id="pgepubid00005"/>has until now left a poet of genius of the past here and there to neglect or obscurity.  This is not very likely to befall again; the time has come when there is little or nothing left to discover or rediscover in the sixteenth century or the seventeenth; we know that there does not lurk another Crashaw contemned, or another Henry Vaughan disregarded, or another George Herbert misplaced.  There is now something like finality of knowledge at least; and therefore not a little error in the past is ready to be repaired.  This is the result of time.  Of the slow actions and reactions of critical taste there might be something to say, but nothing important.  No loyal anthologist perhaps will consent to acknowledge these tides; he will hardly do his work well unless he believe it to be stable and perfect; nor, by the way, will he judge worthily in the name of others unless he be resolved to judge intrepidly for himself.

Inasmuch as even the best of all poems are the best upon innumerable degrees, the size of most anthologies has gone far to decide what degrees are to be gathered in and what left without.  The best might make a very small volume, and be indeed the best, or a very large volume, and be still indeed the best.  But my labour has been to do somewhat differently—to gather nothing that did not overpass a certain boundary-line of genius.  Gray’s Elegy, for instance, would rightly be placed at the head of everything below that mark.  It is, in fact, so near to the work of genius as to be most directly, closely, and immediately rebuked by genius; it meets genius at close quarters and almost deserves that Shakespeare himself should defeat it.  Mediocrity said its own true word in the Elegy:

‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.’

But greatness had said its own word also in a sonnet:

‘The summer flower is to the summer sweet
Though to itself it only live and die.’

The reproof here is too sure; not always does it touch so quick, but it is not seldom manifest, and it makes exclusion a simple task.  Inclusion, on the other hand, cannot be so completely fulfilled.  The impossibility of taking in poems of great length, however purely lyrical, is a mechanical barrier, even on the plan of the present volume; in the case of Spenser’s Prothalamion, the unmanageably autobiographical and local passage makes it inappropriate; some exquisite things of Landor’s are lyrics in blank verse, and the necessary rule against blank verse shuts them out.  No extracts have been made from any poem, but in a very few instances a stanza or a passage has been dropped out.  No poem has been put in for the sake of a single perfectly fine passage; it would be too much to say that no poem has been put in for the sake of two splendid passages or so.  The Scottish ballad poetry is represented by examples that are to my mind finer than anything left out; still, it is but represented; and as the song of this multitude of unknown poets overflows by its quantity a collection of lyrics of genius, so does severally the song of Wordsworth, Crashaw, and Shelley.  It has been necessary, in considering traditional songs of evidently mingled authorship, to reject some one invaluable stanza or burden—the original and ancient surviving matter of a spoilt song—because it was necessary to reject the sequel that has cumbered it since some sentimentalist took it for his own.  An example, which makes the heart ache, is that burden of keen and remote poetry:

‘O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
   The broom of Cowdenknowes!’

Perhaps some hand will gather all such precious fragments as these together one day, freed from what is alien in the work of the restorer.  It is