Or can proportion of the outward part Move such affection in the inward mind, That it can rob both sense, and reason blind?

Why do not then the blossoms of the field, Which are array'd with much more orient hue, And to the sense most dainty odours yield, Work like impression in the looker's view?

Or why do not fair pictures like power show, In which oft-times we Nature see of Art Excell'd, in perfect limming every part?

But ah! believe me, there is more than so, That works such wonders in the minds of men, I, that have often prov'd, too well it know.

And who so list the like essaies to ken, Shall find by trial, and confess it then, That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, An outward show of things that only seem.

For that same goodly hue of white and red, With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay, And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away, To that they were, even to corrupted clay:-- That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright Shall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light.

But that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray That light proceeds, which kindleth lovers' fire, Shall never be extinguished nor decay; But, when the vital spirits do expire, Unto her native planet shall retire; For it is heavenly born and cannot die, Being a parcel of the purest sky!

At a late period of Spenser's life, the remembrance of this cruel piece of excellence,--his Rosalind, was effaced by a second and a happier love. His sonnets are addressed to a beautiful Irish girl, the daughter of a rich merchant of Cork. She it was who healed the wound inflicted by disdain and levity, and taught him the truth he has expressed in one charming line--

Sweet is that love alone, that comes with willingnesse!

Her name was Elizabeth, and her family (as Spenser tells us himself,) obscure; but, in spite of her plebeian origin, the lady seems to have been a very peremptory and Juno-like beauty. Spenser continually dwells upon her pride of s.e.x, and has placed it before us in many charming turns of thought, now deprecating it as a fault, but oftener celebrating it as a virtue. For instance,--

Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire, In finding fault with her too portly pride: The thing which I do most in her admire, Is of the world unworthy most envied; For in those lofty looks is close implied, Scorn of base things, disdain of foul dishonour; Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide, That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.

Such pride is praise; such portliness is honour.[89]

And again, in the thirteenth sonnet,--

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth, Whiles her fair face she rears up to the sky, And to the ground, her eyelids low embaseth, Most goodly temperature ye may descry; Mild humblesse, mixt with awful majesty!

This picture of the deportment erect with conscious dignity, and the eyelids veiled with feminine modesty, is very beautiful. We have the figure of his Elizabeth before us in all her maidenly dignity and proud humility. The next is a softened repet.i.tion of the same characteristic portrait:

Was it the work of Nature or of Art, Which temper'd so the features of her face, That pride and meekness, mixt by equal part, Do both appear to adorn her beauty's grace![90]

He rebukes her with a charming mixture of reproof and flattery, in the lines--

Fair Proud! now tell me, why should fair be proud? &c.

This imperious and high-souled beauty at length gives some sign of relenting; and pursuing the train of thought and feeling through the latter part of the collection, we can trace the vicissitudes of the lady's temper, and how the lover sped in his wooing. First, she grants a smile, and it is hailed with rapture--

Sweet smile! the daughter of the Queen of Love, Expressing all thy mother's powerful art, With which she wont to temper angry Jove, When all the G.o.ds he threats with thundering dart: Sweet is thy virtue, as thyself sweet art!

For, when on me thou shinedst late in sadness, A melting pleasance ran through every part, And me revived with heart-robbing gladness![91]

The effect of a first relenting and affectionate smile, from a being of this character, must, in truth, have been irresistible. He tells us how lovely she appeared in his eyes,--how surpa.s.sing fair:

When that the cloud of pride which oft doth dark Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away!

He finds her one day embroidering in silk a bee and a spider,

Woven all about, With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine,

and he playfully compares himself to a spider, and her to the bee, whom, after long and weary watching, he has at length caught in his snare.

This pretty incident is the subject of the 71st Sonnet. The rapture of grateful affection is more eloquent in the Sonnet beginning

Joy of my life! full oft for loving you I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed, &c.

When he is allowed to hope, the pride which had before checked and chilled him, seems to change its character. He feels all the exultation of being beloved of one, not easily gained, and "a.s.sured unto herself."

Thrice happy she that is so well a.s.sured Unto herself, and settled so in heart, &c.[92]

After a courtship of about three years, he sues for the possession of the fair hand to which he had so long aspired; promising her (and not vainly,) all the immortality his verse could bestow,--

Even this verse, vowed to eternity, Shall be of her immortal monument, And tell her praise to all posterity!

The fair Elizabeth at length confesses herself won; but expresses some fears at the idea of relinquishing her maiden freedom. His reply is, perhaps, the most beautiful of all the Sonnets. It has all the tenderness, elegance, and fancy, which distinguish Spenser in his happiest moments of inspiration.

