WHEN Chaucer lived there were some other bards, with inspiration loaded to the guards. And there were highbrows in that distant age, who looked with scorn upon great Geoffrey's page, and said, "Gadzooks, he writeth middling fair, for one whose soul is of afflatus bare; as crossroads jingler he may cut some grass, but who'll recall him when ten years shall pass? If you'd read verse of great, majestic power, you must peruse the gorgeous works of Gower." Now, it is true that in G. Chaucer's time, the critics joshed him for his paltry rhyme, and held that Langland, of "Piers Plowman" dope, had moderns skinned beyond all hint of hope. How vain the judgment of the critic clan! They heap their laurels on some ten cent man, and say his harp will never be unstrung, while there are men to read his native tongue. Their petted poet crosses the divide, and is forgotten ere he's fairly died, while some unknown, who smarted 'neath their jeers, lives in men's hearts through all the rolling years. |