FOOTNOTES:

Non senza causa il giglio e l' amaranto,L' uno di fede, e l' altro fior d' amore, &c.

Even the pattern from which she is working, the silk, the gold, the lawn, made happy by her touch, are sanctified, are envied,—

Avventuroso man! beato ingegno!Beata seta! beatissimo oro!Ben nato lino! inclito bel lavoro,Da chi vuol la mia dea prender disegno,Per far a vostro esempio un vestir degno,Che copra avorio, e perle ed un tesoro![78]

And he adds, "Ah, that she would rather take pattern after me, and imitate the constant love I bear her!"

Alessandra must have excelled in needle-work, for we find frequent mention of her favorite occupation; and it is even alluded to in the Orlando, where describing the wound of Zerbino, Ariostouses a comparison rather too fanciful for the occasion.

Così talora un bel purpureo nastroHo veduto partir tela d'argento,Da quel bianca man più ch'alabastroDa cui partire il cor spesso mi sento.And so, I sometimes have been wont to viewA hand more white than alabaster, partThe silver cloth, with ribbons red of hue,A hand I often feel divide my heart.[79]

Così talora un bel purpureo nastroHo veduto partir tela d'argento,Da quel bianca man più ch'alabastroDa cui partire il cor spesso mi sento.

And so, I sometimes have been wont to viewA hand more white than alabaster, partThe silver cloth, with ribbons red of hue,A hand I often feel divide my heart.[79]

Among the personal charms of Alessandra, the most striking was the beauty and luxuriance of her hair. In the days of Ariosto, fair hair, with a golden tinge, was so much admired that it became a fashion; we are even informed that the Venetian women had invented a dye, or extract, by which they discharged the natural colour of their tresses, and gave them this admired hue. Almost all Titian's and Giorgione's beauties have fair hair; the "richissima capellatura bionda" ofAlessandra, was a principal charm in the eyes of her lover, but it was one she was destined to lose prematurely; during a dangerous illness, some rash and luckless physician ordered all her beautiful tresses to be cut off. The remedy, it seems, was equally unnecessary and unfortunate; but here was a fine theme for an indignant lover! and Ariosto has, accordingly, lavished on it some of his most graceful and poetical ideas. Of the three elegant sonnets[80]in which he has commemorated the incident, it is difficult to decide which is the finest—the last, perhaps, is the most spirited: the poet bursts at once into his subject, as in a transport of grief and rage.

"When I think, as I do, a thousand, thousand times a-day, upon those golden tresses, which neither wisdom nor necessity, but hasty folly, tore, alas! from that fair head, I am enraged,—my cheek burns with anger,—even tears gush forth, bathing my face and bosom;—I could die to be revenged on the impious stupidity of thatrash hand! O Love, if such wrong goes unpunished, thine be the reproach! Remember how Bacchus avenged on the Thracian King,[81]the clusters torn from his sacred vines: wilt thou, who art greater far than he, do less? Wilt thou suffer the loveliest and dearest of thy possessions to be audaciously ravished, and yet bear it in silence?"[82]

This is powerful enough to be in downright earnest: and unsoftened by the flowing harmony of the verse and rhyme, appears even harsh, both in sentiment and expression: but the poetry and spirit being inherent, have not, I trust, quite escaped in thetransfusion. When Ariosto, after a long absence, revisits the scene in which he first beheld the lady of his thoughts, he addresses those "marble halls, and lofty and stately roofs,

"Marmoree logge, alti e superbi tetti,"

in a strain which leaves the issue of his suit something less than doubtful:—

"Well do ye remember, ye scenes, when I leftye a captive sick at heart, and pierced with Love's sweet pain: but ye know not perhaps how sweetly I died, and was restored again to life: how my gentlest Lady, seeing that my soul had forsaken me, sent me hers in return to dwell with me for ever!"

"Ben vi sovvien, che di qui andai captivo,Trafitto il cor! ma non sapete forseCom' io morissi, e poi tornassi in vita.E che madonna, tosto che s' accorseEsser l' anima in lei da me fuggita,La sua mi diede, e ch' or con questa vivo!"

"Ben vi sovvien, che di qui andai captivo,Trafitto il cor! ma non sapete forseCom' io morissi, e poi tornassi in vita.

