Better Know a Poet #1.2: Edmund Spenser, concluded
I composed the bulk of this post while listening to 28 Irish Pub Songs. I feel weirdly dissonant now.
Submitted for your approval, the conclusion of my quickie survey of the life and works of Edmund Spenser. This half probably will be less amusing than the first, because most of the stuff Spenser was involved in in the eighties and nineties is just not really something you can make funny (I admit, too, to skipping over a lot if it, due to anxiety and lack of in-depth knowledge and desire to include more poetry).
But, on a more positive note, there is much more poetry in it! Even though I feel like I'm giving The Faerie Queene really short shrift (and there's a LOT of Faerie Queene in this post). There is also at least one free and legal music download.
When we last left our protagonist, he had been shipped off to Ireland as secretary to Arthur Lord Grey, Lord Deputy of Ireland. The 1580s and especially '90s marked a resurgence of interest in the perennial English project of Squishing the Irish Once and For All, so things got active pretty quickly. In August 1580 Grey's forces were defeated by Feach Machugh O'Byrne at Glenmalure; those of you who are into folk music may know the song "Follow Me Up to Carlow," in which this battle is mentioned; it is just possible that Spenser was actually there, though I can't remember where I read that. (Good song, btw.) The English did better for themselves in another endeavor Sir Walter Ralegh (of whom more later) had been leading a military expedition against various Italian and possibly Spanish forces and their Irish supporters at Smerwick; the expedition, rather improbably, was successful, and Spenser accompanied Grey on his march to Munster, where these forces were under siege at Fort d'Oro; the fort capitulated in November of 1580.
Spenser spent a lot of the 1580s doing various regional-level bureaucratic and occasionally military things (particularly after Grey was recalled to England in 1582), and attempting to secure land grants.
To turn now to other bits of international kerfuffling in which the English were involved at about this time, in 1586 Sir Philip Sidney, who had been part of the same social circles as Spenser in the late 1570s, was killed in battle at Zutphen in the Netherlands, where the English had been involved on behalf of Dutch Protestants against the Spanish; he was shot in the thigh and died of infection some days later. Spenser wrote him a rather lovely elegy called Astrophel, so named after Sidney's avatar in the sonnet cycle Astrophel and Stella. It headlined a collection of elegies, which are reproduced in the link I've given. Some of it follows here:
Stella the faire, the fairest star in skie,
As faire as Venus or the fairest faire:
A fairer star saw neuer liuing eie,
[S]hot her sharp pointed beames through purest aire.
Her he did loue, her he alone did honor,
His thoughts, his rimes, his songs were all vpõ her.
To her he vowd the seruice of his daies,
On her he spent the riches of his wit:
For her he made hymnes of immortall praise,
Of onely her he sung, he thought, he writ.
Her, and but her of loue he deemed,
For all the rest but little he esteemed.
Ne her with ydle words alone he wowed,
And verses vaine (yet verses are not vaine)
But with braue deeds to her sole seruice vowed,
And bold achieuements her did entertaine.
For both in deeds and words he nourtred was,
Both wise and hardie (too hardie alas).
In wrestling nimble, and in renning swift,
In shooting steddie, and in swimming strong:
Well made to strike, to throw, to leape, to lift,
And all the sports that shepheards are emong.
In euery one he vanquisht euery one,
He vanquist all, and vanquisht was of none.
Besides, in hunting such felicitie,
Or rather infelicitie he found:
That euery field and forest far away,
He sought, where saluage beasts do most abound.
No beast so saluage but he could it kill,
No chace so hard, but he therein had skill.
Such skill matcht with such courage as he had,
Did prick him foorth with proud desire of praise:
To seek abroad, of daunger nought y'drad,
His mistresse name, and his owne fame to raise.
What need[eth] perill to be sought abroad,
Since round about vs, it doth make aboad?
It fortuned as he, that perlous game
In forreine soyle pursued far away:
Into a forest wide, and waste he came
Where store he heard to be of saluage pray.
So wide a forest and so waste as this,
Nor famous Ardeyn, nor fowle Arlo is.
There his welwouen toyles and subtil traines,
He laid the brutish nation to enwrap:
So well he wrought with practise and with paines,
That he of them great troups did soone entrap.
Full happie man (misweening much) was hee,
So rich a spoile within his power to see.
Eftsoones all heedlesse of his dearest hale,
Full greedily into the heard he thrust:
To slaughter them, and work their finall bale,
Least that his tolye should of their troups be brust.
Wide wounds emongst them many a one he made,
Now with his sharp borespeare, now with his blade.
His care was all how he them all might kill,
That none might scape (so partiall vnto none)
Ill mynd so much to mynd anothers ill,
As to become vnmyndfull of his owne.
But pardon that vnto the cruell skies,
That from himselfe to them withdrew his eies.
So as he rag'd emongst that beastly rout,
A cruell beast of most accursed brood:
Vpon him turnd (despeyre makes cowards stout)
And with fell tooth accustomed to blood,
Launched his thigh with so mischieuous might,
That it both bone and muscles ryued quight.
