But it does not give us
epic poetry. The world knows of a vast stock of epic material scattered
up and down the nations; sometimes its artistic value is as
extraordinary as its archaeological interest, but not always. Instances
are our own Border Ballads and Robin Hood Ballads; the Servian cycles of
the Battle of Kossovo and the prowess of Marko; the modern Greek songs
of the revolt against Turkey (the conditions of which seem to have been
similar to those which surrounded the growth of our riding ballads); the
fragments of Finnish legend which were pieced together into the
_Kalevala_; the Ossianic poetry; and perhaps some of the minor sagas
should be put in here. Then there are the glorious Welsh stories of
Arthur, Tristram, and the rest, and the not less glorious Irish stories
of Deirdre and Cuchulain; both of these noble masses of legend seem to
have only just missed the final shaping which turns epic material into
epic poetry. For epic material, it must be repeated, is not the same
thing as epic poetry. Epic material is fragmentary, scattered, loosely
related, sometimes contradictory, each piece of comparatively small
size, with no intention beyond hearty narrative. It is a heap of
excellent stones, admirably quarried out of a great rock-face of
stubborn experience. But for this to be worked into some great
structure of epic poetry, the Heroic Age must be capable of producing
individuality of much profounder nature than any of its fighting
champions.
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