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The Fairy Queen is not, indeed, a perfect poembreathing throughout the solemn sanctity of Milton, and preserving unruffled the serene aspect of a religious fancy. Although the author was above his age, he was of it. Hurd said that he copied the disorder of Ariosto*; and the image of that Glory, who is the emblem of Virtue, is sometimes disturbed and broken up by new currents of thought; but the ripple subsides, and the image re-appears.

The claim of Spenser to the title of a Sacred Poet is, however, to be estimated by the treasures we have lost, as well as by those which we possess. His translation of Ecclesiastes, of the Song of Songs, the Hours of our Lord, the Sacrifice of a Sinner, and the Seven Psalms, are sought for in vain; but the Hymns of Heavenly Love and Heavenly Beauty are happily preserved. They were written to counteract the prejudicial influence of some lighter compositions, produced, as he told the Countess of Warwick, in the "greener times" of his youth. Warton refers to the sixth canto of the third book of the Fairy Queen, for additional evidence of Spenser's attachment to the Platonic School. His friend Sir Philip Sidney, had already, in the Apology for Poetry, recommended the devotion of the lyre to the "praises of the immortal beauty;" and a similar train of thought had been diffused by Boethius, the most popular author of the time. The poet might, also, have caught a few notes of the same. philosophy from his master Chaucer t. They are written in his plainest manner, and breathe a glowing spirit of devotion. The following stanzas are taken from the Hymn of Heavenly Love.

Then let thy flinty heart, that feels no pain
Empierced be with pitiful remorse,

And let thy bowels bleed in every vein
At sight of his most sacred heavenly corse,
*Discourse on Poetical Imitation.

+ See Todd's Works of Spenser, vol. 8, p. 242.

So torn and mangled with malicious force;
And let thy soul, whose sins his sorrows wrought,
Melt into tears, and groan in grieved thought.
With sense whereof, whilst so thy softened spirit
Is inly toucht, and humbled with meek zeal,
Through meditation of his endless merit,
Lift up thy mind to the Author of thy weal,
And to his soverain 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;
All other loves, with which the world doth blind
Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base,
Thou must renounce and utterly displace,
And give thyselfe unto him full and free,
That full and freely gave himselfe to thee.
Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest,
And ravisht with devouring great desire
Of his dear self, that shall thy feeble brest
Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire
With burning zeale, through every part entire,
That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight,
But in his sweet and amiable sight.

Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee die,
And all Earthe's glorie on which men do gaze,
Seeme dust and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye,
Compared to that celestiall beauties blaze,
Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze
With admiration of their passing light,

Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright.

Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee

With heavenly thoughts, farre above human skill, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see The idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweet enragement of celestial love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above. From the Hymn of Heavenly Beauty :— But whoso may, thrise happie man him hold, Of all on earth whom God so much doth grace, And lets his owne beloved to behold; For in the view of her celestiall face

All joy, all blisse, all happinesse, have place;
Ne ought on earth can want unto the wight
Who of herselfe can win the wishfull sight.
For she, out of her secret treasury,
Plenty of riches forth on him will pour,
Even heavenly riches, which there hidden lie
Within the closet of her chastest bowre,
The eternal portion of her precious dowre,
Which mighty God hath given to her free,
And to all those which thereof worthy bee.
None thereof worthy bee but those whom she
Vouchsafeth to her presence to receive,
And letteth them her lovely face to see,
Whereof such wondrous pleasures they conceive,
And sweet contentment, that it doth bereave
Their soul of sense through infinite delight,
And them transport from flesh into the spright.
In which they see such admirable things,
As carries them into an extasy,

And hear such heavenly notes and carolings
Of God's high praise, that fills the brazen sky,
And feel such joy and pleasure inwardly,
That maketh them all worldly cares forget,
And only think on that before them set.

