Goe, tell the court it glowes Tell potentates they live Give potentates the lye. Tell men of high condition, Tell them that brave it most, Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; Tell love, it is but lust; Tell age, it daily wasteth; Tell wit, how much it wrangles Tell wisedome, she entangles Straight give them both the lye. Tell physicke of her boldnesse; Tell fortune of her blindnesse; Tell friendship of unkindnesse; Tell justice of delay; And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye. Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming ; Tell schooles they want profoundnesse; And stand too much on seeming; If arts and schooles reply, Give arts and schooles the lye. Tell faith, it's fled the citie; So, when thou hast, as I EDMUND SPENSER, descended from the ancient family of the Spensers in Northamptonshire, was born in London, probably about the year 1553. He was sent, as a sizar, to Pembroke-hall, Cambridge, and matriculated in 1569. Here he wrote poetry, and won the friendship of the celebrated Gabriel Harvey, but was disappointed, perhaps fortunately, in his desire of university distinction. He retired into the north of England, and, falling in love, became the "baby of a girl" who rejected his addresses and his pastorals. From this life of indolence, of poverty, and hopelessness, his friend Harvey recalled him to London, and procured him the patronage of Sir Philip Sidney. The Laureatship followed, bestowed by Sir Philip's admiring queen. This however was a barren gift, made more barren by the disfavour of Burleigh. Spenser was seldom allowed to enjoy even his good fortune. But not the less was the fortune his, who could interdict the great but ungracious earl from the Muses for ever! "O let not those of whom the muse is scorn'd Alive or dead, be by the Muse adorn'd" The exertions of Spenser's noble and gentle patron, however, were unceasing, and shortly after this a life of activity was struck out for him. In 1580 he was sent to Ireland in the office of secretary to the new Lord Deputy, and discharged its duties with able and faithful integrity. Soon after his recall, the queen presented him with a grant of land in Ireland from the forfeited estate of Desmond. Plunged in grief from the death of his beloved Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser gladly took refuge in this new scene. Four years of happy tranquillity here passed away, bearing for the world the glorious fruit of the first three books of the Faery Queen. Spenser carried these to London in the year 1590, in company with Sir Walter Raleigh, who had visited him at Kilcolman. Here he was doomed again to encounter the frowns of Burleigh. On his return to Ireland he abjured his old love by marriage with a new one, a country lass of mean birth, as he tells us, whose name was Elizabeth. In an interval of six years which succeeded he paid several visits to England; wrote many poems, among them the fourth, fifth, and sixth books of the Fairy Queen; and published a very able and statesmanlike view of the condition of Ireland. A dreadful calamity now awaited him-the fatal corroboration of his opinions respecting that unhappy country. The Tyrone rebellion broke out, his estate was plundered, his house and one of his children burnt by the rebels, and he was driven into England with his wife and remaining children, a poor and wretched exile. He never recovered this misery. In 1599 he died at an obscure lodging in London, in extreme indigence and want of bread. The Earl of Essex had made an effort for him which came too late. It was the fate of the Poet, while feeling bitterly the ill intentions of his foes, seldom to realize the good intentions of his friends. But it is easy to repay suffering during life with honours after it, and Spenser had a great funeral in Westminster Abbey. Edmund Spenser possessed the abstract faculty of poetry, in a higher degree than any other poet of England. He occupies in common with three other illustrious men, the first rank of poetical fame in his country; but in the truest sense of the term poetry, he stands before all, unapproachably alone. When we wish to be removed altogether from the actual world, to take up our residence in the exclusive poetical region, to be laid in the bosom of a more quiet and more lovely nature than that of earth, we must resort to the works of Spenser. Himself a man of action, his poetry is the expression of perfect luxuriousness and relaxation; of a fairy land of volup tuous sentiment and fancy, where the pathos, that is there, does not act with tears, and the passion and strength, that are there also, influence us through a medium of visionary sublimity, and by associations of preternatural power. The controlling presence of the poetry of Spenser is a love of beauty and a sense of pleasure. We have them equally in his description of a lonely solitude, or of a scene of more than Eastern magnificence; in his picture of a withered old man in his cave, or of the wanton beauties of an enchanted lake. Spenser's imagination is inexhaustible, and his command of language the most copious and various. And though his genius is, as we have said, steeped in pleasure, all it sends forth may rank in the very first order of refinement, and moral truth. If a fault could be urged, indeed, against his great poem, it would be perhaps that its moral design is even obtrusive. IN which amazement when the miscreaunt Hee shewd him painted in a table plaine The damned ghosts, that doe in torments waile, The sight whereof so throughly him dismaid, And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fire, And bad him choose, what death he would desire: But, whenas none of them he saw him take, And troubled blood through his pale face was seene At last, resolv'd to work his finall smart, He lifted up his hand, that backe againe did start. Which whenas Una saw, through every vaine "Come; come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight, Thence passing forth, they shortly doe arryve |