Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 57, No. 356, June, 1845

The age of Chaucer was widely and variously different from that of Dryden. Knowledge, taste, art, had advanced with strides between the two dates; and the bleak and stormy English political atmosphere of the fourteenth century had changed, notwithstanding the commotion of the later civil war, into a far milder and more settled element when the seventeenth drew towards close. Genius, likewise, in the two poets, was distinguished by marked differences. Strength, simplicity, earnestness, human affection, characterize Chaucer. Dryden has plenty of strength, too, but it shows itself differently. The strength of Chaucer is called out by the requisition of the subject, and is measured to the call. Dryden bounds and exults in his nervous vigour, like a strong steed broke loose. Exuberant power and rejoicing freedom mark Dryden versifying—a smooth flow, a prompt fertility, a prodigal splendour of words and images. Old Chaucer, therefore, having passed through the hands of Dryden, is no longer old Chaucer—no longer Chaucer. But the well-chosen, and well-disposed, and well-told tale, full of masculine sense, lively with humour, made present with painting—for all this Chaucer brings to Dryden—becomes, by nothing more than the disantiquating and the different hand, a new poem.

Place the two side by side, and whilst you feel that a total change has been effected, you shall not always easily assign the secret of the change wrought. There then comes into view, it must be owned, something like an unpractised awkwardness in the gait of the great elder bard, which you less willingly believe, or to which you shut your eyes, when you have him by himself to yourself. The step of Dryden is rapid, and has perfect decision. He knows, with every spring he takes, where he shall alight. Now Chaucer, you would often say, is retarded by looking where he shall next set down his foot. The old poetry details the whole series of thinking. The modern supposes more. That is the consequence of practice. Writer and reader are in better intelligence. A hint goes further—that which is known to be meant needs not be explicitly said. Style, as the art advances, gains in dispatch. There is better keeping, too, in some respects. The dignity of the style—the purpose of the Beautiful—is more considerately maintained. And perhaps one would be justified in saying, that if the earnestness of the heart, which was in the old time the virtue of virtues, is less—the glow of the fancy, the tone of inspiration, is proportionally more. And if any where the thought is made to give way to the straits of the verse, the modern art more artfully hides the commission.

In our preceding paper, in which we spoke at large of the genius of Chaucer, we gave some very noble extracts from Dryden's version of the Knight's Tale. But we did not then venture to quote any long passages from the original, unassured how they might look on our page to the eyes of Young Britain. Having good reason to know that Young Britain desires some veritable Chaucer from the hands of Maga, we shall now indulge her with some specimens; and as we have been given to understand that Dryden's versions of the same passages will be acceptable for comparison, they shall be now produced, while the wishes of Young Britain shall be further gratified with an occasional running commentary from our popular pen on both poets. We shall confine ourselves to the Knight's Tale, with which all who love us are by this time familiar.

Let us lead off with one or two short specimens, and be not frightened, Fair-eyes, with the seemingly strange, mayhap obsolete-looking, words of the ancient bard. Con them over a few times, and they will turn into letters of light.

ChaucerThus passeth yere by yere, and day by day,Till it felle onès in a morwe of May,That Emelie, that fayrer was to seneThan is the lilie upon the stalkè grene,And fressher than the May with flourès newe(For with the rosè colour strof hire hewe;I n'ot which was the finer of hem two)Er it was day, as she was wont to do,She was arisen, and all redy dight,For May wol have no slogardie a-night.The seson priketh every gentil herte,And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte,And sayth 'arise, and do thin observance.'This maketh Emelie have remembranceTo don honour to May, and for to rise.Yclothed was she fresshe for to devise.Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse,Behind hire back, a yerdè long I guess.And in the garden at the sonne upristShe walketh up and down where as hire list.She gathereth flourès, partie white and red,To make a sotel gerlond for hire hed,And as an angel hevenlich she sang, &c.DrydenThus year by year they pass, and day by day,Till once—'twas on the morn of cheerful May—The young Emilia, fairer to be seenThan the fair lily on the flowery green,More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,For with the rosy colour strove her hue,Waked, as her custom was, before the day,To do the observance due to sprightly May;For sprightly May commands our youth to keepThe vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves,Inspires new flames, revives extinguish'd loves.In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array;Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;A ribband did the braided tresses bind,The rest was loose, and wanton'd in the wind:Aurora had but newly chased the night,And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,When to the garden-walk she took her way,To sport and trip along in cool of day,And offer maiden vows in honour of the May.At every turn she made a little stand,And thrust among the thorns her lily handTo draw the rose; and every rose she drew,She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew;Then party-colour'd flowers of white and redShe wove, to make a garland to her head.This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear,That men and angels might rejoice to hear.Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing,And learn'd from her to welcome in the spring.

