The Poetical Works of Edmund Spenser, Volume 5 - Edmund Spenser
XIII.
Much richer then that vessell seem'd to bee
Which did to that sad Florentine appeare,
Casting mine eyes farre off, I chaunst to see
Upon the Latine coast herselfe to reare.
But suddenly arose a tempest great,
Bearing close envie to these riches rare,
Which gan assaile this ship with dreadfull threat,
This ship, to which none other might compare:
And finally the storme impetuous
Sunke up these riches, second unto none,
Within the gulfe of greedie Nereus.
I saw both ship and mariners each one,
And all that treasure, drowned in the maine:
But I the ship saw after raisd' againe.
[XIII. 1.--_That vessell_. See the second canto of the Purgatorio. C.]
XIV.
Long having deeply gron'd these visions sad,
I saw a citie like unto that same
Which saw the messenger of tidings glad,
But that on sand was built the goodly frame:
It seem'd her top the firmament did rayse,
And, no lesse rich than faire, right worthie sure
(If ought here worthie) of immortall dayes,
Or if ought under heaven might firme endure.
Much wondred I to see so faire a wall:
When from the Northerns coast a storme arose,
Which, breathing furie from his inward gall
On all which did against his course oppose,
Into a clowde of dust sperst in the aire
The weake foundations of this citie faire.
XV.
At length, even at the time when Morpheus
Most trulie doth unto our eyes appeare,
Wearie to see the heavens still wavering thus,
I saw Typhaeus sister* comming neare;
Whose head, full bravely with a morion** hidd,
Did seeme to match the gods in maiestie.
She, by a rivers bancke that swift downe slidd,
Over all the world did raise a trophee hie;
An hundred vanquisht kings under her lay,
With armes bound at their backs in shamefull wize.
Whilst I thus mazed was with great affray,
I saw the heavens in warre against her rize:
Then downe she stricken fell with clap of thonder,
That with great noyse I wakte in sudden wonder.
[* I.e. (apparently) Change or Mutability. See the two cantos of the
Seventh Book of the Faerie Queene.]
[** _Morion_, steel cap.]
* * * * *
THE VISIONS OF PETRARCH:
FORMERLY TRANSLATED.
[Footnote: The first six of these sonnets are translated (not directly,
but through the French of Clement Marot) from Petrarch's third Canzone
in Morte di Laura. The seventh is by the translator. The circumstance
that the version is made from Marot renders it probable that these
sonnets are really by Spenser. C.]
I.
Being one day at my window all alone,
So manie strange things happened me to see,
As much it grieveth me to thinke thereon.
At my right hand a hynde appear'd to mee.
So faire as mote the greatest god delite;
Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace,
Of which the one was blacke, the other white.
With deadly force so in their cruell race
They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast,
That at the last, and in short time, I spide,
Under a rocke, where she, alas! opprest,
Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide.
Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie,
Oft makes me wayle so hard a destenie.
II.
After, at sea a tall ship did appeare,
Made all of heben* and white yvorie;
The sailes of golde, of silke the tackle were.
Milde was the winde, calme seem'd the sea to bee,
The skie eachwhere did show full bright and faire:
With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was:
But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire,
And tumbled up the sea, that she, alas!
Strake on a rock, that under water lay,
And perished past all recoverie.
O! how great ruth, and sorrow-full assay**,
Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie,
Thus in a moment to see lost and drown'd
So great riches as like cannot be found.
[* _Heben_, ebony.]
[** _Assay_, trial.]
III.
The heavenly branches did I see arise
Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree,
Amidst the yong greene wood: of Paradise
Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see.
Such store of birds therein yshrowded were,
Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie,
That with their sweetnes I was ravish't nere.
While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie,
The skie gan everie where to overcast,
And darkned was the welkin all about,
When sudden flash of heavens fire out brast*,
And rent this royall tree quite by the roote;
Which makes me much and ever to complaine,
For no such shadow shalbe had againe.
[* _Brast_, burst.]
IV.
Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise
A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe,
Whereto approched not in anie wise
The homely shepheard, nor the ruder clowne;
But manie Muses, and the Nymphes withall,
That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce
To the soft sounding of the waters fall;
That my glad hart thereat did much reioyce.
But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight,
I saw, alas! the gaping earth devoure
The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight;
Which yet aggreeves my hart even to this houre,
And wounds my soule with rufull memorie,
To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.
V.
