EDMUND SPENSER.

1552-1598.

SPENSER is said to have been in love twice; once in his youth with a hard-hearted damsel, who scorned him, and married a rival, and again in his riper years with a lady whom he married. Nothing is known of either, except that the name of the last was Elizabeth. He is supposed to have met the first, somewhere in the north of England, in 1577 or '78, certainly not later than "79, when he published "THE SHEPHERD's CALENDAR," in which she figured as Rosalinde. E. K., who wrote a gloss to the poem, tells us that Rosalinde is "a fained name, which being well ordered will bewray the verie name of his love and mistresse, whom by that name he coloureth." Who E. K. was, and how he happened to know Spenser's secret, if he did know it, is a mystery. Some real name was undoubtedly hidden in the fictitious one of Rosalinde, but what name? Of whom was Rosalinde the anagram? The question has never been answered satisfactorily. A writer in "THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY," for November, 1858, conjectures it to have been that of Rose Daniel, a sister of Samuel Daniel, the poet. This theory is ingenious, to say the least, but there are, it seems to me, some chronological objections to it. That Spenser and Daniel were acquainted, and that the latter had a sister named Rose, is true; but that Spenser was acquainted with her, especially when he is said to have been in love with Rosalinde, is mere conjecture. There is no reason to believe that he knew Daniel then: for Daniel was his junior by nine or ten years; was from a different county, (Spenser being born in London, and Daniel near Taunton, in Somersetshire,) and was about entering, if he had not already entered, college. He was admitted a Commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, in 1579, at which time Spenser, who was educated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, was in Kent, having left college in 1576, or '77. The chances are rather against this early acquaintance of the two poets. Still, they may have known each other, and Rose Daniel may have been the Rosalinde of "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR." All that is known of Miss Rose is, that she married Resolute John Florio, and at his death, in 1625, was remembered in his will. Daniel, the reader will remember, married Florio's sister, Justina.

After the publication of "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR," Spenser proceeded to Ireland, where he remained for a number of years. In 1586, he received from Queen Elizabeth, the grant of the manor and castle of Kilcolman, with other lands, amounting in all to

3,028 acres, in the barony of Fermoy, county of Cork. He took possession of his Irish estate, and began, it would seem, to look about for a wife. His courtship commenced in the latter part of 1592, and he was married on St. Barnabas's day, (the 11th of June, O. S.) 1594. How he fared in this interval-what hopes and fears were his-the old yet ever new story of a lover's life-is seen in his sonnets. He sent them to England after his marriage, and they were published in 1595, under the title of “AMORETTI."

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The name of Spenser's wife was Elizabeth, as I have already mentioned, but who she was is unknown. She is called a country lass in "THE FAIRY QUEEN," and in "THE EPITHALAMION " is said to live near the sea. The writer of the article in "THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY " has a similar theory in relation to her. He transposes the word "Angel," which occurs quite often in the sonnets-too often, he thinks, for poetical purposes merely—and produces the word "Nagle," which he assumes to have been her name. A family of Nagles lived in the county of Cork in Spenser's day. They were divided into two branches, and distinguished according to the colour of their hair, as the Red Nagles, and the Black Nagles. The lord, or chieftain, of the former resided at Moneanymmy, an ancient preceptory of the Knights of St. John, situated on the banks of the Mulla, at a little distance from Kilcolman. It is not certain that there was an Elizabeth in this family in 1592–94, (the records, unfortunately, preserve only the name of the male heir,) but if there was one, there is no reason why Spenser should not have married her. I have no more objection to this theory than to the former one, so, with the reader's permission, the supposititious Elizabeth Nagle shall be Spenser's wife, and Rose Daniel his first love, Rosalinde.

New Year, forth looking out of Janus' gate,
Doth seem to promise hope of new delight,
And, bidding th' old adieu, his passéd date,
Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish sprite ;
And calling forth out of sad Winter's night

Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerless bower,

Wills him awake, and soon about him dight
His wanton wings and darts of deadly power.

For lusty Spring now in his timely hour

Is ready to come forth, him to receive;

And warns the Earth with divers-coloured flower

To deck herself, and her fair mantle weave.

Then you, fair flower! in whom fresh youth doth reign,
Prepare yourself new love to entertain.

The merry cuckoo, messenger of Spring,

His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded,

That warns all lovers wait upon their king,
Who now is coming forth with garland crownéd.
With noise whereof the quire of birds resounded
Their anthems sweet, deviséd of love's praise,
That all the woods their echoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their lays.
But 'mongst them all which did Love's honour raise,
No word was heard of her that most it ought;

But she his precept proudly disobeys,

And doth his idle message set at nought.

Therefore, O Love, unless she turn to thee
Ere cuckoo end, let her a rebel be!

This holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclined:
Therefore, I, likewise, on so holy day,

For my sweet saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind,

In which her glorious image placéd is;

On which my thoughts do day and night attend,
Like sacred priests that never think amiss.
There I to her, as th' author of my bliss,
Will build an altar to appease her ire,
And on the same my heart will sacrifice,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire:

The which vouchsafe, O Goddess, to accept,
Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.

What guile is this, that those her golden tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold,
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair may scarce be told?
Is it that men's frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare;
And, being caught, may craftily enfold

Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware?

Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrappéd are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Fondness it were for any, being free,

To covet fetters, though they golden be!

Mark when she smiles with amiable cheer,
And tell me whereto can ye liken it;
When on each eyelid sweetly do appear
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit.
Likest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fair sunshine in summer's day,
That, when a dreadful storm away is flit,

Through the broad world doth spread his goodly ray;
At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray,

And every beast that to his den was fled,
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,

And to the light lift up their drooping head.

So my storm-beaten heart likewise is cheered
With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared.

When my abode's prefixéd time is spent,

My cruel fair straight bids me wend my way:

But then from heaven most hideous storms are sent,
As willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I-or heaven, or her obey?
The heavens know best what is the best for me :
But as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
My lower heaven, so it perforce must be.
But ye, high heavens, that all this sorrow see,
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me back,
Assuage your storms, or else both you and she
Will both together me too sorely wrack.

Enough it is for one man to sustain

The storms which she alone on me doth rain.

The glorious image of the Maker's beauty,
My sovereign saint, the idol of my thought,
Dare not henceforth, above the bounds of duty,
T'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for aught.
For being, as she is, divinely wrought,
And of the brood of angels heavenly born,
And with the crew of blessed saints up-brought,
Each of which did her with their gifts adorn,
The bud of joy, the blossom of the morn,
The beam of light, whom mortal eyes admire,
What reason is it then but she should scorn
Base things, that to her love too bold aspire!

Such heavenly forms ought rather worshipped be,
Than dare be loved by men of mean degree.

Like as an huntsman, after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds, beguiléd of their prey ;
So, after long pursuit and vain essay,
When I all-weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle deer returned the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she, beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did 'bide,
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good will her firmly tied.

Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.

The famous warriours of the antique world
Used trophies to erect in stately wise,

In which they would the records have enrolled
Of their great deeds and valorous emprize.
What trophy then shall I most fit devise,
In which I may record the memory