So that there are but bark and branches left,

So Troilus, bereft of each welfare,

Lies bounden in the ugly bark of care."

When Troilus is first brought to an interview with Cressid, Pandarus

"Drew him to the fire,

And by that light beheld his countenance,
As 't were to look upon an old romance."

JOHN.

That last is exquisite. The eager flush of love, and the warm, flickering light of the fire upon Troilus's face, scarcely more wavering and uncertain than the expression there, the whole picture, in short, seems like an old romance with its illuminated borders and capitals, and its stories of love and sorrow. You will not easily find me another comparison like this.

PHILIP.

At least here is one that touches me more. It is in "The Complaint of Annelida," who has been deserted by "the false Arcite." She says,

"Arcite hath borne away the key

Of all my world, and my good hap to come.” There is something very pathetic in this.

JOHN.

Yes. As if she stood in sight of the fair maiden world she had left for the sake of Arcite, and but just on the outside of happiness, yet was irrevocably locked out.

PHILIP.

In "The Book of the Duchess," there is one of the most beautiful portraits of a woman that were ever drawn. Full of life it is, and of graceful health, with no romantic hectic, or sentimental languish. It is such a figure as you would never look for in a ball-room, but might expect to meet in the dewy woods, just after sunrise, when you were hunting for late violets. The lover, who tells

Chaucer of her, says,

"I was caught

So suddenly, that I ne'er took

Counsel of aught but of her look,

And of my heart: for her kind eyes

So gladly on my heart did rise,

That instantly my inmost thought

Said it were better serve her for naught,
Than with another to be well."

It is too long for me to read you the whole of it, but I will gladden your heart with a few lines here and there. I shall hardly more than modernize the words. I should spoil it, were I to attempt to translate it into smooth verses. See how joyfully

it opens.

"I saw her dance so comely,

Carol and sing so sweetly,

Laugh and play so womanly,
And look so debonairly,

So goodly speak, and so friendly,
That, certes, I trow that nevermore

Was seen so blissful a treasòre;

For every hair upon her head,
Sooth to say, it was not red,

And neither yellow nor brown it was,
Methought most like to gold it was;
And such eyes my lady had,
Debonair, good, steady, and glad,
Simple, of good size, not too wide;
And then her look was not aside,
Nor wandering, but so right and true,
That, certes, it took up and drew
All that upon her 'gan behold.

Even when most full of joy was she,
She never could look foolishly,
Nor wildly, even when she played;
But ever, methought, her kind eyes said,
Par fay, my wrath is all forgiven.'

I have not wit that can suffice
Her beauty to speak properly,

But thus much I dare say, that she
Was white, fresh, ruddy, and lively-hued,
And every day her beauty newed.

.

And thereto she could so well play
Whate'er she list, that I dare say,
That she was like a torch-flame bright,
Whence every man can take of light
Enough, and it hath never the less

Harmful than she to say or do ;
I say not that she did not know
What evil was, or else had she

Known naught of good, as seems to me.

"Methought all fellowship was naked
Without her, having seen her once,
As is a crown without the stones."

JOHN.

It is like sunshine. It awakens all the dearest and sweetest recollections of the heart. The best poetry always comes to us leading by the hand the holy associations and tear-strengthened aspirings of youth, as Volumnia brought to Coriolanus his little children, to plead reproachfully with us, to be tender, and meek, and patient. "Chevy Chase" was like the blast of a trumpet to Sir Philip Sidney; the passages I love in the poets give me back an hour of childhood, and are like a mother's voice to me. They are as solemn as the rustle of the Bibleleaves in the old family-prayers. The noisy ocean of life hushes, and slides up his beach with a soothing and slumberous ripple. The earth becomes secluded and private to me as in childhood, when it seemed but a little meadow-green, guarded all round with trees, for me to pick flowers in; a playroom, whose sole proprietor and manager I was. When Chaucer wrote this poem, he must have been musing of his early love. How could critic ever grow so leathern-hearted as to speak sneeringly of love-verses?

PHILIP.

I cannot guess. They are often blamed for their egoism, when, in fact, they are the least egoistical of all writing. If self is anywhere forgotten, it is in these. They are all hymns to the supreme beauty. In all of them, the lover would only remind the beloved that their trysting-place is at the foot of that divine altar. The one I have just read a fragment of reminds me of a passage in George Withers's "Philarete," which, both in metre and expression, is brimful of the most joyous simplicity and extravagant fancy. All through it, the poet's heart seems to dance for glee, like a child. A truly Arcadian sunshine broods over it. I could think it written before such a thing as sorrow was invented. It is one of those sweet nooks into which the mind can withdraw from the turmoil and hurry of life, and play with the grass and flowers in ungirt ease.

Let me read you now, from "The Legend of Cleopatra," something of a very different kind. It is a bustling description of a sea-fight.

"And in the middle sea they chanced to meet;

Up goes the trump; with shots and shouts they greet,
And hasten them to set on with the sun;

With grisly sound outgoeth the great gun,

And heartily they hurtle in all at once;

And from the top down tumble the great stones;