E che madonna, tosto che s' accorseEsser l' anima in lei da me fuggita,La sua mi diede, e ch' or con questa vivo!"

The exact date of Ariosto's marriage cannot be ascertained, but the marriage itself is proved beyond a doubt:[83]it must have taken place about 1522. The reasons which induced Ariosto to involve in doubt and mystery his union with this admirable woman, can only be conjectured,[84]their intercourse was so carefully concealed, and the discretion and modesty of Alessandra so remarkable, that no suspicion of the ties which bound them to each other, existed during the life of the poet; nor did the slightest imputation ever sully the fair fame of her he loved.

It were endless to point out the various beauties of Ariosto's lyrics,—beauties which, as they spring from feeling, arefelt. We have few sonnets in a dolorous strain, few complaints of cruelty; and even these seem inspired, not by the habitual coldness of Alessandra, but by some occasional repulses which he confesses to have deserved.

Per poco consiglio, e troppo ardire.

But we have, in their place, all the glow of sensibility, the sparkling of hope, the grateful rapture of returned affection, and that power of imagery, by which, with one vivid stroke, he turns his emotions into pictures: these predominate throughout. As an instance of the latter, there is the apostrophe to Hope, "now boundingand leaping along, now creeping with coward steps and slow:"

O speranza! che ancor dietro si menaQuando a gran salti, e quando a passi lenti!

In one of his madrigals, he says, with an elegance which is perhaps a little quaint, "my wishes soar so high, that my hopes shrink back, and dare not follow them." In the same spirit, when he is blest with the presence of his love, grief is not only banished, but "flies with the rapidity of a falcon before the wind,"

Vola, com' un falcone che ha seco il vento!

Merely to compare his mistress to a rose, would have been common-place. She is a rose "unfolding herparadiseof leaves,"—a charming expression, which has been adopted, I think, by one of our living poets. Mingled with the most rapturous praise of Alessandra's triumphant beauty, we have constantly the most delightful impression of her tenderness, her frank and courteousbearing, and the gladness which her presence diffuses through his heart, which, after the sentimental lamentations of former poets, are really a relief.

I can understand the self-congratulation, the secret enjoyment, with which Ariosto dwelt on the praises of Alessandra, celebrated her charms, and exulted in her love, while her name remained an impenetrable secret,

Nor pass'd his lips in holy silence seal'd!

But when once he had introduced her into the Orlando, he must have had a very modest idea of his own future renown, not to have anticipated the consequences. A famous passage in the 42d canto, is now universally admitted to be a description of Alessandra.[85]She is very strikingly introduced, and yet with the usual characteristic mystery; so that while nothing is omitted that can excite interest and curiosity, every means are taken to baffle and disappoint both. Rinaldo,while travelling in Italy, arrives at a splendid palace on the banks of the Po. It is minutely described, with all the prodigal magnificence of the Arabian Nights', and all the taste of an architect; and among other riches, is adorned with the statues of the most celebrated women of that age, all of whom are named at length; but among them stands the effigy of one so preëminent in majesty, and beauty, and intellect, that though she is partly veiled, and habited in modest black, (alluding to her recent widowhood,) though she wears neither jewels nor chains of gold, she eclipses all the beauties around her, as the evening star outshines all others.

Che sotto puro velo, in nera gonnaSenza oro e gemme, in un vestire schietto,Fra le più adorne non parea men bellaChe sia tra l'altre la ciprigna stella![86]

At her side stands the image of one, who in humble strains had dared to celebrate her virtues and her beauty (meaning himself). "But," addsthe poet modestly, "I know not why he alone should be placed there, nor what he had done to be so honoured; of all the rest, the names were sculptured beneath; but of these two, the names remained unknown."—No, not so! for those whom Love and Fame have joined together, who shall henceforth sunder?

The Orlando Furioso was completed and published shortly after Ariosto's visit to Florence; and this passage must have been written apparently not only before his marriage with Alessandra, but before he was even secure of her affection; perhaps he read it aloud to her, and while his stolen looks and faltering voice betrayed the true object of this most beautiful and refined homage, she must have felt the delicacy which had suppressed her name. In such a moment, how little could she have heeded or thought of the voice of future fame, while the accents of her lover thrilled through her heart!

