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CHAPTER III.

THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

AFTER the birth of a Chaucer, a Shakspere, or a Milton, it is long before the genial force of a nation can again culminate in such a triumph: time is required for the growth of the conditions. Between the birth of Chaucer and the birth of Shakspere, his sole equal, a period of more than two centuries had to elapse. It is but small compensation for this, that the more original, that is simple, natural, and true to his own nature a man is, the more certain is he to have a crowd of imitators. I do not say that such are of no use in the world. They do not indeed advance art, but they widen the sphere of its operation; for many will talk with the man who know nothing of the master. Too often intending but their own glory, they point the way to the source of it, and are straightway themselves forgotten.

Very little of the poetry of the fifteenth century is worthy of a different fate from that which has befallen it. Possibly the Wars of the Roses may in some measure account for the barrenness of the time; but

JOHN LYDGATE.

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I do not think they will explain it. In the midst of the commotions of the seventeenth century we find Milton, the only English poet of whom we are yet sure as worthy of being named with Chaucer and Shakspere.

It is in quality, however, and not in quantity that the period is deficient. It had a good many writers of poetry, some of them prolific. John Lydgate, the monk of Bury, a great imitator of Chaucer, was the principal of these, and wrote an enormous quantity of verse. We shall find for our use enough as it were to keep us alive in passing through this desert to the Paradise of the sixteenth century—a land indeed flowing with milk and honey. For even in the desert of the fifteenth are spots luxuriant with the rich grass of language, although they greet the eye with few flowers of individual thought or graphic speech.

Rather than give portions of several of Lydgate's poems, I will give one entire the best I know. It is entitled, Thonke God of alle.1

THANK GOD FOR ALL.

By a way wandering as I went,

Well sore I sorrowed, for sighing sad :

Of hard haps that I had hent

Mourning me made almost mad; 2

1 A poem so like this that it may have been written immediately after reading it, is attributed to Robert Henryson, the Scotch poet. It has the same refrain to every verse as Lydgate's.

24 Mourning for mishaps that I had caught made me almost mad."

Till a letter all one me lad,1
That well was written on a wall,
A blissful word that on I rad,2
That alway said, 'Thank God for 3 all.'
And yet I read furthermore 4

Full good intent I took there till:5
Christ may well your state restore;
Nought is to strive against his will;
He may us spare and also spill:
Think right well we be his thrall.

What sorrow we suffer, loud or still,
Alway thank God for all.

Though thou be both blind and lame,
Or any sickness be on thee set,
Thou think right well it is no shame-

The grace of God it hath thee gret."
In sorrow or care though ye be knit,
And worldés weal be from thee fall,

I cannot say thou mayst do bet,
But alway thank God for all.

Though thou wield this world's good,

And royally lead thy life in rest,

Well shaped of bone and blood,

it is useless.

slaves.

think thou.

snared.

fallen.

better.

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1 "Led me all one :" "brought me back to peace, unity, harmony."(?)

2 "That I read on (it)."

Of in the original, as in the title.

4 Does this mean by contemplation on it?

5 "I paid good attention to it."

"Greeted thee "-in the very affliction.

THANK GOD FOR ALL.

Christ himself forsooth began-
He may renew both bower and hall:

No better counsel I ne kan

But alway thank God for all.

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am capable of.

Think on Job that was so rich :

He waxed poor from day to day;
His beastés died in each ditch;
His cattle vanished all away;
He was put in poor array,

Neither in purple nor in pall,

But in simple weed, as clerkés say, clothes: learned men.

And alway he thanked God for all.

For Christés love so do we ;1

He may both give and take;

In what mischief that we in be,

whatever trouble we

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2 "Whatever grief or woe enslaves thee." But thrall is a blunder, for the word ought to have rhymed with make.

"The precious leader that shall judge us."

"When thou art in sorry plight, think of this."

"And death, beyond renewal, lay hold upon their life."

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I cannot say there is much poetry in this, but there is much truth and wisdom.

There is the finest

poetry, however, too, in the line-I give it now letter for letter:

But think that God ys ther he was.

1 Sending, message: "whatever varying decree God sends thee." 2 "Receives his message :" "accepts his will."

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