What can you wish more innocently beautiful than Chaucer's—what more graceful than Dryden's Emelie? And now look at Arcite—how he, too, does his observance of the May.

ChaucerThe besy lark, the messenger of day,Saleweth in hire song the morwè gray;And firy Phœbus riseth up so brightThat all the orient laugheth of the sight,And with his stremès drieth in the grevesThe silver dropès hanging on the leves,And Arcite that is in the court realWith Theseus the squier principal,Is risen, and loketh on the mery day.And for to don his observance to May,Remembring on the point of his desireHe on his courser, sterting as the fire,Is ridden to the feldès him to play,Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.And to the grove of which that I you told,By aventure his way he 'gan to hold,To maken him a gerlond of the greves,Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leves,And loud he song agen the sonnè shene.O May, with all thy flourès and thy grene,Right welcome be thou fairè freshè May,I hope that I some grene here getten may.DrydenThe morning lark, the messenger of day,Saluted, in her song, the morning gray;And soon the sun arose with beams so bright,That all the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight.He, with his tepid rays, the rose renews,And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews;When Arcite left his bed, resolved to payObservance to the month of merry May:Forth, on his fiery steed, betimes he rode,That scarcely prints the turf on which he trode:At ease he seem'd, and prancing o'er the plains,Turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins,The grove I named before, and lighting thereA woodbine garland sought to crown his hair;Then turn'd his face against the rising day,And raised his voice to welcome in the May:—For thee, sweet month, the groves green liveries wear,If not the first, the fairest of the year:For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours,And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers:When thy short reign is past, the feverish sunThe sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight,Nor goats, with venom'd teeth, thy tendrils bite.As thou shalt guide my wandering feet to findThe fragrant greens I seek my brows to bind.

In Chaucer, Arcite's address to the "mery May" is but of three plain lines, and they suffice; in Dryden, of ten ornate, and they suffice too—"alike, but oh! how different!" The plain three are more in character, for Arcite was thinking of Emelie all the while—but the ornate ten are in season now, for summer has come at last, and recite them to yourself and Amaryllis in the shade.

But now for a loftier strain. Palamon and Arcite are about to fight for Emelie—and lo and behold their auxiliar kings!

Ther maist thou se coming with PalamonLicurge himself, the gretè king of Trace:Blake was his berd, and manly was his face.The cercles of his eyen in his headThey gloweden betwixen yelwe and red,And like a griffon loked he about,With kemped herès on his browès stout;His limmès gret, his brawnès hard and stronge,His shouldres brode, his armès round and longe.And as the guisè was in his countree,Full high upon a char of gold stood he,With fourè whitè bollès in the trais.Instead of cote-armure on his harnais,With naylès yelwe, and bright as any gold,He had a berès-skin, cole-blake for old.His longè here was kempt behind his bak,As any ravenes fether it shone for blake.A wreth of gold arm-gret, of hugè weight,Upon his hed sate ful of stonès bright,Of finè rubins and of diamants.About his char ther wenten white alaunsTwenty and mo, as great as any stere,To hunten at the leon or the dere,And folwed him, with mosel fast ybound,Colered with gold, and torettes filed round.A hundred lordès had he in his route,Armed full wel with hertès sterne and stoute.With Arcite, in stories as men find,The gret Emetrius, the King of Inde,Upon a stedè bay, trapped in stele,Covered with cloth of gold diapered well,Came riding like the god of armès, Mars.His cote-armure was of a cloth of Tars,Couched with perlès, white, and round, and grete.His sadel was of brent gold new ybete:A mantelet upon his shouldres hanging,Bret-ful of rubies red, as fire sparkling.His crispè here like ringès was yronne,And that was yelwe, and glittered as the sonne.His nose was high, his eyen bright eitrin,His lippès round, his colour was sanguin,A fewè fraknes in his face yspreint,Betwixen yelwe and blake somdel ymeint,And as a leon he his loking caste.Of five-and-twenty yere his age I caste.His berd was wel begonnen for to spring;His vois was as a trompè thondering.Upon his hed he wered of laurer greneA gerlond fresshe, and lusty for to sene.Upon his hond he bare for his deduitAn egle tame, as any lily whit.An hundred lordès had he with him thereAll armed save hir hedes in all hir gere,Full richèly in allè manere thinges.For trusteth wel, that erlès, dukès, kinges,Were gathered in this noble compagnie,For love, and for encrease of chevalrie.About this king ther ran on every partFull many a tame leon and leopart.