Alessandra removed from Florence to Ferrara, about 1519, and inhabited the Casa Strozzi, in the street of Santa Maria in Vado. The residenceof Ariosto was in the Via Mirasole, at some distance. Both houses are still standing. She died in 1552, having survived the poet about nineteen years; and she was buried in the church of San Rocco at Ferrara.

She bore no children to Ariosto; and her son, by her first marriage (Count Guido Strozzi), died before her.

Ariosto left two sons, whom he tenderly loved, and had educated with extreme care. The eldest, Virginio, was the son of a beautiful Contadinella, whose name was Orsolina; the mother of the youngest, Giovanbattista, was also a girl of inferior rank; her name was Maria. Neither are once mentioned or alluded to by Ariosto; but the mischievous industry of the poet's commentators has immortalized their names and their frailty.

FOOTNOTES:[75]——Non ebbe unqua pastoreDi me più lieto, o più felice amore!See the canzone to Ginevra, quoted by Baruffaldi. Vita, p. 148.[76]Monti. Poesie varie, p. 88.[77]Translated by a friend.[78]Sonnet 27.[79]Stewart Rose's translation.[80]The 26th, 27th, and 28th.[81]Lycurgus, King of Thrace.[82]Ariosto. Rime.[83]The proofs may be consulted in Baruffaldi, "Vita di M. Ludovico Ariosto," published in 1807; and also in Frizzi, "Memorie della Famiglia Ariosto."[84]Baruffaldi gives some family reasons, but they are far from being satisfactory.—SeeVita, in p. 159.[85]Ruscelli, Fabroni, Baruffaldi, and the late poet Monti, are all agreed on this point.[86]Orlando Furioso, c. 42, st. 93.

[75]——Non ebbe unqua pastoreDi me più lieto, o più felice amore!See the canzone to Ginevra, quoted by Baruffaldi. Vita, p. 148.

[75]

——Non ebbe unqua pastoreDi me più lieto, o più felice amore!

See the canzone to Ginevra, quoted by Baruffaldi. Vita, p. 148.

[76]Monti. Poesie varie, p. 88.

[77]Translated by a friend.

[78]Sonnet 27.

[79]Stewart Rose's translation.

[80]The 26th, 27th, and 28th.

[81]Lycurgus, King of Thrace.

[82]Ariosto. Rime.

[83]The proofs may be consulted in Baruffaldi, "Vita di M. Ludovico Ariosto," published in 1807; and also in Frizzi, "Memorie della Famiglia Ariosto."

[84]Baruffaldi gives some family reasons, but they are far from being satisfactory.—SeeVita, in p. 159.

[85]Ruscelli, Fabroni, Baruffaldi, and the late poet Monti, are all agreed on this point.

[86]Orlando Furioso, c. 42, st. 93.

Pass we from the Ariosto of Italy, to Spenser, our English Ariosto; the transition is natural:—they resemble each other certainly, but with a difference, and this difference reigns especially in their minor poems.

The tender heart and luxuriant fancy of Spenser have thrown round his attachments all the strong interest of reality and all the charm of romance and poetry; and since we know that the first developement of his genius was owing to female influence, his Rosalind ought to have been deified for what her beauty achieved, had shepossessed sufficient soul to appreciate the lustre of her conquest.

Immediately on leaving college, Spenser retired to the north of England, where he first became enamoured of the fair being to whom, according to the fashion of the day, he gave the fanciful appellation of Rosalind. We are told that the letters which form this word being "well ordered," (that is,transposed) comprehend her real name; but it has hitherto escaped the penetration of his biographers. Two of his friends were entrusted with the secret, and they, with a discretion more to be regretted than blamed, have kept it. One of these, who speaks from personal knowledge, tells us, in a note on the Eclogues, that she was the daughter of a widow; that she was a gentlewoman, and one "that for her rare and singular gifts of person and mind, Spenser need not have been ashamed to love." We can believe this of a poet, whose delicate perception of female worth breathes in almost every page of his works; but after having, as he hoped, made some progress in her heart, a rival stept in, whom Spenser accuses expressly of having supplanted him bytreacherous arts;[87]and on this obscure and nameless wight, Rosalind bestowed the hand which had been coveted,—the charms which had been sung by Spenser! He suffered long and deeply, wounded both in his pride and in his love: but her beauty and virtue had made a stronger impression than her cruelty; and her lover, with a generous tenderness, not only pardoned, but found excuses for her disdain.