I saw a Phoenix in the wood alone,
With purple wings and crest of golden hewe;
Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone
That of some heavenly wight I had the vewe;
Untill he came unto the broken tree,
And to the spring that late devoured was.
What say I more? Each thing at last we see
Doth passe away: the Phoenix there, alas!
Spying the tree destroid, the water dride,
Himselfe smote with his beake, as in disdaine,
And so foorthwith in great despight he dide;
That yet my heart burnes in exceeding paine
For ruth and pitie of so haples plight.
O, let mine eyes no more see such a sight!
VI.
At last, so faire a ladie did I spie,
That thinking yet on her I burne and quake:
On hearbs and flowres she walked pensively;
Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake:
White seem'd her robes, yet woven so they were
As snow and golde together had been wrought:
Above the wast a darke clowde shrouded her.
A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;
Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure,
And, well assur'd, she mounted up to ioy.
Alas! on earth so nothing doth endure,
But bitter griefe and sorrowfull annoy:
Which make this life wretched and miserable.
Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.
VII.
When I behold this tickle* trustles state
Of vaine worlds glorie, flitting too and fro,
And mortall men tossed by troublous fate
In restles seas of wretchednes and woe,
I wish I might this wearie life forgoe,
And shortly turne unto my happie rest,
Where my free spirite might not anie moe
Be vest with sights that doo her peace molest.
And ye, faire Ladie, in whose bounteous brest
All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is,
When ye these rythmes doo read, and vew the rest,
Loath this base world, and thinke of heavens blis:
And though ye be the fairest of Gods creatures,
Yet thinke that death shall spoyle your goodly features.
[* _Tickle_, uncertain.]
* * * * *
DAPHNAIDA:
AN ELEGIE
UPON THE DEATH OF THE NOBLE AND VERTUOUS
DOUGLAS HOWARD,
DAUGHTER AND HEIRE OF HENRY LORD HOWARD, VISCOUNT
BYNDON, AND WIFE OF ARTHUR GORGES, ESQUIER.
DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE
THE LADIE HELENA,
MARQUESSE OF NORTHAMPTON.
BY ED. SP.
(1591.)
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND VERTUOUS LADY,
HELENA,
MARQUESSE OF NORTH HAMPTON.[*]
I have the rather presumed humbly to offer unto your Honour the
dedication of this little poeme, for that the noble and vertuous
gentlewoman of whom it is written was by match neere alied, and in
affection greatly devoted, unto your Ladiship. The occasion why I wrote
the same was as well the great good fame which I heard of her deceassed,
as the particular goodwill which I bear unto her husband, Master Arthur
Gorges, a lover of learning and vertue, whose house, as your Ladiship by
marriage hath honoured, so doe I find the name of them, by many notable
records, to be of great antiquitie in this realme, and such as have ever
borne themselves with honourable reputation to the world, and unspotted
loyaltie to their prince and countrey: besides, so lineally are they
descended from the Howards, as that the Lady Anne Howard; eldest
daughter to John Duke of Norfolke, was wife to Sir Edmund, mother to Sir
Edward, and grandmother to Sir William and Sir Thomas Gorges, Knightes:
and therefore I doe assure my selfe that no due honour done to the White
Lyon, but will be most gratefull to your Ladiship, whose husband and
children do so neerely participate with the bloud of that noble family.
So in all dutie I recommend this pamphlet, and the good acceptance
thereof, to your honourable favour and protection. London, this first of
Ianuarie, 1591.
Your Honours humbly ever.
[* This lady, when widow of William Parr, the only person who was ever
Marquis of Northampton, had married Sir Thomas Gorges, uncle of Lady
Douglas Howard, the subject of this elegy. Mr. (afterwards Sir) Arthur
Gorges was himself a poet, and the author of the English translation of
Bacon's tract _De Sapientia Veterum_, published in 1619. See Craik's
Spenser and his Poetry, Vol. III. p. 187. C.]
* * * * *
DAPHNAIDA.
Whatever man he be whose heavie mynd,
With griefe of mournefull great mishap opprest,
Fit matter for his cares increase would fynd,
Let reade the rufull plaint herein exprest,
Of one, I weene, the wofulst man alive,
Even sad Alcyon*, whose empierced brest
Sharpe sorrowe did in thousand peeces rive.
[* I.e. Sir Arthur Gorges.]
But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense,
Or in this wretched life doeth take delight,
Let him he banisht farre away from hence; 10
Ne let the Sacred Sisters here be hight*,
Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing,
For even their heavie song would breede delight;
But here no tunes save sobs and grones shall ring.