Ne from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense
Or idle thought of earthly things remain,

But all that earst seemed sweet seems now offence,
And all that pleased earst now seems to pain;
Their joy, their comfort, their desire, their gain,
Is fixed all on that which now they see,
All other sights but fained shadowes bee.

And that fair lampe which useth to inflame
The hearts of men with self-consuming fire,
Thenceforth seems foul, and full of sinful blame;
And all that pomp to which proud minds aspire,
By name of honour, and so much desire,
Seems to them baseness, and all riches dross,
And all mirth sadness, and all lucre loss.

So full their eyes are of that glorious sight,
And senses fraught with such satietie,
That in nought else on earth they can delight
But in the respect of that felicitie,

Which they have written in their inward eye;

On which they feed, and in their fast'ned mind
All happy joy and full contentment find.

Ah, then, my hungry soul! which long hast fed
On idle fancies of thy foolish thought,

And with false beautie's flattering bait misled,
Hast after vaine deceitful shadows sought,
Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought
But late repentance through thy follies' prief;
Ah! cease to gaze on matter of thy grief:

And look at last up to that Soveraine Light,
From whose pure beams all perfect beauty springs,
That kindleth love in every godly spright,
Even the love of God; which loathing brings
Of this vile world and these gay-seeming things;
With whose sweet pleasures being so possest,
Thy straying thoughts henceforth for ever rest.

Upon the general beauties of Spenser's poetry, it will be unnecessary to linger. The most romantic of our poets, he is also the most melodious; and is at the same time the moralist and the enchanter. Pope, in calling him a master of manners, and the "first tale-teller in the true enlivened natural way," might have been suspected of insensibility to the peculiar excellence of his genius, if he had not subsequently added a more comprehensive eulogy. "After reading," he then remarked, "a canto of Spenser's, two or three days ago, to an old lady between seventy and eighty years of age, she said that I had been showing her a gallery of pictures. She said very right; there is something in Spenser that pleases one as strongly in one's old age, as it did in one's youth. I read the Fairy Queen when I was about twelve, with infinite delight; and I think it gave me as much when I read it over about a year or two ago.". The observation is preserved by Spence, and presents a clear and accurate estimate of the poet's character. Chaucer, in whose works Spenser found "the wellhead of poesy," might justly contest with him the prize for lively and picturesque narration, but the rivalry could

never be carried into the colours of fancy, or the graces of expression.

One of the least known, though certainly not the least deserving, writers of the age of Elizabeth, was Robert Southwell. His poetical compositions do not entitle him to an elevated rank either by their fancy or their power, yet they contain many thoughts that often "lie too deep for tears," and as "a warbler of poetic prose," he will be found to have few rivals.

Southwell was born about the year 1560, at St. Faith's in Norfolk, and having been partially educated at the English College in Douay, he was received into the Society of the Jesuits*. In 1584 he returned to England; but his own country had few charms for the enthusiastic missionary. His father appears to have inclined to the reformed religion, for Southwell upbraids him with dwelling too long in the "tabernacles of sinners," and with having "strayed too far from the fold of God's church." The Epistle he addressed to him soon after his return, is warmed by a strain of energetic eloquence. "With young Tobias," he says, "I have travelled far, and brought home some freight of spiritual good to enrich you, and medicinal receipts against your ghostly maladies. I have, with Esau, after a long toil in pursuing a painful chase, returned with the full prey you were wont to love, desiring thereby to ensure your blessing. I have, in this general famine of all true and Christian food, prepared abundance of the bread of angels for the repast of your soul. And now my desire is, that my drugs may cure you, my prey delight you, and my provision feed you, by whom I have been delighted and fed myself."

Life prefixed to St. Peter's Complaint, by J. Walter, 1817; Wood Athen. Oxon.; and Dod's Church History, b. 2, p. 48. Fuller (Worthies of Suffolk, p. 71) says that Southwell was born in Suffolk, upon the authority of Pitts, who professed to have been intimately acquainted with the poet at Rome.

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