"I have often heard,Fair Rosalind of divers foully blam'd,For being to that swain too cruel hard;But who can tell what cause had that fair maidTo use him so, that loved her so well?Or who with blame can justly her upbraid,For loving not; for who can love compel?And (sooth to say) it is full handy thingRashly to censure creatures so divine;For demi-gods they be; and first did springFrom heaven, though graft in frailness feminine."[88]

The exquisite sentiment of these lines is worthy of him who sung of "heavenly Una and her milk-white lamb."

To the memory of Rosalind,—to the long felt influence of this first passion, and to the melancholy shade which his early disappointment cast over a mind naturally cheerful, we owe some of the most tender and beautiful passages scattered through his later poems:—for instance—the bitter sense of recollected suffering, seems to have suggested that fine description of a lover's life, which may almost rank as apendantto the miseries of the courtier, so well known and often quoted.

Full little know'st thou that hast not tied, &c.

It occurs in the "Hymn to Love."

The gnawing envy, the heart-fretting fear,The vain surmises, the distrustful shows,The false reports that flying tales do bear,The doubts, the dangers, the delays, the woes,The feigned friends, the unassured foes,With thousands more than any tongue can tell—Do make a lover's life, a wretch's hell!

And again in the Fairey Queen:—

What equal torment to the grief of mind.And pining anguish, hid in gentle heart,That inly foods itself with thoughts unkind,And nourisheth its own consuming smart;And will to none its malady impart!

The effects produced in a noble and gentle spirit, by virtuous love for an exalted object, are not less elegantly described in another stanza of the Hymn to Love; and must have been read with rapture in that chivalrous age. The last line is particularly beautiful.

Then forth he casts in his unquiet thought,What he may do, her favour to obtain;What brave exploit, what peril hardly wrought,What puissant conquest, what adventurous pain,May please her best, and grace unto him gain;He dreads no danger, nor misfortune fears,—His faith, his fortune, in his breast he bears!

And in what a fine spirit of poetry, as well as feeling, is that description of the power of true beauty, which forms part of his second Hymn! It is indeed imitated from the refined Platonics of the Italian school, which then prevailed in the court, the camp, the grove, and is a little diffuse in style, a little redundant; but how rich in poetry, and in the most luxuriant and graceful imagery!

How vainly then do idle wits invent,That beauty is nought else but mixture madeOf colours fair, and goodly temperamentOf pure complexions, that shall quickly fadeAnd pass away, like to a summer's shade;Or that it is but comely compositionOf parts well measured, with meet disposition!Hath white and red in it such wondrous power,That it can pierce through th' eyes into the heart,And therein stir such rage and restless stowre,As nought but death can stint his dolor's smart?Or can proportion of the outward partMove such affection in the inward mind,That it can rob both sense, and reason blind?Why do not then the blossoms of the field,Which are array'd with much more orient hue,And to the sense most dainty odours yield,Work like impression in the looker's view?Or why do not fair pictures like power show,In which oft-times we Nature see of ArtExcell'd, in perfect limming every part?But ah! believe me, there is more than so,That works such wonders in the minds of men,I, that have often prov'd, too well it know.And who so list the like essaies to ken,Shall find by trial, and confess it then,That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem,An outward show of things that only seem.For that same goodly hue of white and red,With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay,And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spreadUpon the lips, shall fade and fall away,To that they were, even to corrupted clay:—That golden wire, those sparkling stars so brightShall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light.But that fair lamp, from whose celestial rayThat light proceeds, which kindleth lovers' fire,Shall never be extinguished nor decay;But, when the vital spirits do expire,Unto her native planet shall retire;For it is heavenly born and cannot die,Being a parcel of the purest sky!

Hath white and red in it such wondrous power,That it can pierce through th' eyes into the heart,And therein stir such rage and restless stowre,As nought but death can stint his dolor's smart?Or can proportion of the outward partMove such affection in the inward mind,That it can rob both sense, and reason blind?

Why do not then the blossoms of the field,Which are array'd with much more orient hue,And to the sense most dainty odours yield,Work like impression in the looker's view?Or why do not fair pictures like power show,In which oft-times we Nature see of ArtExcell'd, in perfect limming every part?