[* _Hight_, summoned.]
In stead of them and their sweet harmonie, 15
Let those three Fatall Sisters, whose sad hands
Doe weave the direfull threeds of destinie,
And in their wrath break off the vitall bands,
Approach hereto; and let the dreadfull Queene
Of Darknes deepe come from the Stygian strands, 20
And grisly ghosts, to heare this dolefull teene*,
[* _Teene_, sorrow]
In gloomy evening, when the wearie sun
After his dayes long labour drew to rest,
And sweatie steedes, now having overrun
The compast skie, gan water in the west, 25
I walkt abroad to breath the freshing ayre
In open fields, whose flowring pride, opprest
With early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.
There came unto my mind a troublous thought,
Which dayly doth my weaker wit possesse, 30
Ne lets it rest untill it forth have brought
Her long borne infant, fruit of heavinesse,
Which she conceived hath through meditation
Of this worlds vainnesse and life's wretchednesse,
That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion*. 35
[* _Empassion_, move]
So as I muzed on the miserie
In which men live, and I of many most,
Most miserable man, I did espie
Where towards me a sory wight did cost*,
Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray, 40
And Iacob staffe ** in hand devoutly crost,
Like to some pilgrim come from farre away.
[* _Cost_, approach]
[** _Iacob staffe_, a pilgrim's staff, in the form of a cross]
His carelesse locks, uncombed and unshorne,
Hong long adowne, and bearde all overgrowne,
That well he seemd to be some wight forlorne: 45
Downe to the earth his heavie eyes were throwne,
As loathing light, and ever as he went
He sighed soft, and inly deepe did grone,
As if his heart in peeces would have rent.
Approaching nigh his face I vewed nere, 50
And by the semblant of his countenaunce
Me seemd I had his person seene elsewhere,
Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce;
Alcyon he, the iollie shepheard swaine,
That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce, 55
And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.
Yet halfe in doubt, because of his disguize,
I softlie sayd, Alcyon! There-withall
He lookt aside as in disdainefull wise,
Yet stayed not, till I againe did call: 60
Then, turning back, he saide, with hollow sound,
"Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall,
The wretchedst man that treads this day on ground?"
"One whom like wofulnesse, impressed deepe,
Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to heare, 65
And given like cause with thee to waile and wepe;
Griefe finds some ease by him that like does beare.
Then stay, Alcyon, gentle shepheard! stay,"
Quoth I, "till thou have to my trustie eare
Committed what thee dooth so ill apay*." 70
[* _Ill apay _, discontent, distress.]
"Cease, foolish man!" saide he halfe wrothfully,
"To seeke to heare that which cannot be told;
For the huge anguish, which doeth multiply
My dying paines, no tongue can well unfold;
Ne doo I care that any should bemone 75
My hard mishap, or any weepe that would,
But seeke alone to weepe, and dye alone."
"Then be it so," quoth I, "that thou are bent
To die alone, unpitied, unplained;
Yet, ere thou die, it were convenient 80
To tell the cause which thee thereto constrained,
Least that the world thee dead accuse of guilt,
And say, when thou of none shall be maintained,
That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilt."
"Who life does loath, and longs to be unbound 85
From the strong shackles of fraile flesh," quoth he,
"Nought cares at all what they that live on ground
Deem the occasion of his death to bee;
Rather desires to be forgotten quight,
Than question made of his calamitie; 90
For harts deep sorrow hates both life and light.
"Yet since so much thou seemst to rue my griefe,
And car'st for one that for himselfe cares nought,
(Sign of thy love, though nought for my reliefe,
For my reliefe exceedeth living thought,) 95
I will to thee this heavie case relate:
Then harken well till it to end be brought,
For never didst thou heare more haplesse fate.
"Whilome I usde (as thou right well doest know)
My little flocke on westerns downes to keep, 100
Not far from whence Sabrinaes streame doth flow,
And flowrie bancks with silver liquor steepe;
Nought carde I then for worldly change or chaunce,
For all my ioy was on my gentle sheepe,
And to my pype to caroll and to daunce. 105
"It there befell, as I the fields did range
Fearlesse and free, a faire young Lionesse,
White as the native rose before the chaunge
Which Venus blood did in her leaves impresse,
I spied playing on the grassie plaine 110
Her youthfull sports and kindlie wantonnesse,
That did all other beasts in beawtie staine.
