Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

THE VISIONS OF PETRARCH,

FORMERLY TRANSLATED.

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.

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 myselfe 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 Laurell 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 com-
plaine;

For no such shadow shalbe had againe.

Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise
A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe,
Wherto 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 rejoyce.
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;
[houre,
Which yet aggreeves my hart even to this
And wounds my soule with rufull memorie,
To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.

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,
What say I more? each thing at last we see
And to the spring, that late devoured was.
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!

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 snowe 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 joy.
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!

DOUGLAS HOWARD,

DAUGHTER AND HEIRE OF HENRY LORD HOWARD, VISCOUNT BYNDON,
AND WIFE OF ARTHURE GORGES, ESQUIER.

DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE LADY

HELENA, MARQUESSE OF NORTHAMPTON.

BY ED. SP.

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
Poëme, for that the noble and vertuous Gentle-
woman 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 par-
ticular goodwill which I bear unto her husband
Master Arthur Gorges, a lover of learning
and vertue, whose house, as your Ladiship by
mariage 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 honour-
able 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 there-
fore 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 recommende this Pamphlet, and the
good acceptance thereof, to your honourable
favour and protection. London, this first of
Januarie, 1591.
Your Honours humbly ever.

DAPHNAÏDA.

WHAT-EVER man be he whose heavie minde, With griefe of mournefull great mishap opprest,

Fit matter for his cares increase would finde,

ED. SP.

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.

But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense,
Or in this wretched life dooth take delight,
Let him be banisht farre away from hence;
Ne let the sacred Sisters here be hight,
Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing;
For even their heavie song would breede de-
light;

But here no tunes, save sobs and grones, shall ring.

Yet halfe in doubt, because of his disgnize,
I softlie sayd, Alcyon! There-with-all
He lookt aside as in disdainefull wise,
Yet stayed not, till I againe did call: [sound,
Then, turning back, he saide, with hollow
Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall,
The wretchedst man that teades this day on
ground?'

'One, whome like wofulnesse, impressed deepe,
Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to heare,
And given like cause with thee to waile and
weepe;
[beare.

In stead of them, and their sweet harmonie,
Let those three fatall Sisters, whose sad hands
Doo weave the direfull threds of destinie,
And in their wrath breake off the vitall bands, Griefe findes some ease by him that like does
Approach hereto; and let the dreadfull Queene Then stay, Alcyon, gentle shepheard! stay,
Of Darkenes deepe come from the Stygian (Quoth 1) till thou have to my trustie eare
strands,
Committed what thee dooth so ill apay.'

And grisly Ghosts, to heare the dolefull teene.
In gloomie evening, when the wearie Sun,
After his dayes long labour drew to rest,
And sweatie steeds, now having overrun
The compast skie, gan water in the west,
I walkt abroade to breath the freshing ayre
In open fields, whose flowring pride, opprest
With early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.
There came unto my minde a troublous thought,
Which dayly dooth my weaker wit possesse,
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 lifes wretched-

nesse,

That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion.

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,

Cease, foolish man!' (saide he, halfe wrothfully)

To seeke to heare that which cannot be tolde, For the huge anguish, which dooth multiplye My dying paines, no tongue can well unfold; Ne doo I care that any should bemone My hard mishap, or any weepe that would, But seek e 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 To tell the cause which thee theretoo constrained,

Least that the world thee dead accuse of guilt, And say, when thou of none shalt be maintained,

That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilt.'

Who life dones loath, and longs to bee unbound From the strong shackles of fraile flesh,' quoth he, [ ground,

Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray,Nought cares at all what they, that live on

And Jaakob staffe in hand devoutlie crost, Like to some Pilgrim come from farre away. His carelesse locks uncombed and unshorne, Hong long adowne, and beard all overgrowne, That well he seemd to be sum wight forlorne; 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,
And by the semblant of his countenance
Me seemd I had his person seene elsewhere,
Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce;
Alcyon he, the jollie Shepheard swaine
That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce,
And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.

Deem the occasion of his death to bee; Rather desires to be forgotten quight, Than question made of his calamitie, For harts deep sorrow hates both life and light. Yet since so much thou seemst to rue my griefe, [nought, And carest for one that for himselfe cares (Signe of thy love, though nought for my reliefe, For my reliefe exceedeth living thought;) I will to thee this heavie case relate: Then harken well till it to ende bee brought, For never didst thou heare more haplesse fate. Whilome I usde (as thou right well doest know)

My little flocke on westerne downes to keepe, Not far from whence Sabrinaes streame doth

flow,

For being borne an auncient Lions haire,
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,

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,
Shee would all night by mee or watch or sleepe
And evermore when I did sleepe or play,
She of my flock would take full warie keepe.
'Safe then, and safest were my sillie sheepe,
Ne fear'd the Wolfe, ne fear'd the wildest beast,
All were I drown'd in carelesse quiet deepe;
My lovelie Lionesse without beheast
So carefull was for them, and for my good,
That when I waked, neither most nor least
I found miscaried or in plaine or wood.
'Oft did the Shepeheards, which my hap did
heare,

Long thus I joyed in my happinesse, And well did hope my joy would have no end, But oh, fond man! that in worlds ficklenesse 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, A cruell Satyre with his murdrous dart, Greedie of mischiefe, ranging all about, Gave her the fatall wound of deadlie smart, And reft fro me my sweete companion, And reft fro me my love, my life, my hart: My Lyonesse (ah, woe is mee!) is gon!