But ah! believe me, there is more than so,That works such wonders in the minds of men,I, that have often prov'd, too well it know.And who so list the like essaies to ken,Shall find by trial, and confess it then,That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem,An outward show of things that only seem.

For that same goodly hue of white and red,With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay,And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spreadUpon the lips, shall fade and fall away,To that they were, even to corrupted clay:—That golden wire, those sparkling stars so brightShall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light.

But that fair lamp, from whose celestial rayThat light proceeds, which kindleth lovers' fire,Shall never be extinguished nor decay;But, when the vital spirits do expire,Unto her native planet shall retire;For it is heavenly born and cannot die,Being a parcel of the purest sky!

At a late period of Spenser's life, the remembrance of this cruel piece of excellence,—his Rosalind, was effaced by a second and a happier love. His sonnets are addressed to a beautiful Irish girl, the daughter of a rich merchant of Cork. She it was who healed the wound inflicted by disdainand levity, and taught him the truth he has expressed in one charming line—

Sweet is that love alone, that comes with willingnesse!

Her name was Elizabeth, and her family (as Spenser tells us himself,) obscure; but, in spite of her plebeian origin, the lady seems to have been a very peremptory and Juno-like beauty. Spenser continually dwells upon her pride of sex, and has placed it before us in many charming turns of thought, now deprecating it as a fault, but oftener celebrating it as a virtue. For instance,—

Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,In finding fault with her too portly pride:The thing which I do most in her admire,Is of the world unworthy most envied;For in those lofty looks is close implied,Scorn of base things, disdain of foul dishonour;Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.Such pride is praise; such portliness is honour.[89]

And again, in the thirteenth sonnet,—

In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,Whiles her fair face she rears up to the sky,And to the ground, her eyelids low embaseth,Most goodly temperature ye may descry;Mild humblesse, mixt with awful majesty!

This picture of the deportment erect with conscious dignity, and the eyelids veiled with feminine modesty, is very beautiful. We have the figure of his Elizabeth before us in all her maidenly dignity and proud humility. The next is a softened repetition of the same characteristic portrait:

Was it the work of Nature or of Art,Which temper'd so the features of her face,That pride and meekness, mixt by equal part,Do both appear to adorn her beauty's grace![90]

He rebukes her with a charming mixture of reproof and flattery, in the lines—

Fair Proud! now tell me, why should fair be proud? &c.

This imperious and high-souled beauty at length gives some sign of relenting; and pursuing the train of thought and feeling through thelatter part of the collection, we can trace the vicissitudes of the lady's temper, and how the lover sped in his wooing. First, she grants a smile, and it is hailed with rapture—

Sweet smile! the daughter of the Queen of Love,Expressing all thy mother's powerful art,With which she wont to temper angry Jove,When all the gods he threats with thundering dart:Sweet is thy virtue, as thyself sweet art!For, when on me thou shinedst late in sadness,A melting pleasance ran through every part,And me revived with heart-robbing gladness![91]

The effect of a first relenting and affectionate smile, from a being of this character, must, in truth, have been irresistible. He tells us how lovely she appeared in his eyes,—how surpassing fair:

When that the cloud of pride which oft doth darkHer goodly light, with smiles she drives away!

He finds her one day embroidering in silk a bee and a spider,

Woven all about,With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine,

and he playfully compares himself to a spider, and her to the bee, whom, after long and weary watching, he has at length caught in his snare. This pretty incident is the subject of the 71st Sonnet. The rapture of grateful affection is more eloquent in the Sonnet beginning

Joy of my life! full oft for loving youI bless my lot, that was so lucky placed, &c.

When he is allowed to hope, the pride which had before checked and chilled him, seems to change its character. He feels all the exultation of being beloved of one, not easily gained, and "assured unto herself."

Thrice happy she that is so well assuredUnto herself, and settled so in heart, &c.[92]

After a courtship of about three years, he sues for the possession of the fair hand to which he had so long aspired; promising her (and not vainly,) all the immortality his verse could bestow,—

Even this verse, vowed to eternity,Shall be of her immortal monument,And tell her praise to all posterity!

The fair Elizabeth at length confesses herself won; but expresses some fears at the idea of relinquishing her maiden freedom. His reply is, perhaps, the most beautiful of all the Sonnets. It has all the tenderness, elegance, and fancy, which distinguish Spenser in his happiest moments of inspiration.

