1

At last they are separated, with what vows and what tears! and Troilus, alone in his chamber, murmurs:

"Where is mine owne lady lefe and dere?

Where is her white brest, where is it, where ?
Where been her armes, and her eyen clere
That yesterday this time with me were?'...
Nor there nas houre in al the day or night,
Whan he was ther as no man might him here,
That he ne sayd: 'O lovesome lady bright,
How have ye faren sins that ye were there?
Welcome ywis mine owne lady dere!'. . .
Fro thence-forth he rideth up and doune,
And every thing came him to remembraunce,
As he rode forth by the places of the toune,
In which he whilom had all his pleasaunce:
'Lo, yonder saw I mine owne lady daunce,

And in that temple with her eien clere,
Me caught first my right lady dere.
And yonder have I herde full lustely
My dere herte laugh, and yonder play
Saw her ones eke ful blisfully,

And yonder ones to me gan she say,
"Now, good sweete, love me well I pray.”

Troilus and Cressida, vol. v. bk. 4, p. 97.

And yonde so goodly gan she me behold,
That to the death mine herte is to her hold
And at the corner in the yonder house
Herde I mine alderlevest lady dere,
So womanly, with voice melodiouse,
Singen so wel, so goodly, and so clere,
That in my soule yet me thinketh I here
The blissful sowne, and in that yonder place,
My lady first me toke unto her grace.'" 1

None has since found more true and tender words.

These are the charming "poetic branches" which flourished amid gross ignorance and pompous parades. Human intelligence in the middle age had blossomed on that side where it perceived the light.

But mere narrative does not suffice to express his felicity and fancy; the poet must go where "shoures sweet of rain descended soft."

"And every plaine was clothed faire

With new greene, and maketh small floures
To springen here and there in field and in mede,
So very good and wholsome be the shoures,

That it renueth that was old and dede,

In winter time; and out of every sede
Springeth the hearbe, so that every wight

Of this season wexeth glad and light. . . .

In which (grove) were okes great, streight as a line,
Under the which the grasse so fresh of hew

Was newly sprong, and an eight foot or nine
Every tree well fro his fellow grew."

He must forget himself in the vague felicity of the country, and, like Dante, lose himself in ideal light and allegory. The dreams of love, to continue true, must not take too visible a form, nor enter into a too consecutive history; they must float in a misty distance; the soul in which they hover can no longer think of the laws of existence; it inhabits another world; it forgets itself in the ravishing emotion which troubles it, and sees its well-loved visions rise, mingle, come and go, as in summer we see the bees on a hill-slope flutter in a haze of light, and circle round and round the flowers.

One morning, a lady sings, at the dawn of day, I entered an oak-grove

Troilus and Cressida, vol. v. bk. 5, p. 119 et passim.

2 The Flower and the Leaf, vi. p. 244, /. 6-32.

"With branches brode, laden with leves new,
That sprongen out ayen the sunne-shene,
Some very red, and some a glad light grene.

"And I, that all this pleasaunt sight sie,
Thought sodainly I felt so sweet an aire
Of the eglentere, that certainely
There is no hert, I deme, in such dispaire,
Ne with thoughts froward and contraire,
So overlaid, but it should soone have bote,
If it had ones felt this savour sote.

"And as I stood, and cast aside mine eie,
I was ware of the fairest medler tree
That ever yet in all my life I sie,
As full of blossomes as it might be;
Therein a goldfinch leaping pretile

Fro bough to bough; and, as him list, he eet
Here and there of buds and floures sweet.

"And as I sat, the birds harkening thus,
Methought that I heard voices sodainly,
The most sweetest and most delicious
That ever any wight, I trow truly,
Heard in their life, for the armony

And sweet accord was in so good musike,

That the voice to angels most was like."

Then she sees arrive "a world of ladies . . . in surcotes white of velvet . . . set with emerauds . . . as of great pearles round and orient, and diamonds fine and rubies red." And all had on their head "a rich fret of gold . . . full of stately riche stones set," with "a chapelet of branches fresh and grene . . . some of laurer, some of woodbind, some of agnus castus;" and at the same time came a train of valiant knights in splendid array, with "harneis" of red gold, shining in the sun, and noble steeds, with trappings "of cloth of gold, and furred with ermine.” These knights and ladies were the servants of the Leaf, and they sate under a great oak, at the feet of their queen.

