Unto a fairer forme, which now doth dwell
In his high thought, that would itself excel,
Which he beholding still with constant sight,
Admires the mirrour of so heavenly light."

But time flies while we linger in fond recollections and imaginings of Spenser's youth, and he comes forward to act his part in the busy scenes of life. From his boyhood he had been familiar with the Muses, and no sooner had he published his Shepherd's Calendar, with some fugitive pieces, than his fame was spread throughout England. Fortune, too, smiled on him, and from the humble youth of obscure parentage, he became the intimate companion of princes and nobles, and the object of peculiar regard of Queen Elizabeth herself. For a few years he took part in the bustle and turmoil of public life; but its exciting scenes by no means accorded with his quiet disposition, and thus, after honorably discharging the duties of his station. for two or three years, he eagerly embraced the opportunity of returning to those literary pursuits and domestic enjoyments, which were far more congenial with his gentle spirit.

By the munificence of the queen, he was relieved from the necessity of labor for his own support, and enabled to spend all his time in courting the inspiration of the Muse-nor did he woo in vain. In the brave old castle of Kilcolman, situated in the most romantic part of the Emerald Isle, and commanding a view of more than half its extent, he spent many years of quiet happiness, singing of

"Heavenly Una and her milk-white Lamb."

It was, indeed, a meet place for one who had such a heart to feel, and pen to describe the beautiful, as Edmund Spenser. The high mountains of Kerry, melting away into the blue heavens on the north-the far-famed hills of Bally-Howra, on the south, like enchanted castles, hanging midway between heaven and earth, their sides thickly set with sturdy oak, with pleasant cottages interspersed between-before, the devious winding Mulla rolled its quiet waters, like the peaceful current of the poet's own life-while still beyond, embosomed in a lovely valley, were the sleeping waters of Derwent-the most beautiful of all Irish lakes. This delightful place might almost seem the original of that magic bower of bliss, which, with inimitable sweetness, the poet has described in these rich, harmonious numbers:

"The joyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade,
Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;
Th' angelical soft trembling voyces made

To th' instruments divine respondence meet;

The silver-sounding instruments did meet
With the base murmure of the waters fall;
The waters fall with difference discreet,

Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ;

The gentle warbling wind low answered to all."

He that does not feel that there is true poetry in these exquisite lines, need give himself no trouble about the concerns of a hereafter, for he may rest assured he has not the shadow of a soul. Had Orpheus sung in strains half so divine, he would not have simply moved the stones and trees, but would have inspired them with the melody of song, so that to him they should have "made divine respondence meet."

It was in this lovely retreat, that Spenser composed the longest-shall we say the most delightful of all English poems ?the Faerie Queene. Gladly would we linger for a time upon this noblest work of our poet, holding high and sweet communion with the immortal bard, and gathering the bright, fragrant flowers which bloom so thickly on this enchanted ground; but Tempus fugit, and we must dismiss it with a word. We have long wondered that this magic poem, the fruit of such heavenly genius, has not been more extensively read and warmly admired. True, it is allegorical, almost entirely so, yet we cannot agree with Christopher in his ill-natured remark, that "Purgatorial pains, unless, indeed, they should prove eternal, are insufficient punishment for the impious man who invented allegory." Who that has read (and who has not?) the beautiful allegories of the pious Bunyan, could respond amen, to such a wicked wish? As Bunyan excelled in allegorical prose, so was Spenser prince of allegorical verse; and it is not merely that he clothed his beautiful thoughts in the language of allegory, that he has been less admired than the former. We should rather say the cause has been, that from the nature of the subjects upon which he wrote, his allegories must necessarily have been less interesting to the common mind, than those of Bunyan, but especially being more perfect and labored, and clothed in the figurative language of poetry, they have required more study and mental effort fully to understand them. But even if his allegories are not all clearly understood, the Faerie Queene is delightful reading to all who love beautiful and pure thoughts, expressed in the rich harmony of smoothly flowing numbers, and the full strength of the Anglo Saxon tongue. True, the spirit of chivalry and romance breathes through almost every stanza, which renders it far less acceptable to the plain, common sense of this practical age. It is also true, that he has justly incurred the charge of pedantry; nor is it wonderful, when we

consider his extensive acquirements and profound learningmore rare accomplishments in the age in which he lived, than at present. He seemed equally familiar with the three worlds, heaven, earth, and hell, and used at pleasure, materials drawn from either, in the construction and embellishments of his poems. There are other faults in Spenser, besides those to which we have alluded, but it is not our purpose here to point them out. Nil de mortuis nisi bonum. Long, too long have the rich treasures of his genius lain in obscurity, and their value and beauty been almost entirely lost to the world. Endowed with a brilliant imagination, a vivid fancy, and boundless command of language, he has given full scope to each, in that poem on which his fame chiefly rests, the Faerie Queene. Nor is he less to be admired for the noble and virtuous sentiments which he everywhere inculcates. Never was there a finer thought more gracefully expressed, than where he speaks of angels as ministering spirits to the good:

"How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pineons cleave
The flitting skeys, like flying pursuivant,
Against fowle feends to ayd us militant!
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,

And their bright squadrons round about us plant."

