do very little toward making them poets, much less toward making them original writers.
There was nothing left of the freshness, vivacity, invention, and careless faith in the present which make many of the productions of the Norman Trouveres
delightful reading even now. The whole of Europe
during the fifteenth century produced no book which has continued readable, or has become in any sense of the word a classic.
I do not mean that that century has left us no illustrious names, that it was not enriched with some august intellects who kept alive the apostolic succession of thought and speculation, who passed along the still unextinguished torch of intelligence, the lampada vitoe
, to those who came after them.
But a classic is properly a book which maintains itself by virtue of that happy coalescence of matter and style, that innate and exquisite sympathy between the thought that gives life and the form that consents to every mood of grace and dignity, which can be simple without being vulgar, elevated without being distant, and which is something neither ancient nor modern, always new and incapable of growing old. It is not his Latin which makes Horace cosmopolitan, nor can Beranger's French prevent his becoming so. No hedge of language however thorny, no dragon-coil of centuries, will keep men away from these true apples of the Hesperides if once they have caught sight or scent of them.
If poems die, it is because there was never true life in them, that is, that true poetic vitality which no depth of thought, no airiness of fancy, no sincerity of feeling, can singly communicate, but which leaps throbbing at touch of that shaping faculty the imagination.
Take Aristotle's ethics, the scholastic philosophy, the theology of Aquinas
, the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, the small politics of a provincial city of the Middle Ages
, mix in at will Grecian, Roman