The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain,That fondly fear to lose your liberty;When, losing one, two liberties ye gain,And make him bound that bondage erst did fly.Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tyeWithout constraint, or dread of any ill:The gentle bird feels no captivityWithin her cage; but sings, and feeds her fill:There pride dare not approach, nor discord spillThe league 'twixt them, that loyal love hath bound:But simple Truth, and mutual Good-will,Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each other's wound:There Faith doth fearless dwell is brazen tower,And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bower.[93]

TheAmoretti, as Spenser has fancifully entitled his Sonnets, are certainly tinctured with a good deal of the verbiage and pedantry of the times; but I think I have shown that they contain passages of earnest feeling, as well as high poetic beauty. Spenser married his Elizabeth, about the year 1593, and he has crowned his amatory effusions with a most impassioned and triumphant epithalamion on his own nuptials, which he concludes with a prophecy, that it shall stand a perpetual monument of his happiness, and thus it has been. The passage in which he describes his youthful bride, is perhaps one of the most beautiful and vividpicturesin the whole compass of English poetry.

Behold, while she before the altar stands,Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,And blesses her with his two happy hands.How the red roses flush up in her cheeks.And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain,Like crimson died in grain!That even the angels, which continuallyAbout the sacred altar do remain,Forget their service, and about her fly,Oft peeping in her face, which seems more fair,The more they on it stare.But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,Are governed with a goodly modestyThat suffers not a look to glance away,Which may let in a little thought unsound.Why blush ye, love! to give to me your handThe pledge of all our band!Sing! ye sweet angels! Hallelujah sing!That all the woods may answer, and their echoes ring!

And the rapturous apostrophe to the evening star is in a fine strain of poetry.

Late, though it be, at last I see it gloom,And the bright evening star, with golden crest,Appear out of the west!Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love!That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead,And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread,How cheerfully thou lookest from above,And seem'st lo laugh atween thy twinkling light!

As Ariosto has contrived to introduce his personal feelings, and the memory of his love, into the Orlando Furioso, so Spenser has enshrinedhisin the Fairy Queen; but he has not, I think, succeeded so well in themannerof celebrating the woman he delighted to honour. Ariosto has the advantage over the English poet, in delicacy and propriety of feeling as well as power. Spenser's picture of the swelling eminence, the lawn, the clustering trees, the cascade—

Whose silver waves did softly tumble down,

haunted by nymphs and fairies; the bevy of beauties who dance in a circle round the lady of his love, while he himself, in his character of Colin Clout, sits aloof piping on his oaten reed, remind us of one of Claude's landscapes: and the difference between the pastoral luxuriance of this diffuse description, and the stately magnificence of Ariosto's, is very characteristic of the two poets. Were I to choose, however, I would rather have been the object of Ariosto's compliment than of Spenser's. The passage in the Fairy Queenoccurs in the 10th canto of the Legend of Sir Calidore; and all his commentators are agreed that the allusion is to his Elizabeth, and not to Rosalind.

Both are mentioned in "Colin Clout's come home again." Rosalind, and her disdainful rejection of the poet's love, are alluded to near the end, in some lines already quoted; but a very beautiful passage, near the commencement of the poem, clearly alludes to Elizabeth, under whose thrall he was at the time it was written.

Ah! far be it, (quoth Colin Clout,) fro me,That I, of gentle maids, should ill deserve,For that myself I do profess to beVassal to one, whom all my days I serve;The beam of Beauty, sparkled from above,The flower of virtue and pure chastitie;The blossom of sweet joy and perfect love;The pearl of peerless grace and modesty!To her, my thoughts I daily dedicate;To her, my heart I nightly martyrise;To her, my love I lowly do prostrate;To her, my life I wholly sacrifice:My thought, my heart, my life, my love, is she! &c.

Spenser married his Elizabeth about the year 1593. He resided at this time at the Castle of Kilcolman, in the south of Ireland, a portion of the forfeited domains of the Earl of Desmond having been assigned to him: but the adherents of that unhappy chief saw in Spenser only an invader of their rights,—a stranger living on their inheritance, while they were cast out to starvation or banishment. He and his family dwelt in continual fears and disturbance from the distracted state of the country; and at length, about two years after his marriage, he was attacked in his castle by the native Irish. He and his wife escaped with difficulty, and one of their children perished in the flames. After this catastrophe they came to England, and Spenser died in 1598, about five years after his marriage with Elizabeth. The short period of their union, though disturbed by misfortunes, losses, and worldly cares, was never clouded by domestic disquiet. This haughty beauty,

Whose lofty countenance seemed to scornBase thing, and think how she to heaven might climb,

became the tenderest and most faithful of wives. How long she survived her husband is not known; but though scarce past the bloom of youth at the period of her loss, we have no account of her marrying again.

