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upon it an exuberance of fancy, and an endless voluptuousness of sentiment, which are not to be found in the Italian writer. Further, Spenser is even more of an inventor in the subject-matter. There is an originality, richness, and variety in his allegorical personages and fictions, which almost vies with the splendour of the ancient mythology. If Ariosto transports us into the regions of romance, Spenser's poetry is all fairy-land. In Ariosto, we walk upon the ground, in a company, gay, fantastic, and adventurous enough. In Spenser, we wander in another world among ideal beings. The poet takes and lays us in the lap of a lovelier nature, by the sound of softer streams, among greener hills and fairer valleys. He paints nature, not as we find it, but as we expected to find it, and fulfils the delightful promise of our youth. He waves his wand of enchantment, and at once embodies airy beings, and throws a delicious veil over all actual objects. The two worlds of reality and of fiction are poised on the wings of his imagination. His ideas, indeed, seem more distinct than his perceptions. He is the painter of abstractions, and describes them with dazzling minuteness. In the Mask of Cupid he makes the God of Love "clap on high his coloured wings twain :" and it is said of Gluttony, in the Procession of the Passions:

"In green vine leaves he was right fitly clad."

At times he becomes picturesque from his intense love of beauty; as where he compares Prince Arthur's crest to the appearance of the almond tree:

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Upon the top of all his lofty crest,

A bunch of hairs discolour'd diversely

With sprinkled pearl and gold full richly drest
Did shake, and seem'd to daunce for jollity;
Like to an almond tree ymounted high

On top of green Selenis all alone,

With blossoms brave bedecked daintily;
Her tender locks do tremble every one

At every little breath that under heav'n is blown."

The love of beauty, however, and not of truth, is the moving principle of his mind; and he is guided in his fantastic delineations by no rule but the impulse of an inexhaustible imagination. He luxuriates equally in scenes of Eastern magnificence or the still solitude of a hermit's cell, in the extremes of sensuality or refinement.

In reading the Faëry Queen, you see a little withered old man by a wood-side opening a wicket, a giant, and a dwarf lagging far behind, a damsel in a boat upon an enchanted lake, wood-nymphs, and satyrs; and all of a sudden you are transported into a lofty palace, with tapers burning, amidst knights and ladies, with dance and revelry, and song, “and mask, and antique pageantry." What can be more solitary, more shut up in itself, than his description of the house of Sleep, to which Archimago sends for a dream:

"And more to lull him in his slumber soft

A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
And ever-drizzling rain upon the loft,

Mix'd with a murmuring wind, much like the sound
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swound.
No other noise, nor people's troublous cries.
That still are wont t' annoy the walled town

Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies
Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies."

It is as if "the honey-heavy dew of slumber" had settled on his pen in writing these lines. How different in the subject (and yet how like in beauty) is the following description of the Bower of Bliss :

"Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound
Of all that mote delight a daintie eare;
Such as attonce might not on living ground,
Save in this Paradise, be heard elsewhere :
Right hard it was for wight which did it heare,
To tell what manner musicke that mote bee;

For all that pleasing is to living eare

Was there consorted in one harmonee:

Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.

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 murmur of the waters fall;
The water's fall with difference discreet,

Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ;
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all."

The remainder of the passage has all that voluptuous pathos and languid brilliancy of fancy, in which this writer excelled :

"The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay;
Ah! see, whoso fayre thing doest faine to see,

In springing flowre-the image of thy day!
Ah! see the Virgin Rose, how sweetly shee
Doth first peepe foorth with bashfull modestee,
That fairer seemes the lesse ye see her may !
Lo! see soone after, how more bold and free

Her bared bosome she doth broad display;
Lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away!
So passeth in the passing of a day

Of mortal life the leafe, the bud, the flowre;
Ne more doth florish after first decay,

That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre

Of many a lady and many a Paramowre!

