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UNA AND THE LION.

FROM THE "FAERIE QUEENE," BOOK 1. CANTO 111.

ONE day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, From her unhastie beast she did alight; And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight; From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place; Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace.

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have attonce devoured her tender corse; But to the pray whenas he drew more ny, And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious His bloody rage aswagèd with remorse,§

forse.

Instead thereof, he kist her wearie feet, And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong; As he her wrongèd innocence did weet. || O how can beautie maister the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her hart gan melt in great compassion; And drizling teares did shed for pure affection.

"The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth abate, And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate : But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruell hart to hate Her, that him lovd, and ever most adord As the god of my life? why hath he me abhord ?"

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Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint, Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood; And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry moo!. At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood, And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, To seeke her strayed champion if she might attayne.

The lyon would not leave her desolate,
But with her went along, as a strong gard
Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard :
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and
ward;

And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard; From her fayre eyes he took commandment, And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.

EDMUND SPENSER.

THE BOWER OF BLISS.

FROM THE "FAERIE QUEENE," BOOK II. CANTO XII.

THERE the most daintie paradise on ground
Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye,
In which all pleasures plenteously abownd,
And none does others happinesse envye;
The painted flowres; the trees upshooting hye;
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.

One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned partes were mingled with the fine) That Nature had for wantonesse ensude + Art, and that Art at Nature did repine; So striving each th' other to undermine, Each did the others worke more beautify; So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine : So all agreed, through sweete diversity, This gardin to adorne with all variety.

And in the midst of all a fountaine stood,

Of richest substance that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny that the silver flood

Was over wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid ioyes.

And over all, of purest gold, was spred A trayle of yvie in his native hew; For the rich metall was so coloured, That wight, who did not well avised it vew, Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew: Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe, That, themselves dipping in the silver dew, Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe, Which drops of christall seemed for wantones to

weep.

Infinit streames continually did well

Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,
The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantitie,
That like a little lake it seemed to bee;
Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,
That through the waves one might the bottom

see,

All pav'd beneath with iaspar shining bright, That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.

Eftsoons 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 harmonee; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all

agree:

The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall; The waters fall, with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

EDMUND SPENSER.

THE LADY LOST IN THE WOOD.

FROM "COMUS."

THIS way the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now; methought it was the sound

Through every channell running one might see; Of riot and ill-inanaged merriment,
Most goodly it with curious ymageree

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Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe

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Stirs up amongst the loose, unlettered hinds,
When for their teeming flocks and granges full
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath
To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence
Of such late wassailers; yet O, where else
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood?
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out
With this long way, resolving here to lodge
Under the spreading favor of these pines,
Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket side
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit
As the kind, hospitable woods provide.
They left me then, when the gray-hooded even,
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back,

Is now the labor of my thoughts: 't is likeliest
They had engaged their wandering steps too far,
And envious darkness, ere they could return,
Had stole them from me; else, O thievish night,
Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars,
That nature hung in heaven, and filled their
lamps

With everlasting oil, to give due light
To the misled and lonely traveller?.
This is the place, as well as I may guess,
Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth
Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear,
Yet naught but single darkness do I find.
What might this be? A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues, that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.

These thoughts may startle well, but not astound

The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.

O welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemished form of Chastity;
I see you visibly, and now believe

Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the sceptre from his father Brute.
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
Of her enraged stepdame Guendolen,
Commended her fair innocence to the flood,
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing

course.

The water-nymphs that in the bottom played,
Held up their pearlèd wrists, and took her in,
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall,
Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel,
And through the porch and inlet of each sense
Dropped in ambrosial oils, till she revived,
And underwent a quick immortal change,
Made Goddess of the river: still she retains
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve
Visits the herds along the twilight meadows,
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs
That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make,
Which she with precious vialed liquors heals;
For which the shepherds at their festivals
Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,
And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream
Of pansies pinks, and gaudy daffodils.

MILTON

THE HAUNT OF THE SORCERER.

FROM "COMUS."

WITHIN the navel of this hideous wood,
Immured in cypress shades a sorcerer dwells,
Of Bacchus and of Circè born, great Comus,
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries;
And here to every thirsty wanderer
By sly enticement gives his baneful cup,
With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing
poison

And the inglorious likeness of a beast
The visage quite transforms of him that drinks,

Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage
Charactered in the face: this I have learnt

That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly crofts,

Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
To keep my life and honor unassailed.

MILTON.

THE NYMPH OF THE SEVERN.

FROM "COMUS."

THERE is a gentle nymph not far from hence That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn

stream.

Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure;

That brow this bottom-glade, whence night by

night,

He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl,
Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey,
Doing abhorred rites to Hecatè

In their obscurèd haunts of inmost bowers.
Yet have they many baits, and guileful spells,
T' inveigle and invite the unwary sense
Of them that pass unweeting by the way.
This evening late, by them the chewing flocks
Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb
Of knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in fold,

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PASSION and pain, the outcry of despair,

The pang of the unattainable desire,

And youth's delight in pleasures that expire,
And sweet high dreamings of the good and fair
Clashing in swift soul-storm, through which no prayer
Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke dire.

Then through a mighty sorrowing, as through fire,
The soul burnt pure yearns forth into the air
Of the dear earth and, with the scent of flowers
And song of birds assuaged, takes heart again,
Made cheerier with this drinking of God's wine,
And turns with healing to the world of men,
And high above a sweet strong angel towers,
And Love makes life triumphant and divine.

RICHARD HOVEY.

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