That even the angels, which continually Forget their service and about her fly, Oft peeping on her face, that seems more fair, But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, That suffers not a look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush you, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Kilcolman Castle is now a ruin, but the spot must ever remain dear to every lover of genius. It was there that Spenser wrote the Faery Queen, and there also he received the visit of Sir Walter Raleigh, in 1589, when, in the figurative language of the poet himself, the two illustrious friends, while reading the manuscript of that poem, sat Amongst the coolly shade, Of the green alders, by the Mulla's shore. We may easily conceive the transports of delight with which Raleigh listened to those strains of chivalry and gorgeous description, which revealed to him a land still brighter than any that he had seen in his distant wanderings, or could have been present even to his own romantic imagination. When Raleigh left Kilcolman Castle to return to England, he persuaded Spenser to accompany him thither, that the poem might be published without unnecessary delay. The first, the second, and the third books of the 'Faery Queen,' accordingly, appeared in January, 1590, and was dedicated to the Queen in that strain of adulation which was the fashion of the age. Elizabeth was so much pleased with the work, that she settled upon the author an annual pension of fifty pounds, and Spenser returned to Ireland to complete his great design. The original plan of the Faery Queen embraced twelve books, and in 1596, Spenser having completed the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth, again visited London for the purpose of superintending their publication. The remaining six books, it is not probable, were ever written, though the story was long rife that they were committed, by the author, to the care of a servant to convey them to his publishers in London, and were, through carelessness, lost on the way. At the time of the publication of the second part of the 'Faery Queen,' Spenser had resided in Ireland ten years, and during the whole of that period the Irish people had been very restive under English oppression. Rebellion after rebellion succeeding each other, the spirit of revolt finally reached Munster. The insurgents attacked Kilcolman, and having first robbed and plundered the castle, then set fire to it. Spenser and his wife escaped; but either in the confusion incident to such a calamity, or from inability to render assistance, an infant child of the poet was left behind, and perished in the flames. The poet himself, impoverished and brokenhearted, reached London, and died three months after, on the sixteenth of January, 1599, in the forty-seventh year of his age. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, near the tomb of Chaucer, and thirty years after his death, a monument was erected over his remains, by the Countess of Dorset. The genius of Spenser was such as to place him in the very first class of English poets. In his great performance, the Faery Queen,' his creations are infinite, and in free and sonorous versification, he has rarely been surpassed. His lofty rhyme has a swell and cadence, and a continuous sweetness in it, that we in vain look for in any other poet. In luxuriant description also, and in richness of fancy and invention, he has scarcely ever been equalled. With all these great excellencies, however, Spenser is not without his faults, though these may be said to have arisen out of the very fullness of his riches. His inexhaustible power of circumstantial description, betrayed him into a minuteness which sometimes, in the delineation of his personified passions, becomes repulsive, and in the painting of natural objects, led him to group together trees and plants, and assemble sounds and instruments which were never seen or heard in unison out of Faery Land. His command of musical language also induced him to protract his narrative to so great a length, that the attention becomes exhausted even with its very melody. Had he, therefore, lived to finish his great poem it is doubtful whether he would not have diminished the number of his readers. His own fancy had evidently begun to give away; for the last three books have not the same unity of design, or plenitude of imagination, which fills the earlier cantos with so many interesting, lofty, and ethereal conceptions, and steeps them in such a flood of ideal and poetical beauty. But notwithstanding the lengthened allegory may sometimes fatigue us, yet the general impression remains we can never think of the 'Faery Queen' without recalling its wondrous scenes of enchantment and beauty, and feeling ourselves lulled, as it were, by the recollected music of the poet's verse, and the endless flow and profusion of his fancy. It remains only for us to select from this poem a few passages illustrative of these remarks, and with this view we present the following: UNA AND THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. And on his breast a bloody cross he bore, For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore, Upon his shield the like was also scored, For sovereign hope, which in his help he had: Upon a great adventure he was bound, (That greatest glorious queen of fairy lond,) A lovely lady rode him fair beside, Upon a lowly ass more white than snow; So pure and innocent, as that same lamb, And by descent from royal lineage came Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore Their sceptres stretcht from east to western shore, Till that infernal fiend with foul uproar Forewasted all their land, and them expell'd: Whom to avenge, she had this knight from far compell'd. Behind her far away a dwarf did lag, That lazy seem'd in being ever last, Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his back. Thus as they past The day with clouds was sudden overcast, And angry Jove an hideous storm of rain Did pour into his leman's lap so fast, That every wight to shroud it did constrain, And this fair couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. Enforced to seek some covert nigh at hand, A shady grove not far away they spied, Whose lofty trees, yclad with summer's pride, Did spread so broad, that heaven's light did hide, Nor pierceable with power of any star: And all within were paths and alleys wide, With footing worn, and leading inward far: Fair harbour, that them seems; so in they entered are. And forth they pass, with pleasure forward led, Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The vine-prop Elm, the Poplar never dry, The builder Oak, sole king of forests all, The Laurel, meed of mighty conquerors The Birch for shafts, the Sallow for the mill, The fruitful Olive, and the Plantain round, The carver Holme, the Maple seldom inward sound; Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Until the blustering storm is overblown, But wander to and fro in ways unknown, That which of them to take, in divers doubt they been. ADVENTURE OF UNA WITH THE LION. Yet she, most faithful lady, all this while Far from all people's prease, as in exile, Through that late vision which th' enchanter wrought, One day nigh weary of the irksome way, Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thicket wood A ramping lion rushed suddenly, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have at once devour'd her tender corse: But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, And with the sight amazed forgat his furious force. Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet, And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue; As he her wronged innocence did weet. O how can beauty master the most strong, 'The lion, lord of every beast in field,' How does he find in cruel heart to hate Her that him loved, and ever most adored, As the God of my life! why hath he me abhorred?' Redounding fears did choke th' end of her plaint, At last, in close heart shutting up her pain, To seek her strayed champion if she might attain. The lion would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong guard Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still when she slept, he keep both watch and ward; THE BOWER OF BLISS. There the most dainty paradise on ground |