Out of the world thus was she reft awaie,
Out of the world, unworthie such a spoyle,
And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter pray;
Much fitter than the Lyon, which with toyle
Alcides slew, and fixt in firmament;
Her now I seek throughout this earthlie soyle,
And seeking misse, and missing doe lament.'
Therewith he gan afresh to waile and weepe,
That I for pittie of his heavie plight
Could not abstaine 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.
'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,
And be the vassall of his vassalesse;

Therefore more plaine areade this doubtfull [case.' Then sighing sore, 'Daphne thou knewest, quoth he,

She now is dead;' ne more endured to say,
But fell to ground for great extreamitie;
That I. beholding it, with deepe dismay
Was much appald, and, lightlie him uprearing,
Revoked life, that would have fled away,
All were my self, through griefe, in deadly
drearing.

Then gan I him to comfort all my best,
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 re-
strained,

And oft their lasses, which my luck envide,
Daylie resort to me from farre and neare,
To see my Lyonesse, whose praises wide
Were spred abroad; and when her worthinesse
Much greater than the rude report they tride, Becomes more fierce and fervent in his gate;
They her did praise, and my good fortune And, breaking foorth at last, thus dearnelie

blesse.

plained:

For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong; 'What man henceforth that breatheth vitall She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.

ayre

song.

Will honour heaven, or heavenlie powers adore, Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my under-
Which so unjustlie doe their judgments share
Mongst earthlie wightes, as to afflict so sore

The innocent, as those which do transgresse,What hart so stony hard but that would And do not spare the best or fayrest, more

weepe,

Than worst or fowlest, but doe both oppresse? And poure foorth fountaines of incessant teares?
What Timon but would let compassion creepe
Into his brest, and pierce his frosen eares?
In stead of teares, whose brackish bitter well,
I wasted have, my heart-blood dropping
[fell.
To thinke to ground how that faire blossome

If this be right, why did they then create
The world so fayre, sith fairenesse is neglected?
Or whie be they themselves immaculate,
If purest things be not by them respected?
She faire, shee pure, most faire, most pure shee

was,

Yet was by them as thing impure rejected;
Yet shee in purenesse heaven it selfe did pas.
In purenesse and in all celestiall grace,
That men admire in goodlie womankinde
She did excell, and seem'd of Angels race,
Living on earth like Angell new divinde,
Adorn'd with wisedome and with chastitie,
And all the dowries of a noble mind,
Which did her beautie much more beautifie.

'No age hath bred (since fayre Astræa left
The sinfull world) more vertue in a wight;
And, when she parted hence, with her she
reft
[quight.
Great hope, and robd her race of bountie
Well may the shepheard lasses now lament;
For dubble losse by her hath on them light,
To loose both her and bounties ornament.

'Ne let Elisa, royall Shepheardesse,
The praises of my parted love envy,
For she hath praises in all plenteousnesse
Powr'd upon her, like showers of Castaly,
By her own Shepheard, Colin, her owne Shep-
herd,

That her with heavenly hymnes doth deifie,
Of rustick muse full hardly to be betterd.

'She is the Rose, the glorie 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;

weares,

Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye,
Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent,
But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye,
So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went,
And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse;
The whiles soft death away her spirit hent,
And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.

Yet ere that life her lodging did forsake,
She, all resolv'd, and ready to remove,
Calling to me (ay me!) this wise bespake;
"Alcyon! ah, my first ani latest love!
Ah! why does my Alcyon weepe and mourne,
And grieve my ghost, that ill mote him be-
hove,
As if to me had chanst some evill tourne!
"I, since the messenger is come for mee,
That summons soules unto the bridale feast
Of his great Lord, must needes depart from thee,
And straight obay his soveraine beheast ;
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 dolor and disease,
Our life afflicted with incessant paine,
That nought on earth may lessen or appease;
Why then should I desire here to remaine!
Or why should he, that loves me, sorie bee
For my deliverance, or at all complaine
My good to heare, and toward joyes to see!
"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
Eternally Him praise that hath them blest;
There shall I be amongst those blessed ones.

Mine to be His, with him to live for ay.
O that so faire a flower so soone should fade,
And through untimely tempest fall away!
She fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil'st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her" Yet, ere I goe, a pledge I leave with thee
rinde,
[did bring, Of the late love the which betwixt us past,
And whilst her braunch faire blossomes foorth My yong Ambrosia; in lieu of mee,
Love her; so shall our love for ever last.
She fell away against all course of kinde.

« Previous Continue »

Books