From the other side came a bevy of ladies as resplendent as the first, but crowned with fresh flowers. These were the servants of the Flower. They alighted, and began to dance in the meadow. But heavy clouds appeared in the sky, and a storm broke out. They wished to shelter themselves under the

1 The Flower and the Leaf, p. 245, . 33.

2 Ibid. vi. p. 246, 7.78-133.

oak, but there was no more room; they ensconced themselves as they could in the hedges and among the brushwood; the rain came down and spoiled their garlands, stained their robes, and washed away their ornaments; when the sun returned, they went to ask succor from the queen of the Leaf; she, being merciful, consoled them, repaired the injury of the rain, and restored their original beauty. Then all disappears as in a dream.

The lady was astonished, when suddenly a fair dame appeared and instructed her. She learned that the servants of the Leaf had lived like brave knights, and those of the Flower had loved idleness and pleasure. She promises to serve the Leaf, and came

away.

Is this an allegory? There is at least a lack of wit. There is no ingenious enigma; it is dominated by fancy, and the poet thinks only of displaying in quiet verse the fleeting and brilliant train which had amused his mind, and charmed his eyes.

Chaucer himself, on the first of May, rises and goes out into the meadows. Love enters his heart with the balmy air; the landscape is transfigured, and the birds begin to speak:

"There sate I downe among the faire flours,

And saw the birds trip out of hir bours,

There as they rested hem all the night,
They were so joyfull of the dayes light,
They began of May for to done honours.

"They coud that service all by rote,
There was many a lovely note,
Some song loud as they had plained,
And some in other manner voice yfained
And some all out with the ful throte.

"The proyned hem and made hem right gay,
And daunceden, and lepten on the spray,
And evermore two and two in fere,

Right so as they had chosen hem to yere,
In Feverere upon saint Valentines day.

"And the river that I sate upon,

It made such a noise as it ron,
Accordaunt with the birdes armony,
Methought it was the best melody

That might ben yheard of any mon.'

This confused harmony of vague noises troubles the sense; a se

The Cuckow and Nightingale, vi. p. 121, l. 67-85.

12

VOL. I.

cret languor enters the soul. The cuckoo throws his monotonous voice like a mournful and tender sigh between the white ash-tree boles; the nightingale makes his triumphant notes roll and ring. above the leafy canopy; fancy breaks in unsought, and Chaucer hears them dispute of Love. They sing alternately an antistrophic song, and the nightingale weeps for vexation to hear the cuckoo speak in depreciation of Love. He is consoled, however, by the poet's voice, seeing that he also suffers with him:

"For love and it hath doe me much wo.'
'Ye use' (quod she) 'this medicine
Every day this May or thou dine
Go looke upon the fresh daisie,

And though thou be for wo in point to die,
That shall full greatly lessen thee of thy pine.

"And looke alway that thou be good and trew,
And I wol sing one of the songes new,
For love of thee, as loud as may
crie: '

And than she began this song full hie,

'I shrewe all hem that been of love untrue." "I

To such exquisite delicacies love, as with Petrarch, had carried poetry; by refinement even, as with Petrarch, it is lost now and then in its wit, conceits, clinches. But a marked characteristic at once separates it from Petrarch. If over-excited, it is also graceful, polished, full of archness, banter, fine sensual gaiety, somewhat gossipy, as the French always paint love. Chaucer follows his true masters, and is himself an elegant speaker, facile, ever ready to smile, loving choice pleasures, a disciple of the Roman de la Rose, and much less Italian than French. The bent of French character makes of love not a passion, but a gay banquet, tastefully arranged, in which the service is elegant, the food exquisite, the silver brilliant, the two guests in full dress, in good humor, quick to anticipate and please each other, knowing how to keep up the gaiety, and when to part. In Chaucer, without doubt, this other altogether worldly vein runs side by side with the sentimental element. If Troilus is a weeping lover, Pandarus is a lively rascal, who volunteers for a singular service with amusing urgency, frank immorality, and carries it out carefully, gratuitously, thoroughly. In these pretty attempts Chaucer ac

1 The Cuckow and Nightingale, vi. p. 126, l. 230-241.

2 Stendhal, On Love: the difference of Love-taste and Love-passion.