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Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward;
And when she waked, he wayted diligent,

With humble service to her will prepard.

From her fair eyes he took commandement,

And ever by her lookes conceived her intent."

The story of the fair Una ends happily, and we see her, at the end of the first book, united to her knight on a happy wedding day, when she lays her sad garments aside and appears in a gown

"All lilly white, withoutten spot or pride,

That seemed like silke and silver woven neare,
But neither silke nor silver therein did appeare.

"The blazing brightnesse of her beautie's beame,
And glorious light of her sunshyny face
To tell, were as to strive against the streame:
My ragged rimes are all too rude and bace
Her heavenly lineaments for to enchase.
Ne wonder for her own dear-loved knight,
All were she daily with himselfe in place,
Did wonder much at her celestial sight;
Oft had he seene her faire, but never so faire dight.

"And ever, when his eie did her behold,
His heart did seeme to melt in pleasures manifold."

XVII.

ON SPENSER'S "FAIRY QUEEN.”

THE story of Florimel—a musical name made out of flowers and honey is another of the interesting episodes in The Fairy Queen. She appears first in the third book, a beautiful picture of fright, fleeing on a white palfrey from a monster who seeks to devour her. She reappears in many cantos, in all sorts of romantic adventures, until the fifth book, when all her troubles are ended amid the festivities that attend her marriage to the handsome Prince Marinell.

The women in Spenser's poem are a constant delight to the imagination. They live in his pages like creatures in some land of enchantment, and while they are not like real women in a real world, they are so natural to their surroundings that we cannot help believing in them as much as if they had actually existed.

The heroine of the third book is Britomart, a royal maid of Britain, who puts on a helmet and armor, and in disguise of a knight goes forth to seek her lover, Sir Artegall. In her course Britomart meets with all sorts of romantic adventures; yet Spenser has managed to preserve for his heroine all the sweet charm of womanliness, in spite of her Amazonian equipment.

Here are some stanzas which give an account of her battle with the scornful Marinell, afterwards the bridegroom of Florimel. The fourth canto of the third book begins with this description of the battle:

"Where is the antique glory now become
That whylom wont in wemen to appeare?

Where be the brave atchievements doen by some?
Where be the batteilles, where the shield and speare,
And all the conquests which them high did reare
That matter made for famous poet's verse
And boastful men so oft abasht to hear?
Beene they all dead, and laide in doleful hearse,
Or doen they onely sleepe, and shall againe reverse?

"Yet these, and all that els had puissaunce
Cannot with noble Britomart compare,
As well for glory of great valiaunce

As for pure chastitee and vertue rare,

That all her goodly deedes doe well declare

...

Well worthie stock from which the branches sprong,
That in late yeares so faire a blossome beare,
As thee, O queene, the matter of my song,
Whose lignage from this lady I derive along..

"But Britomart kept on her former course,
Ne ever doft her arms. . . .

...

So forth she rode, without repose or rest,
Till that to the sea coast at length she her addresst.

"There she alighted from her light-foot beast, And sitting down upon the rocky shore, Badd her old squyre unlace her lofty creast: Tho having vewd awhile the surges hore That 'gainst the craggy cliffs did loudly rore, And in their raging surquedry disdayned That the fast earth affronted them so sore, And their devouring covetize restrayned; Thereat she sighed deepe, and after thus complayned:

"Huge sea of sorrow and tempestuous griefe Wherein my feeble barke is tossed long, Far from the hoped haven of reliefe, Why doe thy cruel billowes beat so strong, And thy moyst mountaines each on others throng, Threatning to swallow up my fearefull lyfe? O, doe thy cruell wrath, and spightfull wrong At length allay, and stint thy stormy strife, Which in thy troubled bowels raignes and rageth ryfe. . .

"Thou God of winds, that raignest in the seas,
That raignest also in the continent,

At last blow up some gentle gale of ease,
The which may bring my ship, ere it be rent,
Unto the gladsome port of her intent!
Then when I shall myselfe in safety see,
A table for eternall moniment

Of thy great grace and my great jeopardee,
Great Neptune, I avow to hallow unto thee.'

