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EDMUND SPENSER.

(1552?-1599.)

THE SONG OF ENCHANTMENT.

Spenser's Lyrical Poems (the Shepherd's Calendar, Astrophel, the Amoretti, Epithalamion, Four Hymns, and Prothalamion) have appeared in a separate volume in Mr. Ernest Rhys' series of "The Lyric Poets" (London and New York, 1895). Extracts of a lyrical cast from the Shepherd's Calendar, 1579, appear in the volume of English Pastorals in the present series. The Daphnaida, “an elegy upon the death of the noble and virtuous Douglas Howard", appeared in 1591; the Amoretti or Sonnets in 1595 (written 1592–3); the Epithalamion, a song in celebration of the poet's own marriage, in 1595 (written 1594-5); the Prothalamion, or a "Spousal Verse, in honour of the double marriage of two honourable and virtuous ladies, the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Katherine Somerset ", in 1596; and the Four Hymns in the same year. The following is the famous Song of Despair from the Fairy Queen,, book I., canto ix.

WHO travels by the weary wandering way,

To come unto his wished home in haste,
And meets a flood that doth his passage stay,
Is not great grace to help him over past,
Or free his feet that in the mire stick fast?
Most envious man, that grieves at neighbour's good,
And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast!
Why wilt not let him pass, that long hath stood
Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood?

He there does now enjoy eternal rest

And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave,
And further from it daily wanderest:

What if some little pain the passage have,

That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave?

Is not short pain well borne, that brings long ease,
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?

Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,

Ease after war, death after life does greatly please!

The lenger life, I wot, the greater sin;
The greater sin, the greater punishment:

All those great battles, which thou boasts to win
Through strife, and bloodshed, and avengement,
Now praised, hereafter dear thou shalt repent;
For life must life, and blood must blood repay.
Is not enough thy evil life forespent?

For he that once hath missèd the right way,
The further he doth go, the further he doth stray.

Then do no further go, no further stray,
But here lie down, and to thy rest betake,
Th' ill to prevent, that life ensewen may;
For what hath life that may it lovèd make,
And gives not rather cause it to forsake?
Fear, sickness, age, loss, labour, sorrow, strife,
Pain, hunger, cold that makes the heart to quake;
And ever fickle fortune rageth rife;

All which, and thousands mo, do make a loathsome life.

FROM THE DAPHNAIDA.

OW happy was I when I saw her lead

How

The shepherds' daughters dancing in a round!
How trimly would she trace and softly tread
The tender grass, with rosy garland crowned!
And when she list advance her heavenly voice,
Both Nymphs and Muses nigh she made astownd,
And flocks and shepherds caused to rejoice.

But now, ye shepherd lasses! who shall lead
Your wandering troups, or sing your virelayes1?
Or who shall dight your bowers, sith she is dead
That was the Lady of your holy-days?

Let now your bliss be turnèd into bale,

1 light songs.

And into plaints convert your joyous plays,
And with the same fill every hill and dale.

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Henceforth I hate what ever Nature made,
And in her workmanship no pleasure find;
For they be all but vain, and quickly fade,
So soon as on them blows the Northern wind;
They tarry not, but flit and fall away,

Leaving behind them nought but grief of mind,
And mocking such as think they long will stay.

I hate the heaven, because it doth withhold
Me from my love, and eke my love from me;
I hate the earth, because it is the mould
Of fleshly slime and frail mortality;

I hate the fire, because to nought it flies;
I hate the air, because sighs of it be;

I hate the sea, because it tears supplies.

I hate to speak, my voice is spent with crying;

I hate to hear, loud plaints have dulled mine ears;
I hate to taste, for food withholds my dying;
I hate to see, mine eyes are dimmed with tears;

I hate to smell, no sweet on earth is left;
I hate to feel, my flesh is numbed with fears:

So all my senses from me are bereft.

I hate all men, and shun all womankind;
The one, because as I they wretched are;
The other, for because I do not find

My love with them, that wont to be their star:
And life I hate, because it will not last;
And death I hate, because it life doth mar;
And all I hate that is to come or past.

To live I find it deadly dolorous,

For life draws care, and care continual woe;

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Therefore to die must needs be joyeous,
And wishful thing this sad life to forgo:
But I must stay; I may it not amend;
My Daphne hence departing bade me so;
She bade me stay, till she for me did send.

Yet, whilst I in this wretched vale do stay
My weary feet shall ever wandering be,
That still I may be ready on my way
When as her messenger doth come for me;
Ne will I rest my feet for feebleness,
Ne will I rest my limbs for frailty,
Ne will I rest mine eyes for heaviness.

SONNETS. VI

MORE than most fair, full of the living fire,

Kindled above unto the Maker near;

No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire,
That to the world naught else be counted dear;
Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest
Shoot out his darts to base affections wound;
But Angels come to lead frail minds to rest
In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;
You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak;
You calm the storm that passion did begin,
Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak.

Dark is the world, where your light shined never;
Well is he born that may behold you ever.

LIKE as a ship, that through the Ocean wide,
By conduct of some star doth make her way;
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide,
Out of her course doth wander far astray!

So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,

Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me plast;
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helicë, the lodestar of my life,
Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief:

Till then I wander careful1, comfortless,
In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

LXVIII. MOST glorious Lord of life! that, on this day,
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin;

And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And

grant that we, for whom thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clear washed from sin, May live for ever in felicity!

And that thy love we weighing worthily,

May likewise love thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain!

So let us love, dear love, like as we ought:
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught

LXX. FRESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,

In whose coat-armour richly are displayed

All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring

In goodly colours gloriously arrayed;

Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed,

1 full of care.

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