[Ver. 107.--_A fair young Lionesse,_ So called from the white lion in
the arms of the Duke of Norfolk, the head of the family to which Lady
Douglas Howard belonged. H.]
"Much was I moved at so goodly sight,
Whose like before mine eye had seldome seene,
And gan to cast how I her compasse might, 115
And bring to hand that yet had never beene:
So well I wrought with mildnes and with paine,
That I her caught disporting on the greene,
And brought away fast bound with silver chaine.
"And afterwardes I handled her so fayre, 120
That though by kind shee stout and salvage were,
For being borne an auncient lions hayre,
And of the race that all wild beastes do feare,
Yet I her fram'd, and wan so to my bent,
That shee became so meeke and milde of cheare 125
As the least lamb in all my flock that went.
"For shee in field, where-ever I did wend,
Would wend with me, and waite by me all day;
And all the night that I in watch did spend,
If cause requir'd, or els in sleepe, if nay, 130
Shee would all night by me or watch or sleepe;
And evermore when I did sleepe or play,
She of my flock would take full warie keepe*.
[* _Keepe_, care.]
"Safe then, and safest, were my sillie sheepe,
Ne fear'd the wolfe, ne fear'd the wildest beast, 135
All* were I drown'd in carelesse quiet deepe:
My lovely Lionesse without beheast
So careful was for them and for my good,
That when I waked, neither most nor least
I found miscarried, or in plaine or wood. 140
[* _All_, although.]
"Oft did the shepheards which my hap did heare,
And oft their lasses, which my luck envyde,
Daylie resort to me from farre and neare,
To see my Lyonesse, whose praises wyde
Were spred abroad; and when her worthinesse 145
Much greater than the rude report they tryde*,
They her did praise, and my good fortune blesse.
[* _Tryde_, proved, found.]
"Long thus I ioyed in my happinesse,
And well did hope my ioy would have no end;
But oh! fond man! that in worlds ficklenesse 150
Reposedst hope, or weenedst Her thy frend
That glories most in mortall miseries,
And daylie doth her changefull counsels bend
To make new matter fit for tragedies.
"For whilest I was thus without dread or dout, 155
A cruel Satyre with his murdrous dart,
Greedie of mischiefe, ranging all about,
Gave her the fatall wound of deadly smart,
And reft from me my sweete companion,
And reft from me my love, my life, my hart: 160
My Lyonesse, ah woe is me! is gon!
"Out of the world thus was she reft away,
Out of the world, unworthy such a spoyle,
And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter pray;
Much fitter then the lyon which with toyle 165
Alcides slew, and fixt in firmament;
Her now I seeke throughout this earthly soyle,
And seeking misse, and missing doe lament."
Therewith he gan afresh to waile and weepe,
That I for pittie of his heavie plight 170
Could not abstain mine eyes with teares to steepe;
But when I saw the anguish of his spright
Some deale alaid, I him bespake againe:
"Certes, Alcyon, painfull is thy plight,
That it in me breeds almost equall paine, 175
"Yet doth not my dull wit well understand
The riddle of thy loved Lionesse;
For rare it seemes in reason to be skand,
That man, who doth the whole worlds rule possesse,
Should to a beast his noble hart embase, 180
And be the vassall of his vassalesse;
Therefore more plain areade* this doubtfull case."
[* _Areade_, explain.]
Then sighing sore, "Daphne thou knew'st," quoth he;
"She now is dead": no more endur'd to say,
But fell to ground for great extremitie; 185
That I, beholding it, with deepe dismay
Was much apald, and, lightly him uprearing,
Revoked life, that would have fled away,
All were my selfe through grief in deadly drearing*.
[* _Drearing_, sorrowing.]
Then gan I him to comfort all my best, 190
And with milde counsaile strove to mitigate
The stormie passion of his troubled brest;
But he thereby was more empassionate,
As stubborne steed that is with curb restrained
Becomes more fierce and fervent in his gate, 195
And, breaking foorth at last, thus dearnely* plained:
[* _Dearnely_, sadly.]
I.
"What man henceforth that breatheth vitall aire
Will honour Heaven, or heavenly powers adore,
Which so uniustly doth their iudgements share
Mongst earthly wights, as to afflict so sore 200
The innocent as those which do transgresse,
And doe not spare the best or fairest more
Than worst or foulest, but doe both oppresse?
"If this be right, why did they then create
The world so faire, sith fairenesse is neglected? 205
Or why be they themselves immaculate,
If purest things be not by them respected?