FOOTNOTES:[87]Eclogue 6.[88]Colin Clout.[89]Sonnet 5.[90]Sonnet 21.[91]Sonnet 39.[92]Sonnet 39.[93]Sonnet 65.

[87]Eclogue 6.

[88]Colin Clout.

[89]Sonnet 5.

[90]Sonnet 21.

[91]Sonnet 39.

[92]Sonnet 39.

[93]Sonnet 65.

Shakspeare—I approach the subject with reverence, and even with fear,—is the only poet I am acquainted with and able to appreciate, who appears to have been really heaven-inspired: the workings of his wondrous and all-embracing mind were directed by a higher influence than ever was exercised by woman, even in the plenitude of her power and her charms. Shakspeare's genius waited not on Love and Beauty, but Love and Beauty ministered tohim; he perceived like a spirit; he was created, to create; his own individuality is lost in the splendour, the reality, and the variety of his own conceptions. When Ithink what those are, I feel how needless, how vain it were to swell the universal voice with one so weak as mine. Who would care for it that knows and feels Shakspeare? Who would listen to it that does not, if there be such?

It is not Shakspeare as a great power bearing a great name,—but Shakspeare in his less divine and less known character,—as a lover and a man, who finds a place here. The only writings he has left, through which we can trace any thing of his personal feelings and affections, are his Sonnets. Every one who reads them, who has tenderness or taste, will echo Wordsworth's denunciation against the "flippant insensibility" of some of his commentators, who talked of an Act of Parliament not being strong enough to compel their perusal, and will agree in his opinion, that they are full of the most exquisite feelings, most felicitously expressed; but as to the object to whom they were addressed, a difference of opinion prevails. From a reference, however, to all that is known of Shakspeare's life and fortunes, compared with the internal presumptive evidence contained inthe Sonnets, it appears that some of them are addressed to his amiable friend, Lord Southampton; and others, I think, are addressed in Southampton's name, to that beautiful Elizabeth Vernon, to whom the Earl was so long and ardently attached.[94]The Queen, who did not encourage matrimony among her courtiers, absolutely refused her consent to their union. She treated him as she did Raleigh in the affair of Elizabeth Throckmorton; and Southampton, after four years of impatient submission and still increasing love, as tenderly returned by his mistress, married without the Queen's knowledge, lost her favour for ever, and had nearly lost his head.[95]

That Lord Southampton is the subject of the first fifty-five Sonnets is sufficiently clear; andsome of these are perfectly beautiful,—as the 30th, 32d, 41st, 54th. There are others scattered through the rest of the volume, on the same subject; but there are many which admit of no such interpretation, and are without doubt inspired by the real object of a real passion, of whom nothing can be discovered, but that she was dark-eyed[96]and dark-haired,[96]that she excelled in music;[97]and that she was one of a class of females who do not always, in losing all right to our respect, lose also their claim to the admiration of the sex who wronged them, or the compassion of the gentler part of their own, who have rejected them. This is so clear from various passages, that unhappily there can be no doubt of it.[98]He has flung over her, designedly it should seem, a veil of immortal texture and fadeless hues, "branched and embroidered like the painted Spring," but almost impenetrable even to our imagination. There are few allusions to her personal beauty, which can inany way individualise her, but bursts of deep and passionate feeling, and eloquent reproach, and contending emotions, which show, that if she could awaken as much love and impart as much happiness as woman ever inspired or bestowed, he endured on her account all the pangs of agony, and shame, and jealousy;—that our Shakspeare,—he who, in the omnipotence of genius, wielded the two worlds of reality and imagination in either hand, who was in conception and in act scarce less than aGod, was in passion and suffering not more thanMan.

Instead of any elaborate description of her person, we have, in the only sonnet which sets forth her charms, the rich materials of a picture, rather than the picture itself.

Back to Index Next