What a plenitude of brilliant and powerful description! Every verse, every half verse, adds a characterizing circumstance, a vivifying image. And what an integrity and self-completeness has the daring and large conception of either martial king! And how distinguishably the two stand apart from each other! But above all, what a sudden and rich addition to our stock of heroic poetical portraitures! Here is no imitation. Neither Lycurge nor Emetrius is any where in poetry but here. Not in the Iliad-not in the Æneid. You cannot compose either of them from the heroes of antiquity. Each is original—new—self-subsisting. The monarch of Thrace is invested with more of uncouth and savage terror. He is bigger, broader. Might for destroying is in his bulk of bone and muscle. Bulls draw him, and he looks taurine. A bear-skin mantles him; and you would think him of ursine consanguinity. The huge lump of gold upon his raven-black head, and the monster hounds, bigger than the dog-kind can be imagined to produce, that gambol about his chariot, all betoken the grosser character of power—the power that is in size—material. The impression of the portentous is made without going avowedly out of the real. His looking is resembled to that of a griffin, because in that monster imagined at or beyond the verge of nature, the ferocity of a devouring, destroying creature can be conceived as more wild, and grim, and fearful than in nature's known offspring, in all of whom some kindlier sparkles from the heart of the great mother, some beneficently-implanted instincts are thought of as tempering and qualifying the pure animal fierceness and rage.

The opposed King of Inde has also of the prodigious, within the limits of the apparently natural. He is also a tremendous champion; but he has more fire, and less of mere thewes, in the furnishing of his warlike sufficiency. There is more of mind and fancy about him. His fair complexion at once places him in a more gracious category of death-doers. Compare to the car drawn by four white bulls, the gallant bay charger barded with steel, and caparisoned with cloth of gold. Compare to that yellow-nailed, swart bear-skin, the coat-armour made with cloth of Tars, the mantelet thick-sown with rubies; for the locks like the raven's plumage, the curls like Apollo's tresses. He is in the dazzling prime of youth. Black Lycurge, without question, has more than twice his years. The beard that yet springs, joined close to the voice that is like a trumpet, is well found for raising the expression of native power in that thundering voice. The laurel wreath for the ponderous golden diadem—the white eagle on the wrist for the snowy alauns, are all studied to carry through the same opposition. Emetrius is a son of chivalry; Lycurge might be kin or kith, with a difference for the better, of that renowned tyrant Diomedes, who put men's limbs for hay into his manger, and of whom Hercules had, not so long ago, ridded the world. His looking, too, is paralleled away from humanity, but it is by the kingly and generous lion. Observe that the companions of the two kings are described, whether through chance or choice, in terms correspondingly opposite. The Thracian leads a hundred lords, with hearts stern and stout. The Indian's following, earls, dukes, kings, have thronged to him, for the love and increment of chivalry. The lions and leopards, too, that run about him have been tamed. They finish the Indian picture.

How does Dryden acquit himself here? Grandly.

