But what are those, said I, the unconquer'd nine, Who, crown'd with laurel-wreaths, in golden armour shine?

And who the knights in green, and what the train
Of ladies dress'd with daisies on the plain?
Why both the bands in worship disagree,
And some adore the flower, and some the tree?—
Just is your suit, fair daughter, said the dame;
Those laurell'd chiefs were men of mighty fame;
Nine worthies were they call'd of different rites,
Three Jews, three Pagans, and three Christian
knights.*

These, as you see, ride foremost in the field,
As they the foremost rank of honour held,
And all in deeds of chivalry excell❜d :

}

Their temples wreathed with leaves, that still renew, For deathless laurel is the victor's due.

Who bear the bows were knights in Arthur's reign, Twelve they, and twelve the peers of Charlemain; For bows the strength of brawny arms imply, Emblems of valour, and of victory.t

* The common list of the nine worthies comprehends-Hector, Pompey, and Alexander, Pagans; Joshua, David, and Judas Machabeus, Jews; and Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Boulogne, Christians. But it is sometimes varied.

t This is a mistake of Dryden, who was misled by the spelling of the old English. Chaucer talks of boughs, not of bows; and says simply,

And tho that barin bowes in their hand,

Of the precious lawrier so notable.

This refers to the description of the knights at their entrance, which Dryden has rightly rendered:

Some in their hands, besides the lance and shield,
The boughs of woodbines or of hawthorn, held;
Or branches for their mystic emblems took

Of palm, of laurel, or of cerrial oak.

The bow, though the youth trained to chivalry were taught to

Behold an order yet of newer date,

Doubling their number, equal in their state;
Our England's ornament, the crown's defence,
In battle brave, protectors of their prince;
Unchanged by fortune, to their sovereign true,
For which their manly legs are bound with blue.
These, of the garter call'd, of faith unstain'd,
In fighting fields the laurel have obtain❜d,
And well repaid those honours which they gain'd.
The laurel wreaths were first by Cæsar worn,
And still they Cæsar's successors adorn;
One leaf of this is immortality,

And more of worth than all the world can buy.—
One doubt remains, said I; the dames in green,
What were their qualities, and who their queen ?-
Flora commands, said she, those nymphs and knights,
Who lived in slothful ease and loose delights;
Who never acts of honour durst pursue,

The men inglorious knights, the ladies all untrue;
Who, nursed in idleness, and train'd in courts,
Pass'd all their precious hours in plays and sports,
Till death behind came stalking on, unseen,
And wither'd (like the storm) the freshness of their
green.

These, and their mates, enjoy the present hour,
And therefore pay their homage to the Flower.
But knights in knightly deeds should persevere,
And still continue what at first they were ;
Continue, and proceed in honour's fair career.
No room for cowardice, or dull delay;

From good to better they should urge their way.

use it, made no part of a knight's proper weapons. But it is curious how Dryden, having fallen into an error, finds out a reason for his false reading, by alleging, that the bows were borne as an emblem of strength of arm, valour, and victory. [Since this note was written, I observe, that the ingenious Dr Aikin has anticipated my observation.]

For this with golden spurs the chiefs are graced, With pointed rowels arm'd, to mend their haste For this with lasting leaves their brows are bound; For laurel is the sign of labour crown'd,

Which bears the bitter blast, nor shaken falls to ground:

From winter winds it suffers no decay,

For ever fresh and fair, and every month is May.
Even when the vital sap retreats below,
Even when the hoary head is hid in snow,
The life is in the Leaf, and still between
The fits of falling snows appears the streaky green.
Not so the Flower, which lasts for little space,
A short-lived good, and an uncertain grace:
This way and that the feeble stem is driven,
Weak to sustain the storms and injuries of heaven.
Propp'd by the spring, it lifts aloft the head,
But of a sickly beauty, soon to shed;
In summer living, and in winter dead.
For things of tender kind, for pleasure made,
Shoot up with swift increase, and sudden are de-
cay'd.-

With humble words, the wisest I could frame,
And proffer'd service, I repaid the dame ;
That, of her grace, she gave her maid to know
The secret meaning of this moral show.
And she, to prove what profit I had made
Of mystic truth, in fables first convey'd,
Demanded till the next returning May,
Whether the Leaf or Flower I would obey?
I chose the Leaf; she smiled with sober cheer,
And wish'd me fair adventure for the year,
And gave me charms and sigils, for defence
Against ill tongues that scandal innocence :-
But I, said she, my fellows must pursue,
Already past the plain, and out of view.-

We parted thus; I homeward sped my way, Bewilder'd in the wood till dawn of day; And met the merry crew, who danced about the

May.

Then late refresh'd with sleep, I rose to write
The visionary vigils of the night.

Blush, as thou may'st, my little book, for shame,
Nor hope with homely verse to purchase fame;
For such thy maker chose, and so design'd
Thy simple style to suit thy lowly kind,

THE WIFE OF BATH.

THE original of this tale should probably be sought in some ancient metrical romance. At least, we know, that there exists a ballad connected with the Round Table romances, entitled "The Marriage of Sir Gawain," which seems to have been taken, not from Chaucer, but some more ancient and romantic legend. Gower also had seized upon this subject, and wrought it into the tale, entitled "Florent," which is the most pleasing in his dull Confessio Amantis. But what was a mere legendary tale of wonder in the rhyme of the minstrel, and a vehicle for trite morality in that of Gower, in the verse of Chaucer reminds us of the resurrection of a skeleton, reinvested by miracle with flesh, complexion, and powers of life and motion. Of all Chaucer's multifarious powers, none is more wonderful than the humour, with which he touched upon natural frailty, and the truth with which he describes the inward feelings of the human heart; at a time when all around were employed in composing romantic legends, in which the real character of their heroes was as effectually disguised by the stiffness of their manners, as their shapes by the sharp angles and unnatural projections of their plate ar

mour.

Dryden, who probably did not like the story worse, that it contained a passing satire against priests and women, has bestowed considerable pains upon his version. It is, perhaps, not to be regretted, that he left the Prologue to Pope, who has drawn a veil over the coarse nakedness of Father Chaucer. The tale is characteristically placed by the original author, in the mouth of the buxom Wife of Bath, whose mode of governing her different husbands is so ludicrously described in the Prologue.