The special development of the national mind with which we are now concerned, however, did not by any means arrive at its largest and clearest result until the following century. Still its progress is sufficiently remarkable. For, while everything that bore upon the mental development of the nation must bear upon its poetry, the fresh vigour given by the doctrines of the Reformation to the sense of personal responsibility, and of immediate relation to G.o.d, with the grand influences, both literary and spiritual, of the translated, printed, and studied Bible, operated more immediately upon its devotional utterance.

Towards the close of the sixteenth century, we begin to find such verse as I shall now present to my readers. Only I must first make a few remarks upon the great poem of the period: I mean, of course, _The Faerie Queen_.

I dare not begin to set forth after any fashion the profound religious truth contained in this poem; for it would require a volume larger than this to set forth even that of the first book adequately. In this case it is well to remember that the beginning of comment, as well as of strife, is like the letting out of water.

The direction in which the wonderful allegory of the latter moves may be gathered from the following stanza, the first of the eighth canto:

Ay me! how many perils do enfold The righteous man to make him daily fail; Were not that heavenly grace doth him uphold, _it_ understood.

And steadfast Truth acquit him out of all!

Her love is firm, her care continual, So oft as he, through his own foolish pride Or weakness, is to sinful bands made thrall: Else should this Redcross Knight in bands have died, For whose deliverance she this Prince doth thither guide.

Nor do I judge it good to spend much of my s.p.a.ce upon remarks personal to those who have not been especially writers of sacred verse. When we come to the masters of such song, we cannot speak of their words without speaking of themselves; but when in the midst of many words those of the kind we seek are few, the life of the writer does not justify more than a pa.s.sing notice here.

We know but little of Spenser's history: if we might know all, I do not fear that we should find anything to destroy the impression made by his verse--that he was a Christian gentleman, a n.o.ble and pure-minded man, of highest purposes and aims.

His style is injured by the artistic falsehood of producing antique effects in the midst of modern feeling.[54] It was scarcely more justifiable, for instance, in Spenser's time than it would be in ours to use _glitterand_ for _glittering_; or to return to a large use of alliteration, three, four, sometimes even five words in the same line beginning with the same consonant sound. Everything should look like what it is: prose or verse should be written in the language of its own era.

No doubt the wide-spreading roots of poetry gather to it more variety of expression than prose can employ; and the very nature of verse will make it free of times and seasons, harmonizing many opposites. Hence, through its mediation, without discord, many fine old words, by the loss of which the language has grown poorer and feebler, might be honourably enticed to return even into our prose. But nothing ought to be brought back _because_ it is old. That it is out of use is a presumptive argument that it ought to remain out of use: good reasons must be at hand to support its reappearance. I must not, however, enlarge upon this wide-reaching question; for of the two portions of Spenser's verse which I shall quote, one of them is not at all, the other not so much as his great poem, affected with this whim.

The first I give is a sonnet, one of eighty-eight which he wrote to his wife before their marriage. Apparently disappointed in early youth, he did not fall in love again,--at least there is no sign of it that I know,--till he was middle-aged. But then--woman was never more grandly wooed than was his Elizabeth. I know of no marriage-present worthy to be compared with the Epithalamion which he gave her "in lieu of many ornaments,"--one of the most stately, melodious, and tender poems in the world, I fully believe.

But now for the sonnet--the sixty-eighth of the _Amoretti_:

Most glorious Lord of Life! that, on this day, Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And having harrowed h.e.l.l, 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 clean 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.

Those who have never felt the need of the divine, entering by the channel of will and choice and prayer, for the upholding, purifying, and glorifying of that which itself first created human, will consider this poem untrue, having its origin in religious affectation. Others will think otherwise.

