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centrates the utmost sweetness as well as venom, would be quite northern compared with him. He is more luxurious than Ariosto or Tasso, more haunted with the presence of beauty. His wholesale poetical belief, mixing up all creeds and mythologies, but with less violence, resembles that of Dante and Boccaccio; and it gives the compound the better warrant in the more agreeable impression. Then his versification is almost perpetual


Spenser is the farthest removed from the ordinary cares and haunts of the world of all the poets that ever wrote, except perhaps Ovid; and this, which is the reason why mere men of business and the world do not like him, constitutes his most bewitching charm with the poetical. He is not so great a poet as Shakspeare or Dante; he has less imagination, though more fancy, than Milton. He does not see things so purely in their elements as Dante; neither can he combine their elements like Shakspeare, nor bring such frequent intensities of words, or of wholesale imaginative sympathy, to bear upon his subject as any one of them; though he has given noble diffuser instances of the latter in his Una, and his Mammon, and his accounts of Jealousy and Despair.

But when


66 you are over-informed" with thought and passion in Shakspeare, when Milton's mighty grandeurs oppress you, or are found mixed with painful absurdities, or when the world is vexatious and tiresome, and you have had enough of your own vanities or struggles in it, or when "house and land them. selves are "gone and spent," and your riches must lie in the regions of the "unknown," then Spenser is "most excellent." His remoteness from every-day life is the reason perhaps why Somers and Chatham admired him; and his possession of every kind of imaginary wealth completes his charm with his brother poets. Take him in short for what he is, whether greater or less than his fellows, the poetical faculty is so abundantly and beautifully predominant in him above every other, though he had passion, and thought, and plenty of ethics, and was as learned a man as Ben Jonson, perhaps as Milton himself, that he has always been felt by his countrymen to be what Charles Lamb called him, the "Poet's Poet." He has had more idolatry and

imitation from his brethren than all the rest put together. The old undramatic poets, Drayton, Browne, Drummond, Giles and Phineas Fletcher, were as full of him as the dramatic were of Shakspeare. Milton studied and used him, calling him the sage and serious Spenser;" and adding, that he "dared be known to think him a better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas.” Cowley said that he became a poet by reading him. Dryden claimed him for a master. Pope said he read him with as much pleasure when he was old, as young. Collins and Gray loved him; Thomson, Shenstone, and a host of inferior writers, expressly imitated him; Burns, Byron, Shelley, and Keats made use of his stanza; Coleridge eulogized him; and he is as dear to the best living poets as he was to their predecessors. Spenser has stood all the changes in critical opinion; all the logical and formal conclusions of the understanding, as opposed to imagination and lasting sympathy. Hobbes in vain attempted to depose him in favor of Davenant's Gondibert. Locke and his friend Molyneux to no purpose preferred Blackmore! Hume, acute and encroaching philosopher as he was, but not so universal in his philosophy as great poets, hurt Spenser's reputation with none but the French (who did not know him); and, by way of involuntary amends for the endeavor, he set up for poets such men as Wilkie and Blacklock! In vain, in vain. "In spite of philosophy and fashion," says a better critic of that day (Bishop Hurd), Faerie Spenser' still ranks highest amongst the poets; I mean with all those who are either of that house, or have any kindness for it. Earth-born critics may blaspheme;


But all the gods are ravish'd with delight

Of his celestial song and music's wondrous might." Remarks on the Plan and Conduct of the Faerie Queene (in Todd's edition of Spenser, vol. ii., p. 183).

"In reading Spenser," says Warton, "if the critic is not satisfied, yet the reader is transported." (Id., p. 65.)


"Spenser," observes Coleridge, has the wit of the southern, with the deeper inwardness of the northern genius. Take especial note of the marvellous independence and true imaginative absence of all particular space or time in the Faerie Queene.

It is in the domains neither of history nor geography: it is ignorant of all artificial boundary, all material obstacles; it is truly in land of Faerie, that is, of mental space. The poet has placed you in a dream, a charmed sleep: and you neither wish nor have the power to inquire, where you are, or how you got there." Literary Remains, vol. i., p. 94.

"In reading the Faerie Queene," says Hazlitt, "you see a little withered old man by a wood-side opening a wicket, a giant, and a dwarf lagging far behind, a damsel in a boat upon an enchanted lake, wood-nymphs and satyrs: and all of a sudden you are transported into a lofty palace, with tapers burning, amidst knights and ladies, with dance and revelry, and song,' and mask and antique pageantry.'-But some people will say that all this may be very fine, but they cannot understand it on account of the allegory. They are afraid of the allegory, as if they thought it would bite them; they look at it as a child looks at a painted dragon, and think that it will strangle them in its shining folds. This is very idle. If they do not meddle with the allegory, the allegory will not meddle with them. Without minding it at all the whole is as plain as a pike-staff. It might as well be pretended, that we cannot see Poussin's pictures for the allegory, as that the allegory prevents us from understanding Spenser." Lectures on the English Poets (Templeman's Edi tion, 12mo., p. 67).




Archimago, a hypocritical magician, lures Una and the Red-cross Knight into his abode; and while they are asleep, sends to Morpheus, the god of sleep, for a false dream, to produce discord between them.

A little lowly hermitage it was

Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side,
Far from resort of people, that did pass
In travel to and fro: a little wide

There was a holy chapel edified,
Wherein the hermit duly wont to say

His holy things each morn and eventide;
Thereby a crystal stream did gently play
Which from a sacred fountain welled forth alway.1

Arrived there the little house they fill,2

Nor look for entertainment where none was,8
Rest is their feast, and all things at their will.
The noblest mind the best contentment has.
With fair discourse the evening so they pass,
For that old man of pleasing words had store,
And well could file his tongue as smooth as glass:
He told of saints and popes, and evermore
He strew'd an Ave Mary, after and before.

The drooping night thus creepeth on them fast;
And the sad humor, loading their eye-lids,
As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast

Sweet slumbering dew; the which to sleep them bids
Unto their lodgings then his guests he rids;

Where, when all drown'd in deadly sleep he finds,
He to his study goes, and their amids'

His magic books and arts of sundry kinds,

He seeks out mighty charms to trouble sleepy minds.

Then choosing out few words most horrible

(Let none them read!)5 thereof did verses frame,
With which, and other spells like terrible,
He bad awake black Pluto's grisly dame,

And cursed Heaven; and spake reproachful shame Of highest God, the Lord of life and light:

A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name

Great Gorgon, prince of darkness and dead night; At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight.

And forth he call'd out of deep darkness dread
Legions of sprites, the which, like little flies,"
Fluttering about his ever damnèd head,
Await where to their service he applies,
To aid his friends, or fray his enemies;
Of those he chose out two, the falsest two
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lies;
The one of them he gave a message to,
The other by himself staid other work to do

He maketh speedy way through spersed air,
And through the world of waters wide and deep,8
To Morpheus' house doth hastily repair.-9
Amid the bowels of the earth full steep,
And low, where dawning day doth never peep,
His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed

Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steep
In silver dew his ever-drooping head,

While sad night over him her mantle black doth spread

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast;
The one fair fram'd of burnish'd ivory,
The other all with silver overcast;

And wakeful dogs before them far do lie,
Watching to banish Care their enemy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleep,
By them the sprite doth pass in quietly
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deep

In drowsy fit he finds; of nothing he takes keep.

And more to lull him in his slumber soft,

A trickling stream, from high rock tumbling down, And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,

Mix'd with a murmuring wind, much like the soun Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoun:

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