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 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.[36]

  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;[37]

    Till a letter all one me lad[38],
  That well was written on a wall,
    A blissful word that on I rad[39],
  That alway said, ‘Thank God for[40] all.’

  And yet I read furthermore[41]—­
    Full good intent I took there till[42]: 
  Christ may well your state restore;
    Nought is to strive against his will; it is useless.
    He may us spare and also spill: 
  Think right well we be his thrall. slaves.
    What sorrow we suffer, loud or still,
  Alway thank God for all.