had been in his grave one hundred and fifty years ere England
bad secreted choice material enough for the making of another great poet.
The nature of men living together in societies, as of the individual man, seems to have its periodic ebbs and floods, its oscillations between the ideal and the matter-of-fact, so that the doubtful boundary line of shore between them is in one generation a hard sandy actuality strewn only with such remembrances of beauty as a dead sea-moss here and there, and in the next is whelmed with those lacelike curves of ever-gaining, ever-receding foam, and that dance of joyous spray which for a moment catches and holds the sunshine.
From the two centuries between 1400 and 1600 the indefatigable Ritson
in his Bibliographia Poetica
has made us a catalogue of some six hundred English poets, or, more properly, verse-makers.
Ninety-nine in a hundred of them are mere names, most of them no more than shadows of names, some of them mere initials.
Nor can it be said of them that their works have perished because they were written in an obsolete dialect; for it is the poem that keeps the language alive, and not the language that buoys up the poem.
The revival of letters, as it is called, was at first the revival of ancient
letters, which, while it made men pedants, could