As those same plumes so seem’d he vain and light,That by his gait might easily appear;
For still he far’d as dancing in delight.
And in his hand 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,
Yet was that other swain this elder’s sire,
And gave him being, common to them twain:
His garment was disguised very vain,
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
In a discolour’d coat of strange disguise,
That at his back a broad capuccio had,
And sleeves dependant Albanese-wise; He lookt askew with his mistrustful eyes, And nicely trod, as thorns lay in his way, Or that the floor to shrink he did avise; 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, Made of bear’s skin, that him more dreadful made; Yet his own face was dreadfull, ne did need Strange horror to deform his grisly shade; A net in th’ one hand, and a rusty blade In th’ other was; this Mischiefe, that Mishap; With th’ one his foes he threat’ned to invade, 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 himself 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, Of chearfull look and lovely to behold; In silken samite she was light array’d, And her fair locks were woven up in gold; She always smil’d, and in her hand did hold An holy-water sprinkle dipt in dew, With which she sprinkled favours manifold 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 Came riding on a lion ravenous. 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, He looked round about with stern disdain, And did survey his goodly company; And marshalling the evil-ordered train, With that the darts which his right hand did strain, [Pg 30] NotesFull dreadfully he shook, that all did quake, And clapt on high his colour’d winges twain, That all his many it afraid did make: 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[Pg 31] Notes 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,
Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift,
From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung,
Embossed with massy gold of glorious gift,
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.
Both roof and floor, and walls were all of gold,
But overgrown with dust and old decay,[126] And hid in darkness that none could behold The hue thereof: for view of cheerful day Did never in that house itself display, But a faint shadow of uncertain light; Such as a lamp whose light doth fade away; Or as the moon clothed with cloudy night Does shew to him that walks in fear and sad affright. ···· And over all sad Horror with grim hue Did always soar, beating his iron wings; And after him owls and night-ravens flew, The hateful messengers of heavy things. Of death and dolour telling sad tidings; While sad Celleno, sitting on a clift, A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings, That heart of flint asunder could have rift; Which having ended, after him she flieth swift.”
The Cave of Despair is described with equal gloominess and power of fancy; and the fine moral declamation of the [Pg 32] Notesowner of it, on the evils of life, almost makes one in love with death. In the story of Malbecco, who is haunted by jealousy, and in vain strives to run away from his own thoughts—
“High over hill and over dale he flies”—
the truth of human passion and the preternatural ending are equally striking.—It is not fair to compare Spenser with Shakspeare, in point of interest. A fairer comparison would be with Comus; and the result would not be unfavourable to Spenser. There is only one work of the same allegorical kind, which has more interest than Spenser (with scarcely less imagination): and that is the Pilgrim’s Progress. The three first books of the Faery Queen are very superior to the three last. One would think that Pope, who used to ask if any one had ever read the Faery Queen through, had only dipped into these last. The only things in them equal to the former, are the account of Talus, the Iron Man, and the delightful episode of Pastorella.
The language of Spenser is full, and copious, to overflowing: it is less pure and idiomatic than Chaucer’s, and is enriched and adorned with phrases borrowed from the different languages of Europe, both ancient and modern. He was, probably,