Gather therefore the Rose whilest yet is prime,
For soon comes age that will her pride deflowre;
Gather the Rose of love whilest yet is time,

Whilest loving thou mayest loved be with equall crime.*

He ceast'; and then gan all the quire of birdes
Their diverse notes t' attune unto his lay,

As in approvaunce of his pleasing wordes.

The constant payre heard all that he did say,
Yet swarved not, but kept their forward way
Through many covert groves and thickets close,
In which they creeping did at last display †
That wanton lady with her lover lose,
Whose sleepie head she in her lap did soft dispose.

*Taken from Tasso.

† Spenser's Poems, ed. Morris, pp. 152-3.-ED.

Upon a bed of Roses she was laid

As faint through heat, or dight to pleasant sin;
And was arayd or rather disarayd,

All in a vele of silke and silver thin,

That hid no whit her alablaster skin,

But rather shewd more white, if more might bee:
More subtile web Arachne cannot spin;

Nor the fine nets, which oft we woven see
Of scorched deaw, do not in th' ayre more lightly flee.

Her snowy brest was bare to ready spoyle

Of hungry eies which n' ote therewith be fild;
And yet through languour of her late sweet toyle
Few drops more cleare than Nectar forth distild,
That like pure Orient perles adown it trild;

And her faire eyes sweet smyling in delight
Moystened their fiery beames, with which she thrild

Fraile harts, yet quenched not; like starry light,

Which sparckling on the silent waves does seeme more bright.”

The finest things in Spenser are, the character of Una in the first book, the House of Pride, the Cave of Mammon, and the Cave of Despair: the account of Memory, of whom it is said, among other things:

"The wars he well remember'd of King Nine,

Of old Assaracus and Inachus divine;"

the description of Belphœbe; the story of Florimel and the Witch's son; the gardens of Adonis, and the Bower of Bliss; the Mask of Cupid; and Colin Clout's vision, in the last book. But some people will say that all this may be very fine, but that they cannot understand it on account of the allegory. They are afraid of the allegory, as if they thought it would bite them: they look at it as a child looks at a painted dragon, and think it will strangle them in its shining folds. This is very idle. If they do not meddle with the allegory, the allegory will not meddle with them. Without minding it at all, the whole is as plain as a pike-staff. It might as well be pretended that we cannot see Poussin's pictures for the allegory, as that the allegory prevents us from understanding Spenser.

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For instance, when Britomart, seated amidst young warriors, lets fall her hair and discovers her sex, is it necessary to know the part she plays in the allegory, to understand the beauty of the following stanza?

"And eke that stranger knight amongst the rest

Was for like need enforc'd to disarray.

Tho when as vailed was her lofty crest,

Her golden locks that were in trammels gay
Upbounden, did themselves adown display,

And raught unto her heels like sunny beams
That in a cloud their light did long time stay;

Their vapour faded, shew their golden gleams,

And through the persant air shoot forth their azure streams." Or is there any mystery in what is said of Belphoebe, that her hair was sprinkled with flowers and blossoms which had been entangled in it as she fled through the woods? Or is it necessary to have a more distinct idea of Proteus, than that which is given of him in his boat, with the frighted Florimel at his feet, while

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the cold icicles from his rough beard Dropped adown upon her snowy breast?

Or is it not a sufficient account of one of the sea-gods that pass by them, to say:

"That was Arion crowned :

So went he playing on the watery plain."

Or to take the Procession of the Passions that draw the coach of Pride, in which the figures of Idleness, of Gluttony, of Lechery, of Avarice, of Envy, and of Wrath speak, one should think, plain enough for themselves; such as this of Gluttony :*

"And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony,

Deformed creature, on a filthie swyne;

His belly was upblowne with luxury;

And eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne;
And like a Crane his necke was long and fyne,
With which he swallowed up excessive feast,
For want whereof poore people oft did pyne.

*Spenser's Works, ed. Morris, p. 29.-Ed.