That by his gait might easily appear; For still he far'd as dancing in delight, And in his hands a windy fan did bear That in the idle air he mov'd still here and there. And him beside march'd amorous Desire, Who seem'd of riper years than the other swain, And his embroidered bonnet sat awry; Twixt both his hands few sparks he close did strain, Which still he blew, and kindled busily, That soon they life conceiv'd and forth in flames did fly. Next after him went Doubt, who was yclad And on a broken reed he still did stay His feeble steps, which shrunk when hard thereon he lay. With him went Daunger, cloth'd in ragged weed, In th' other was; this Mischiefe, that Mishap; With th' other he his friends meant to enwrap; For whom he could not kill he practiz'd to entrap. Next him was Fear, all arm'd from top to toe, Yet thought himselfe not safe enough thereby, But fear'd each shadow moving to and fro; And his own arms when glittering he did spy Or clashing heard, he fast away did fly, As ashes pale of hue, and winged-heel'd; And evermore on Daunger fixt his eye, 'Gainst whom he always bent a brazen shield, Which his right hand unarmed fearfully did wield. With him went Hope in rank, a handsome maid, And her fair locks were woven up in gold; On whom she list, and did great liking shew, Great liking unto many, but true love to few. Next after them, the winged God himself Taught to obey the menage of that elfe That man and beast with power imperious Subdueth to his kingdom tyrannous: His blindfold eyes he bade awhile unbind, That his proud spoil of that same dolorous Fair dame he might behold in perfect kind; Which seen, he much rejoiced in his cruel mind. Of which full proud, himself uprearing high, With that the darts which his right hand did strain, Tho, blinding him again, his way he forth did take." The description of Hope, in this series of historical portraits, is one of the most beautiful in Spenser; and the triumph of Cupid at the mischief he has made, is worthy of the malicious urchin deity. In reading these descriptions, one can hardly avoid being reminded of Rubens's allegorical pictures; but the account of Satyrane taming the lion's whelps and lugging the bear's cubs along in his arms while yet an infant, whom his mother so naturally advises to " go seek some other play-fellows," has even more of this high picturesque character. Nobody but Rubens could have painted the fancy of Spenser; and he could not have given the sentiment, the airy dream that hovers over it! With all this, Spenser neither makes us laugh nor weep. The only jest in his poem is an allegorical play upon words, where he describes Malbecco as escaping in the herd of goats, "by the help of his fayre horns on hight." But he has been unjustly charged with a want of passion and of strength. He has both in an immense degree. He has not indeed the pathos of immediate action or suffering, which is more properly the dramatic; but he has all the pathos of sentiment and romance-all that belongs to distant objects of terror, and uncertain, imaginary distress. His strength, in like manner, is not strength of will or action, of bone and muscle, nor is it coarse and palpable-but it assumes a character of vastness and sublimity seen through the same visionary medium, and blended with the appalling associations of preternatural agency. We need only turn, in proof of this, to the Cave of Despair, or the Cave of Mammon, or to the account of the change of Malbecco into Jealousy. The following stanzas, in the description of the Cave of Mammon, the grisly house of Plutus, are unrivalled for the portentous massiness of the forms, the splendid chiaro-scuro, and shadowy horror. "That house's form within was rude and strong, And with rich metal loaded every rift, That heavy ruin they did seem to threat: And over them Arachne high did lift Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, Enwrapped in foul smoke, and clouds more black than jet. M Both roof and floor, and walls were all of gold, But a faint shadow of uncertain light; Or as the moon clothed with cloudy night And over all sad Horror with grim hue That heart of Aint asunder could have rift; The Cave of Despair is described with equal gloominess and power of fancy; and the fine moral declamation of the owner of it, on the evils of life, almost makes one in love with death. In That all with one consent praise new born gauds, More laud than gold o'er-dusted." Troilus and Cressida. |