France, in the twelfth century, when Pierre d'Auvergne said,—
"I will sing a new song which resounds in my breast: never was a song good or beautiful which resembled any other."
And Pons de Capdeuil declares,—
"Since the air renews itself and softens, so must my heart renew itself, and what buds in it buds and grows outside of it."
There is in every poem a height which attracts more than other parts, and is best remembered. Thus, in Morte d'Arthur, I remember nothing so well as Sir Gawain's parley with Merlin in his wonderful prison:—
"After the disappearance of Merlin from King Arthur's court he was seriously missed, and many knights set out in search of him. Among others was Sir Gawain, who pursued his search till it was time to return to the court. He came into the forest of Broceliande, lamenting as he went along. Presently he heard the voice of one groaning on his right hand; looking that way, he could see nothing save a kind of smoke which seemed like air, and through which he could not pass; and this impediment made him so wrathful that it deprived him of speech. Presently he heard a voice which said, 'Gawain, Gawain, be not out of heart, for everything