But we forbear. Where all is so beautiful, it is no easy task. to collect random passages in proof of poetic merit. Let every student who has never tasted the rich feast afforded by Spenser, throw aside for a brief time his musty text books, and revel in the bright Elysium of the poet's imagination. We venture to assert, that he will not find the time unpleasantly or unprofitably spent.

But the gentle current of the poet's life was not permitted to flow on in the quiet happiness of domestic enjoyment, till the last. A "change came o'er the spirit of his dream," and he, too, was taught at length by bitter experience, the sad lesson which all must sooner or later learn, that this is but a selfish, heartless world. Friend after friend forsook him, the rebels burned his defenseless dwelling, and with it an idolized child, and in destitute circumstances he was driven from his adopted land, to seek refuge in England. Here the Maiden Queen did not receive him with that open-hearted welcome which the immortal fame she had acquired from his muse justly deserved, and he was permitted to languish in obscurity, and the disappointment of hope deferred, "which maketh the heart sick." For a little time he bravely battled with the raging storm, but

his noble, sensitive spirit was but little fitted for contending with such adverse elements; and so, in the meridian of life, in an obscure lodging house of the world's metropolis, with scarce a sympathizing friend by his side, we see the gifted poet of the Faerie Queene suffering, dying-and we turn away to weep!

THE ILL-FATED SHIP.

[In the winter of 1841, a large ship, full of passengers, was run down by another, in the English Channel, and every soul on board the former was lost; an occurrence by no means unfrequent.]

VOL. VIII.

'Twas many a weary mile our ride,

Through darkness thick and blinding rain,

And glad were we, when we descried

A Shepherd's cot upon the plain.
Around the blazing hearth, that night,
We halted from our darksome route;
The burning faggots crackled light,

While the storm howled dismally without.
The jest and song passed merrily 'round,
And smoking pipes and foaming bowls,
And that hamlet's roof re-echoed the sound,
Of boisterous mirth from lithesome souls.
In turn, the marvelous tale went the rounds,
Of travelers benighted on darksome nights,

Of will o' the wisp, of haunted grounds,

And cunning wiles of treacherous sprites.

A traveler there was, from the storm who had fled,

Like ourselves, for a refuge to the Shepherd's lone cot;

But for him the howl of the winds had no dread,

For his weather-worn features proved the storm was his lot.
Around his dark brow, hung his snowy white locks,

Like the feathery drifts on the mountain tops hoar ;

Or the billowy spray, as it breaks on the rocks,
Then courses and curls along the sea-shore.

Well knew we all, when he entered the room,

From his dress, and his air, and balancing motion,

His it had been, o'er the great deep to roam,

With his comrades undaunted, the sons of the ocean.

Midnight slowly drawn along,

Gathered in its tedious pace,

Every story, every song,

Jest, or good, or common-place;

10

Eyes that kindled with delight,

Where the cheerful blaze was seen,

Dimly look on slothful night,

Lulled by Morpheus' narcotine.

To the stranger then we turn,
Who in silence listened long,
Hoping he would, in his turn,

Help the tardy hours along.
"Mariner, all our tales are told;

And you've not sung, nor told a tale

Tell us of your wanderings bold,

Seaward, breasting wave and gale."

"Ah! many a weary year has passed,

66

Since I," quoth he, was young and gay; For ocean's surge, and roaring blast,

Have taken all my bloom away.

But well I remember,

As the blasts of December,

So dismally swept o'er the heath;

One night, stormy dark,

A proud, gallant bark,

Sank mountainous surges beneath.

Ah! now, in my ear,

That death-knell I hear,

The perishing mariner's wail;

Which told how the brave,

'Neath the merciless wave,

Were whelmed in the crash of the furious gale.

"From Albion's verdant isle we sailed,

To cross the billowy seas;

And blithe, and light of heart, we gave

Our canvas to the breeze.

And swiftly seaward sped our bark,
With pennons streaming high,
Studding-sails spread on either side,
And royals towards the sky.

"But when the sun went down that night, All shrouded was his course,

Then fitful blasts boomed o'er the sea

Howled through the rigging hoarse.

A lurid mist obscured the sky,

And tinged the waters dark,

And threw a ghastly, pallid light,

O'er mast, and sail, and pennon light,

Of our own gallant bark.