This is
somewhat of the nature of rhyme, and was all our Anglo-Saxon forefathers
had of the kind. Their Norman conquerors brought in rhyme, regularity of
measure, and division into stanzas, with many refinements of
versification now regarded, with some justice and a little more
injustice, as peurilities. Strange as it may seem, the peculiar rhythmic
movement of the Anglo-Saxon verse is even yet the most popular of all
measures. Its representative is now that kind of verse which is measured
not by the number of syllables, but by the number of _accented_
syllables. The bulk of the nation is yet Anglo-Saxon in its blind poetic
tastes.
Before taking my leave of this mode, I would give one fine specimen from
another poem, lately printed, for the first time in full, from Bishop
Percy's manuscript. It may chronologically belong to the beginning of the
next century: its proper place in my volume is here. It is called _Death
and Liffe_. Like Langland's poem, it is a vision; but, short as it is in
comparison, there is far more poetry in it than in _Piers Plowman_. Life
is thus described:
She was brighter of her blee[18] than was the bright sun;
Her rudd[19] redder than the rose that on the rise[20] hangeth;
Meekly smiling with her mouth, and merry in her looks;
Ever laughing for love, as she like would.
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