DrydenWith Palamon, above the rest in place,Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace;Black was his beard, and manly was his face:The balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head,And glared bewixt a yellow and a red;He look'd a lion with a gloomy stare,And o'er his eye-brows hung his matted hair;Big-boned, and large of limbs, with sinews strong,Broad-shoulder'd, and his arms were round and long.Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old,)Were yoked to draw his car of burnish'd gold.Upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield,Conspicuous from afar, and overlook'd the field.His surcoat was a bear-skin on his back;His hair hung long behind, and glossy raven-black.His ample forehead bore a coronetWith sparkling diamonds, and with rubies set;Ten brace, and more, of greyhounds, snowy fair,And tall as stags, ran loose, and coursed around his chair,A match for pards in flight, in grappling for the bear.With golden muzzles all their mouths were bound,And collars of the same their necks surround.Thus through the field Lycurgus took his way;His hundred knights attend in pomp and proud array.To match this monarch, with strong Arcite cameEmetrius, king of Inde, a mighty name!On a bay courser, goodly to behold,The trappings of his horse emboss'd with barbarous gold.Not Mars bestrode a steed with greater grace;His surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of Thrace,Adorn'd with pearls, all orient, round, and great;His saddle was of gold, with emeralds set;His shoulders large a mantle did attire,With rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire;His amber-coloured locks in ringlets run,With graceful negligence, and shone against the sun.His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue,Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue;Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen,Whose dusk set off the whiteness of the skin.His awful presence did the crowd surprise,Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes,Eyes that confess'd him born for kingly sway,So fierce, they flash'd intolerable day.His age in nature's youthful prime appear'd,And just began to bloom his yellow beard.Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around,Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound;A laurel wreath'd his temples, fresh and green,And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix'd between.Upon his fist he bore, for his delight,An eagle well reclaim'd, and lily white.His hundred knights attend him to the war,All arm'd for battle, save their heads were bare.Words and devices blazed on every shield,And pleasing was the terror of the field.For kings, and dukes, and barons you might see,Like sparkling stars, though different in degree,All for the increase of arms, and love of chivalry.Before the king tame leopards led the way,And troops of lions innocently play.So Bacchus through the conquer'd Indies rode,And beasts in gambols frisk'd before the honest god.

Dryden, you will have noticed, smooths down, in some places, a little the savagery of the Thracian. He has let go the fell gryphon, borrowing instead the lion's glances of Emetrius. For the more refined poetical invention of the advanced world, the opposition of the two animals for contrasting the two heroes, had possibly something of the burlesque. To Chaucer it was simply energetic. Or Dryden perhaps had not taken up a right view of the gryphon's looking, or he thought that his readers would not. He compensates Emetrius with plainly describing his eyes, in four very animated verses. Lycurge's combed eye-brows are a little mitigated, as is his ferocious bear-skin; and the ring of gold, as thick as a man's arm, has become merely a well-jewelled coronet. The spirit of the figure is, notwithstanding, caught and given. Dryden intends and conveys the impression purposed and effected by Chaucer.

If the black and sullen portrait loses a little grimness under the rich and harmonious pencil of Dryden, the needful contradistinction of the two royal auxiliars is maintained by heightening the favour of the more pleasing one. Throughout, Dryden with pains insists upon the more attractive features which we have claimed for the King of Inde. Grace is twice attributed to his appearance. He has gained blue eyes. His complexion is carefully and delicately handled, as may be especially seen in the management of the freckles. The blooming of his yellow beard, the thundering of the trumpet changed into a silvery sound, the myrtle sprigs mixed amongst the warlike laurel—all unequivocally display the gracious intentions of Dryden towards Emetrius—all aid in rendering effective the opposition which Chaucer has deliberately represented betwixt the two kings. Why the surly Thracian should be rather allied to the knight who serves Venus, and the more gallant Emetrius to the fierce Arcite, the favourite of the War-god, is left for the meditation of readers in all time to come.

The two opposed pictures are perhaps as highly finished as any part of the version. The words fall into their own places, painting their objects. The verse marches with freedom, fervour, and power. Translation has then reached its highest perfection when the suspicion of an original vanishes. The translator makes the matter his own, and writes as if from his own unassisted conception. The allusion to Bacchus is Dryden's own happy addition.

Now read with us—perhaps for the first time—the famous recital of the death of Arcite.