The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain, That fondly fear to lose your liberty; When, losing one, two liberties ye gain, And make him bound that bondage erst did fly.

Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tye Without constraint, or dread of any ill: The gentle bird feels no captivity Within her cage; but sings, and feeds her fill: There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill The league 'twixt them, that loyal love hath bound: But simple Truth, and mutual Good-will, Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each other's wound: There Faith doth fearless dwell is brazen tower, And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bower.[93]

The _Amoretti_, as Spenser has fancifully ent.i.tled his Sonnets, are certainly tinctured with a good deal of the verbiage and pedantry of the times; but I think I have shown that they contain pa.s.sages of earnest feeling, as well as high poetic beauty. Spenser married his Elizabeth, about the year 1593, and he has crowned his amatory effusions with a most impa.s.sioned and triumphant epithalamion on his own nuptials, which he concludes with a prophecy, that it shall stand a perpetual monument of his happiness, and thus it has been. The pa.s.sage in which he describes his youthful bride, is perhaps one of the most beautiful and vivid _pictures_ in the whole compa.s.s of English poetry.

Behold, while she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, And blesses her with his two happy hands.

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks.

And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain, Like crimson died in grain!

That even the angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, Forget their service, and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, which seems more fair, The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with a goodly modesty That suffers not a look to glance away, Which may let in a little thought unsound.

Why blush ye, love! to give to me your hand The pledge of all our band!

Sing! ye sweet angels! Hallelujah sing!

That all the woods may answer, and their echoes ring!

And the rapturous apostrophe to the evening star is in a fine strain of poetry.

Late, though it be, at last I see it gloom, And the bright evening star, with golden crest, Appear out of the west!

Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love!

That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead, And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread, How cheerfully thou lookest from above, And seem'st lo laugh atween thy twinkling light!

As Ariosto has contrived to introduce his personal feelings, and the memory of his love, into the Orlando Furioso, so Spenser has enshrined _his_ in the Fairy Queen; but he has not, I think, succeeded so well in the _manner_ of celebrating the woman he delighted to honour. Ariosto has the advantage over the English poet, in delicacy and propriety of feeling as well as power. Spenser's picture of the swelling eminence, the lawn, the cl.u.s.tering trees, the cascade--

Whose silver waves did softly tumble down,

haunted by nymphs and fairies; the bevy of beauties who dance in a circle round the lady of his love, while he himself, in his character of Colin Clout, sits aloof piping on his oaten reed, remind us of one of Claude's landscapes: and the difference between the pastoral luxuriance of this diffuse description, and the stately magnificence of Ariosto's, is very characteristic of the two poets. Were I to choose, however, I would rather have been the object of Ariosto's compliment than of Spenser's. The pa.s.sage in the Fairy Queen occurs in the 10th canto of the Legend of Sir Calidore; and all his commentators are agreed that the allusion is to his Elizabeth, and not to Rosalind.

Both are mentioned in "Colin Clout's come home again." Rosalind, and her disdainful rejection of the poet's love, are alluded to near the end, in some lines already quoted; but a very beautiful pa.s.sage, near the commencement of the poem, clearly alludes to Elizabeth, under whose thrall he was at the time it was written.

Ah! far be it, (quoth Colin Clout,) fro me, That I, of gentle maids, should ill deserve, For that myself I do profess to be Va.s.sal to one, whom all my days I serve; The beam of Beauty, sparkled from above, The flower of virtue and pure chast.i.tie; The blossom of sweet joy and perfect love; The pearl of peerless grace and modesty!

To her, my thoughts I daily dedicate; To her, my heart I nightly martyrise; To her, my love I lowly do prostrate; To her, my life I wholly sacrifice: My thought, my heart, my life, my love, is she! &c.

Spenser married his Elizabeth about the year 1593. He resided at this time at the Castle of Kilcolman, in the south of Ireland, a portion of the forfeited domains of the Earl of Desmond having been a.s.signed to him: but the adherents of that unhappy chief saw in Spenser only an invader of their rights,--a stranger living on their inheritance, while they were cast out to starvation or banishment. He and his family dwelt in continual fears and disturbance from the distracted state of the country; and at length, about two years after his marriage, he was attacked in his castle by the native Irish. He and his wife escaped with difficulty, and one of their children perished in the flames. After this catastrophe they came to England, and Spenser died in 1598, about five years after his marriage with Elizabeth. The short period of their union, though disturbed by misfortunes, losses, and worldly cares, was never clouded by domestic disquiet. This haughty beauty,

Whose lofty countenance seemed to scorn Base thing, and think how she to heaven might climb,

became the tenderest and most faithful of wives. How long she survived her husband is not known; but though scarce past the bloom of youth at the period of her loss, we have no account of her marrying again.

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