The greater part of what I shall next quote is tolerably known even to those who have made little study of our earlier literature, yet it may not be omitted here. It is from _An Hymne of Heavenly Love_, consisting of forty-one stanzas, written in what was called _Rime Royal_--a favourite with Milton, and, next to the Spenserian, in my opinion the finest of stanzas. Its construction will reveal itself. I take two stanzas from the beginning of the hymn, then one from the heart of it, and the rest from the close. It gives no feeling of an outburst of song, but rather of a brooding chant, most quiet in virtue of the depth of its thoughtfulness. Indeed, all his rhythm is like the melodies of water, and I could quote at least three pa.s.sages in which he speaks of rhythmic movements and watery progressions together. His thoughts, and hence his words, flow like a full, peaceful stream, diffuse, with plenteousness unrestrained.

AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY LOVE.

Before this world's great frame, in which all things Are now contained, found any being place, Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas[55] wings About that mighty bound which doth embrace The rolling spheres, and parts their hours by s.p.a.ce, That high eternal power, which now doth move In all these things, moved in itself by love.

It loved itself, because itself was fair, For fair is loved; and of itself begot Like to itself his eldest son and heir, Eternal, pure, and void of sinful blot,

The firstling of his joy, in whom no jot Of love's dislike or pride was to be found, Whom he therefore with equal honour crowned.

Out of the bosom of eternal bliss, In which he reigned with his glorious Sire, He down descended, like a most demisse _humble._ And abject thrall, in flesh's frail attire, That he for him might pay sin's deadly hire, And him restore unto that happy state In which he stood before his hapless fate.

O blessed well of love! O flower of grace!

O glorious Morning-Star! O Lamp of Light!

Most lively image of thy Father's face!

Eternal King of Glory, Lord of might!

Meek Lamb of G.o.d, before all worlds behight! _promised._ How can we thee requite for all this good?

Or what can prize that thy most precious blood? _equal in value._

Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love But love of us for guerdon of thy pain: Ay me! what can us less than that behove?[56]

Had he required life of[57] us again, Had it been wrong to ask his own with gain?

He gave us life, he it restored lost; Then life were least, that us so little cost.

But he our life hath left unto us free-- Free that was thrall, and blessed that was banned; _enslaved; cursed._ Nor aught demands but that we loving be, As he himself hath loved us aforehand, And bound thereto with an eternal band-- Him first to love that us[58] so dearly bought, And next our brethren, to his image wrought.

Him first to love great right and reason is, Who first to us our life and being gave, And after, when we fared had amiss, Us wretches from the second death did save; And last, the food of life, which now we have, Even he himself, in his dear sacrament, To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent.

Then next, to love our brethren that were made Of that self mould, and that self Maker's hand, That[59] we, and to the same again shall fade, Where they shall have like heritage of land, _the same grave-room._ However here on higher steps we stand; Which also were with selfsame price redeemed, That we, however, of us light esteemed. _as._

And were they not, yet since that loving Lord Commanded us to love them for his sake, Even for his sake, and for his sacred word, Which in his last bequest he to us spake, We should them love, and with their needs partake; _share their Knowing that, whatsoe'er to them we give, [needs._ We give to him by whom we all do live.

Such mercy he by his most holy rede _instruction._ Unto us taught, and to approve it true, Ensampled it by his most righteous deed, Shewing us mercy, miserable crew!

That we the like should to the wretches[60] shew, And love our brethren; thereby to approve How much himself that loved us we love.

Then rouse thyself, O earth! out of thy soil, In which thou wallowest like to filthy swine, And dost thy mind in dirty pleasures moyle, _defile._ Unmindful of that dearest Lord of thine; Lift up to him thy heavy clouded eyne, That thou this sovereign bounty mayst behold, And read through love his mercies manifold.

Begin from first, where he encradled was In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay, _a rack or crib._ Between the toilful ox and humble a.s.s; And in what rags, and in what base array The glory of our heavenly riches lay, When him the silly[61] shepherds came to see, Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee.

From thence read on the story of his life, His humble carriage, his unfaulty ways, His cankered foes, his fights, his toil, his strife, His pains, his poverty, his sharp a.s.says, _temptations_ or _trials._ Through which he pa.s.sed his miserable days, Offending none, and doing good to all, Yet being maliced both by great and small.