ChaucerNought may the woful spirit in myn herteDeclare o point of all my sorwès smerteTo you, my lady, that I lovè most;But I bequethe the service of my gostTo you aboven every creature,Sin that my lif ne may no longer dure.Alas the wo! alas the peinès strongeThat I for you have suffered, and so longe!Alas the deth! Alas min Emilie!Alas departing of our compagnie!Alas min hertès quene! alas my wif!My hertès ladie, ender of my lif!What is this world? what axen men to have?Now with his love, now in his coldè graveAlone withouten any compagnie.Farewel my swete, farewel min Emilie,And softè take me in your armès twey,For love of God, and herkeneth what I sey.I have here with my cosin PalamonHad strif and rancour many a day agonFor love of you, and for my jealousie.And Jupiter so wis my soulè gie,To speken of a servant proprely,With allè circumstancè trewèly,That is to sayn, trouth, honour, and knighthede,Wisdom, humblesse, estat, and high kinrede,Fredom, and all that longeth to that art,So Jupiter have of my soulè part,As in this world right now ne know I nonSo worthy to be loved as Palamon,That serveth you, and wol don all his lif.And if that ever ye shal ben a wif,Foryete not Palamon, the gentil man.And with that word his speech faillè began.For from his feet up to his brest was comeThe cold of death, which had him overnome.And yet moreover in his armès two,The vital strength is lost, and all ago.Only the intellect, withouten more,That dwelled in his hertè sike and sore,Gan faillen, whan the hertè feltè deth;Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth.But on his ladie yet cast he his eye;His lastè word was: Mercy, Emilie!His spirit changed hous, and wentè ther,As I came never I cannot tellen wher.Therefore I stent, I am no divinistre;Of soulès find I not in this registre.Ne me lust not th' opinions to telleOf hem, though that they writen wher they dwelle.Arcite is cold, ther Mars his soulè gie.Now wol I speken forth of Emilie.Shright Emilie, and houleth Palamon,And Theseus his sister toke anonSwouning, and bare hire from the corps away.What helpeth it to tarien forth the day,To tellen how she wep both even and morwe?For in swiche cas wimmen haven swiche sorwe,Whan that hir housbondes ben fro hem ago,That for the morè part they sorwen so,Or ellès fallen in swiche maladie,That attè lastè certainly they die.Infinite ben the sorwes and the teresOf oldè folk, and folk of tendre yearsIn all the toun for deth of this Theban:For him, ther wepeth bothè child and man:So gret a weping was there non certain,When Hector was ybrought, all fresh yslainTo Troy: alas! the pitee that was there,Cratching of chekès, rending eke of here.Why woldest thou be ded? the women crie,And haddest gold enough, and Emilie.

The death of Arcite is one of the scenes for which the admirers of Chaucer feel themselves entitled to claim, that it shall be judged in comparison with analogous passages of the poets that stand highest in the renown of natural and pathetic delineation. The dying words of the hero are as proper as if either great classical master of epic propriety—the Chian or the Mantuan—had left them to us. They are thoroughly sad, thoroughly loving, and supremely magnanimous. They have a perfect simplicity of purpose. They take the last leave of his Emelie; and they find for her, if ever she shall choose to put off her approaching estate of unwedded widowhood, a fit husband. They have answerable simplicity of sentiment and of language. He is unable to utter any particle of the pain which he feels in quitting her; but since the service which living he pays her, draws to an end, he pledges to her in the world whither he is going, the constant love-fealty of his disembodied spirit. He recalls to her, with a word only, the long love-torments he has endured for her, exchanged, in the hour when they should have been crowned with possession, for the pains of death. He heaps endearing names upon her. He glances at the vanity of human wishes imaged in himself, and he bids her farewell. That is his first heart-offering towards herself. Can a death-severed heart's elocution be imitated more aptly, more touchingly? He then turns to praising his rival. The jealousy, which had so long been the madness of both, filling the two kindred, brotherly, once-affectionate bosoms with hate, has, in his, melted away with life, thence melting away; and Arcite, with his last intelligible breath, describes Palamon briefly, point by point, as he knew him when he best loved him. He does not implore Emelie to remain for his sake single. He does not pretend, if she shall marry, to govern her choice; but he simply requests her, if the season shall ever arrive of such a choice, that she will not "forget Palamon." But the death-frost creeps on—his eyes darken—and the suspiration which finally wafts the soul from the body, beseeches the favour of her, only to earn whose favour he lived, and with earning whose favour he dies. Her name leaves his lips last. Could Shakspeare have helped Chaucer? The whole speech is admirably direct and short. We shall presently have to deal with one from the same poem, which wants that virtue.