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That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,

Forget their service and about her fly,

Oft peeping on her face, that seems more fair,
The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,

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.
A gentle knight was pricking on the plain,
Y-clad in mighty arms and silver shield,
Wherein old dints of deep wounds did remain,
The cruel marks of many a bloody field;
Yet arms till that time did he never wield:
His angry steed did chide his foaming bit,
As much disdaining to the curb to yield:
Full jolly knight he seem'd, and fair did sit,
As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters fit.

And on his breast a bloody cross he bore,
The dear remembrance of his dying Lord.

For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead (as living) ever him adored:

Upon his shield the like was also scored,

For sovereign hope, which in his help he had:
Right faithful true he was in deed and word;
But of his cheer did seem too solemn sad:
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

Upon a great adventure he was bound,
That greatest Gloriana to him gave,

(That greatest glorious queen of fairy lond,)
To win him worship, and her grace to have,
Which of all earthly things he most did crave;
And ever as he rode his heart did yearn
To prove his puissance in battle brave
Upon his foe, and his new force to learn;
Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and stern.

A lovely lady rode him fair beside,

Upon a lowly ass more white than snow;
Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide
Under a veil that wimpled was full low,
And over all a black stole she did throw,
As one that inly mourn'd: so was she sad,
And heavy sat upon her palfrey slow;
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had,
And by her in a line a milk-white lamb she led.

So pure and innocent, as that same lamb,
She was in life and every virtuous lore,

And by descent from royal lineage came

Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore

Their sceptres stretcht from east to western shore,
And all the world in their subjection held;

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,
That promised aid the tempest to withstand;

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,
Joying to hear the bird's sweet harmony,
Which therein shrouded from the tempest dread,
Seem'd in their song to scorn the cruel sky.

Much can they praise the trees so straight and high,
The sailing Pine, the Cedar proud and tall,

The vine-prop Elm, the Poplar never dry,

The builder Oak, sole king of forests all,
The Aspen good for staves, the Cypress funeral.

The Laurel, meed of mighty conquerors
And poets sage, the Fir that weepeth still,
The Willow, worn of forlorn paramours,
The Yew obedient to the bender's will,

The Birch for shafts, the Sallow for the mill,
The Myrrh sweet bleeding in the bitter wound,
The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill,

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,
When, weening to return, whence they did stray,
They can not find that path which first was shown,

But wander to and fro in ways unknown,
Furthest from end then, when they nearest ween,
That makes them doubt their wits be not their own:
So many paths, so many turnings seem,

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
Forsaken, woful, solitary maid,

Far from all people's prease, as in exile,
In wilderness and wasteful deserts strayed,
To seek her knight; who subtilly betrayed

Through that late vision which th' enchanter wrought,
Had her abandoned; she of naught afraid
Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought;
Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought.

One day nigh weary of the irksome way,
From her unhasty beast she did alight;
And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay,
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight;
From her fair head her fillet she undight,
And laid her stole aside; her angel's face
As the great eye of Heaven, shined bright
And made a sunshine in the shady place;

Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace.

It fortuned, out of the thicket wood

A ramping lion rushed suddenly,
Hunting full greedy after savage blood:
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy,

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,
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse,

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,
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong!
Whose yielded pride and proud submission,
Still dreading death, when she had mark'd long,
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion,
And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection.

'The lion, lord of every beast in field,'
Quoth she, 'his princely puissance doth abate,
And mighty proud to humble weak does yield,
Forgetful of the hungry rage, which late
Him prick'd, in pity of my sad estate:
But he, my lion, and my noble lord

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,
Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood;
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint,
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:
With pity calm'd down fell his angry mood.

At last, in close heart shutting up her pain,
Arose the virgin born of heav'nly brood,
And to her snowy palfry got again,

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;
And when she waked, he waited diligent,
With humble service to her will prepared;
From her fair eyes he took commandèment,
And ever by her looks conceived her intent.

THE BOWER OF BLISS.

There the most dainty paradise on ground
Itself doth offer to his sober eye,
In which all pleasures plenteously abound.
And none does other's happiness envy;
The painted flowers, the trees upshooting high,
The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space,
The trembling groves, the crystal running by ;
And that which all fair works doth most aggrace
The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.

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