y, 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.

CHAUCER.

Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day,
Till it felle ones in a morwe of May,
That Emelie, that fayrer was to sene
Than is the lilie upon the stalke grene,
And fressher than the May with floures newe
(For with the rose 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,
An