She faire, she pure, most faire, most pure she was,
Yet was by them as thing impure reiected;
Yet she in purenesse heaven it self did pas. 210
"In purenesse, and in all celestiall grace
That men admire in goodly womankind,
She did excell, and seem'd of angels race,
Living on earth like angell new divinde*,
Adorn'd with wisedome and with chastitie, 215
And all the dowries of a noble mind,
Which did her beautie much more beautifie.
[* _Divinde_, deified.]
"No age hath bred (since faire Astraea left
The sinfull world) more vertue in a wight;
And, when she parted hence, with her she reft 220
Great hope, and robd her race of bounty* quight.
Well may the shepheard lasses now lament;
For doubble losse by her hath on them light,
To loose both her and bounties ornament.
[* _Bounty_, goodness.]
"Ne let Elisa, royall shepheardesse, 225
The praises of my parted* love envy,
For she hath praises in all plenteousnesse
Powr'd upon her, like showers of Castaly,
By her owne shepheard, Colin, her own shepheard,
That her with heavenly hymnes doth deifie, 230
Of rusticke Muse full hardly to be betterd.
[* _Parted_, departed.]
"She is the rose, the glory of the day,
And mine the primrose in the lowly shade:
Mine? ah, not mine! amisse I mine did say:
Not mine, but His which mine awhile her made; 235
Mine to be-his, with him to live for ay.
O that so faire a flowre so soon should fade,
And through untimely tempest fall away!
"She fell away in her first ages spring,
Whilst yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde;
And whilst her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring, 241
She fell away against all course of kinde*.
For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong;
She fell away like fruit blowne down with winde.
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong**.
[* _Kinde_, nature.]
[** _Undersong_, accompaniment.]
II.
"What hart so stonie hard but that would weepe.
And poure forth fountaines of incessant teares?
What Timon but would let compassion creepe
Into his breast, and pierce his frosen eares?
In stead of teares, whose brackish bitter well 250
I wasted have, my heart bloud dropping weares,
To think to ground how that faire blossome fell.
"Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye,
Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent,
But as one toyld with travell downe doth lye, 255
So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went,
And closde her eyes with carelesse quietriesse;
The whiles soft death away her spirit hent*,
And soule assoyld** from sinfull fleshlinesse.
[* _Hent_, took]
[** _Assoyld_, absolved.]
"Yet ere that life her lodging did forsake, 260
She, all resolv'd, and readie to remove,
Calling to me (ay me!) this wise bespake;
'Alcyon! ah, my first and latest love!
Ah! why does my Alcyon weepe and mourne,
And grieve my ghost, that ill mote him behove, 265
As if to me had chaunst some evill tourne!
"'I, since the messenger is come for mee
That summons soules unto the bridale feast
Of his great Lord, must needs depart from thee,
And straight obay his soveraine beheast; 270
Why should Alcyon then so sore lament
That I from miserie shall be releast,
And freed from wretched long imprisonment!
"'Our daies are full of dolour and disease.
Our life afflicted with incessant paine, 275
That nought on earth may lessen or appease;
Why then should I desire here to remaine!
Or why should he that loves me sorrie bee
For my deliverance, or at all complaine
My good to heare, and toward* ioyes to see! 280
[* _Toward,_ preparing, near at hand.]
"'I goe, and long desired have to goe;
I goe with gladnesse to my wished rest,
Whereas* no worlds sad care nor wasting woe
May come, their happie quiet to molest;
But saints and angels in celestiall thrones 285
Eternally Him praise that hath them blest;
There shall I be amongst those blessed ones.
[* _Whereas,_ where.]
"'Yet, ere I goe, a pledge I leave with thee
Of the late love the which betwixt us past;
My young Ambrosia; in lieu of mee, 290
Love her; so shall our love for ever last.
Thus, deare! adieu, whom I expect ere long.'--
So having said, away she softly past;
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make mine undersong.
III.
"So oft as I record those piercing words, 295
Which yet are deepe engraven in my brest,
And those last deadly accents, which like swords
Did wound my heart and rend my bleeding chest,
With those sweet sugred speeches doe compare
The which my soul first conquerd and possest, 300
The first beginners of my endlesse care,
"And when those pallid cheekes and ashe hew,
In which sad Death his pourtraiture had writ,
And when those hollow eyes and deadly view,
On which the cloud of ghastly night did sit, 305
I match, with that sweete smile and chearful brow,
Which all the world subdued unto it,
How happie was I then, and wretched now!