The modern poet or artist who treats in this way a classical story comes very near, if not to the Hellenism of Homer, yet to the Hellenism of Chaucer, the Hellenism of the Middle Age, or rather of that exquisite first period of the Renaissance within it.  Afterwards the Renaissance takes its side, becomes, perhaps, exaggerated or facile.  But the choice life of the human spirit is always under mixed lights, and in mixed situations, when it is not too sure of itself, is still expectant, girt up to leap forward to the promise.  Such a situation there was in that earliest return from the overwrought spiritualities of the Middle Age to the earlier, more ancient life of the senses; and for us the most attractive form of [225] classical story is the monk’s conception of it, when he escapes from the sombre atmosphere of his cloister to natural light.  The fruits of this mood, which, divining more than it understands, infuses into the scenery and figures of Christian history some subtle reminiscence of older gods, or into the story of Cupid and Psyche that passionate stress of spirit which the world owes to Christianity, constitute a peculiar vein of interest in the art of the fifteenth century.

And so, before we leave Jason and The Earthly Paradise, a word must be said about their medievalisms, delicate inconsistencies, which, coming in a poem of Greek subject, bring into this white dawn thoughts of the delirious night just over and make one’s sense of relief deeper.  The opening of the fourth book of Jason describes the embarkation of the Argonauts:  as in a dream, the scene shifts and we go down from Iolchos to the sea through a pageant of the Middle Age in some French or Italian town.  The gilded vanes on the spires, the bells ringing in the towers, the trellis of roses at the window, the close planted with apple-trees, the grotesque undercroft with its close-set pillars, change by a single touch the air of these Greek cities and we are at Glastonbury by the tomb of Arthur.  The nymph in furred raiment who seduces Hylas is conceived frankly in the spirit of Teutonic romance; her song is of a garden [226] enclosed, such as that with which the old church glass-stainer surrounds the mystic bride of the song of songs.  Medea herself has a hundred touches of the medieval sorceress, the sorceress of the Streckelberg or the Blocksberg:  her mystic changes are Christabel’s.  It is precisely this effect, this grace of Hellenism relieved against the sorrow of the Middle Age, which forms the chief motives of The Earthly Paradise:  with an exquisite dexterity the two threads of sentiment are here interwoven and contrasted.  A band of adventurers sets out from Norway, most northerly of northern lands, where the plague is raging—­the bell continually ringing as they carry the Sacrament to the sick.  Even in Mr. Morris’s earliest poems snatches of the sweet French tongue had always come with something of Hellenic blitheness and grace.  And now it is below the very coast of France, through