"Thus as she her recomforted, she spyde
Where, far away, one all in armour bright,
With hasty gallop towards her did ryde.
Her dolour soone she ceast, and on her dight
Her helmet, to her courser mounting light;
Her former sorrow into sudden wrath

(Both coosen passions of distroubled spright) Converting, forth she beates the dusty path; Love and despight attonce her corage kindled hath.

"As when a foggy mist hath overcast

The face of heven and the cleare ayre engrosste,
The world in darknes dwels; till that at last
The watry south winde from the sea-borde coste
Upblowing, doth disperse the vapour loste,
And poures itselfe forth in a stormy showre, -
So the fayre Britomarte, having discloste
Her clowdy care into a wrathfull stowre,

The mist of griefe dissolv'd did into vengeance powre.

"Eftsoones, her goodly shield addressing fayre,
That mortall speare she in her hand did take,
And unto battaill did herselfe prepayre.
The knight, approaching, sternely her bespake:
'Sir knight, that doest thy voyage rashly make
By this forbidden way, in my despight,

Ne doest by others' death ensample take,
I rede thee now retyre whiles thou hast might,
Least afterward it be to late to take thy flight.'

"Y-thrild with deepe disdaine of his proud threat,
She shortly thus: Fly they, that need to fly.
Wordes fearen babes; I mean not thee entreat
To passe, but maugre thee will pass or dy.'
Ne lenger stayd for th' other to reply,

But with sharpe speare the rest made dearly knowne,
Strongly the straunge knight ran, and sturdily

Strooke her full on the breast, that made her downe
Decline her head, and touch her crouper with her crown.

"But she againe him in the shield did smite
With so fierce furie and great puissaunce,

That, through his three-square scuchin percing quite,
And through his mayled hauberque, by mischaunce,
The wicked steele through his left side did glaunce.
Him so transfixed she before her bore

Beyond his croupe, the length of all her launce;
Till sadly soucing on the sandy shore,

He tombled on an heape, and wallowd in his gore.

"Like as the sacred oxe, that carelesse stands
With gilden hornes and flowry girlonds crownd,
Proud of his dying honor and deare bandes,
Whiles th' altars fume with frankincense arownd,
All suddeinly with mortall stroke astownd
Doth groveling fall, and with his streaming gore
Distaines the pillours and the holy grownd,
And the fair flowres that decked him afore,
So fell proud Marinell upon the pretious shore."

The second book, which gives the adventures of Sir Guyon, has some of the finest contrasts, from Spenser's grandest style to his most beautiful and poetic. The visit to Mammon's Cave is one of the strongest pieces of description, and the account of Guyon's entrance into the gardens of the Bower of Acrasia is one of the most beautiful things in all the book. No other poet could describe

a garden as Spenser could. His description of the garden in the Fate of the Butterfly is as good as a painting of it, and the gardens of this Bower of Bliss are no less perfectly portrayed.

Sir Guyon enters these gardens through a gate framed of interlacing vines, whose luscious bunches of fruit seem to offer themselves to the hands of all who pass under it. Within this gate lies the bower of Acrasia, the mistress of the enchanted place. We will begin just where Guyon passes through the gateway:

"There the most daintie paradise on ground
Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye,

In which all pleasures plenteously abownd,
And none does other's happinesse envye;
The painted flowres; the trees upshooting hie;
The dales for shade; the hilles for breathing space;
The trembling groves; the christall running by;
And that which all faire workes doth most aggrace,
The art which all that wrought, appeared in no place.
"And in the midst of all a fountaine stood...

"Infinit streames continually did well

Out of this fountaine, sweete and faire to see,
The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantitee
That like a litle lake it seemed to bee,

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Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight.
That through the waves one might the bottom see,
All pav'd beneath with jaspar shining bright,
That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright. . .

"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 read what manner musicke that mote bee,
For all that pleasing is to living eare
Was there consorted in one harmoniee :

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

“The joyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade,
Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;
The angelicall soft trembling voyces made
To th' instruments, divine respondence meet;

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