And look at last, how of most wretched wights He taken was, betrayed, and false accused; How with most scornful taunts and fell despites He was reviled, disgraced, and foul abused; How scourged, how crowned, how buffeted, how bruised; And, lastly, how 'twixt robbers crucified, With bitter wounds through hands, through feet, and side!

With sense whereof whilst so thy softened spirit Is inly touched, and humbled with meek zeal Through meditation of his endless merit, Lift up thy mind to th' author of thy weal, And to his sovereign mercy do appeal; Learn him to love that loved thee so dear, And in thy breast his blessed image bear.

With all thy heart, with all thy soul and mind, Thou must him love, and his behests embrace; _commands._ All other loves with which the world doth blind Weak fancies, and stir up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thyself unto him full and free, That full and freely gave himself to thee.

Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee die, And all earth's glory, on which men do gaze, Seem dust and dross in thy pure-sighted eye, Compared to that celestial beauty's blaze, Whose glorious beams all fleshly sense do daze With admiration of their pa.s.sing light, Blinding the eyes and lumining the sprite.

Then shalt thy ravished soul inspired be With heavenly thoughts far above human skill, _reason._ And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see The Idea of his pure glory present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweet enragement of celestial love, Kindled through sight of those fair things above.

There is a companion to the poem of which these verses are a portion, called _An Hymne of Heavenly Beautie_, filled like this, and like two others on Beauty and Love, with Platonic forms both of thought and expression; but I have preferred quoting a longer part of the former to giving portions of both. My reader will recognize in the extract a fuller force of intellect brought to bear on duty; although it would be unwise to take a mind like Spenser's for a type of more than the highest cla.s.s of the age. Doubtless the division in the country with regard to many of the Church's doctrines had its part in bringing out and strengthening this tendency to reasoning which is so essential to progress. Where religion itself is not the most important thing with the individual, all reasoning upon it must indeed degenerate into strifes of words, _vermiculate_ questions, as Lord Bacon calls them--such, namely, as like the h.o.a.rded manna reveal the character of the owner by breeding of worms--yet on no questions may the light of the candle of the Lord, that is, the human understanding, be cast with greater hope of discovery than on those of religion, those, namely, that bear upon man's relation to G.o.d and to his fellow. The most partial illumination of this region, the very cause of whose mystery is the height and depth of its _truth_, is of more awful value to the human being than perfect knowledge, if such were possible, concerning everything else in the universe; while, in fact, in this very region, discovery may bring with it a higher kind of conviction than can accompany the results of investigation in any other direction.

In these grandest of all thinkings, the great men of this time showed a grandeur of thought worthy of their surpa.s.sing excellence in other n.o.blest fields of human labour. They thought greatly because they aspired greatly.

Sir Walter Raleigh was a personal friend of Edmund Spenser. They were almost of the same age, the former born in 1552, the latter in the following year. A writer of magnificent prose, itself full of religion and poetry both in thought and expression, he has not distinguished himself greatly in verse. There is, however, one remarkable poem fit for my purpose, which I can hardly doubt to be his. It is called _Sir Walter Raleigh's Pilgrimage_. The probability is that it was written just after his condemnation in 1603--although many years pa.s.sed before his sentence was carried into execution.

Give me my scallop-sh.e.l.l[62] of Quiet; My staff of Faith to walk upon; My scrip of Joy, immortal diet; My bottle of Salvation; My gown of Glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,-- No other balm will there be given-- Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of Heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains-- There will I kiss The bowl of Bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill: My soul will be a-dry before, But after, it will thirst no more.

Then by that happy blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me: I'll take them first, To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets, _sweet things--things to suck._ At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the blessed paths we'll travel, Strowed with rubies thick as gravel.

Ceilings of diamonds! sapphire floors!

High walls of coral, and pearly bowers!-- From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold; No forged accuser bought or sold; No cause deferred; no vain-spent journey; For there Christ is the King's Attorney, Who pleads for all without degrees, _irrespective of rank._ And he hath angels, but no fees.

And when the grand twelve million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live.