So deadly was the dint and deep the wound,
And so huge streames of blood thereout did flow:
That he endured not the direfull stound,
But on the cold deare earth himselfe did throw.
The whiles the captiue heard his nets did rend,
And hauing none to let, to wood did wend.
Ah where were ye this while his shepheard peares,
To whom aliue was nought so deare as hee:
And ye faire Mayds the matches of his yeares,
Which in his grace did boast you most to bee?
Ah where were ye, when he of you had need,
To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed?
Ah wretched boy the shape of dreryhead,
And sad ensample of mans suddein end:
Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead,
Vnpitied, vnplaynd, of foe or frend.
Whilest none is nigh, thine eylids vp to close,
And kisse thy lips like faded leaues of rose.
In 1589, Spenser occupied the castle of Kilcolman and its accompanying estates, which had belonged to the Earl of Desmond, who had rebelled and been executed; in 1590, he received a grant confirming his ownership. It was also in 1589 that he was paid a visit at Kilcolman by Sir Walter Ralegh, an important moment because it was at this time that Ralegh became acquainted with a bit of poetry Spenser had been dashing off when not being a colonial oppressor. In other words, we've arrived at what you've all been waiting for: the publication of the most daunting poem in the Elizabethan corpus: The Faerie Queene. I have a complicated relationship with it, myself; it took me three months to read it all, and I spent a lot of that time pulling my hair. I certainly won't be able to do it justice in this space; I'm not sure that any space really can do it justice, because it is enormous, literally and in terms of significance and amount of meaning it contains.
The complete text of the poem is located here and I do encourage you all to peruse it. Do look at the later books, especially; so many people never get past Book I, and there is some great stuff later on.
Spenser first makes reference to The Faerie Queene in correspondance with Gabriel Harvey, published in 1580; by 1589, it was a fairly well-developed idea, if only a third completed (or halfway, if you count by what he ever actually ended up finishing). He explains what he thinks the poem is about in a dedicatory letter (which is fascinating, btw, from a literary-theory standpoint; I recommend it) to Ralegh:
The generall end therefore of all the booke is to fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline: Which for that I conceiued shoulde be most plausible and pleasing, being coloured with an historicall fiction, the which the most part of men delight to read, rather for variety of matter, then for profite of the ensample: I chose the historye of king Arthure, as most fitte for the excellency of his person being made famous by many mens former workes, and also furthest from the daunger of enuy, and suspition of present time...I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before he was king, the image of a braue knight, perfected in the twelue morall vertues, as Aristotle hath deuised, the which is the purpose of these first twelue bookes: which if I finde to be well accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged, to frame the other part of polliticke vertues in his person, after that hee came to be king. To some I know this Methode will seeme displeasaunt, which had rather haue good discipline deliuered plainly in way of precepts, or sermoned at large, as they vse, then thus clowdily enrapped in Allegoricall deuises. But such, me seeme, should be satisfide with the vse of these dayes seeing all things accounted by their showes, and nothing esteemed of, that is not delightfull and pleasing to commune sence.
But it's about a lot of things, really: Protestantism and Englishness -- Britishness, I should say, rather -- and how to read an allegorical epic poem, and, really, basically everything. The setup of the poem, as you've discerned from the dedicatory letter, is that each book tells the story of a knight who represents a particular virtue: holiness, temperance, chastity, friendship, justice, and courtesy (in the old-fashioned sense of "courtly values" -- a term not without irony by the time Spenser gets to writing it).
Book I is the part that's most often anthologized, and this is because it is foundational as far as the epic is concerned, since it's very strongly engaged with religion and nationalism; the story concerns the adventures of the Redcrosse Knight (aka baby St. George) and the lady Una, representing the One True Church (and sometimes Elizabeth or Anne Boleyn) and Prince (later King) Arthur, and their encounters with such nasty papist types as the wizard Archimago, the giant Orgoglio, the insane vomiting dragon Errour, and most of all the sorceress Duessa (who frequently plays the role of all the hostile Catholic queens named Mary from this period), who is described in Whore-of-Babylon-like rhetoric:
And after him the proud Duessa came,
High mounted on her manyheaded beast,
And euery head with fyrie tongue did flame,
And euery head was crowned on his creast,
And bloudie mouthed with late cruell feast.
That when the knight beheld, his mightie shild
Vpon his manly arme he soone addrest,
And at him fiercely flew, with courage fild,
And eger greedinesse through euery member thrild.
Here I'll reproduce for you one of the shiniest nationalist passages in the poem. This is the point where the Redcrosse Knight, having repented for falling in with Duessa, has his destiny revealed to him, that he's going to grow up to be St. George:
From thence, far off he vnto him did shew
A litle path, that was both steepe and long,
Which to a goodly Citie led his vew;
Whose wals and towres were builded high and strong
Of perle and precious stone, that earthly tong
Cannot describe, nor wit of man can tell;
Too high a ditty for my simple song;
The Citie of the great king hight it well,
Wherein eternall peace and happinesse doth dwell.
As he thereon stood gazing, he might see
The blessed Angels to and fro descend
From highest heauen, in gladsome companee,
And with great ioy into that Citie wend,
As commonly as friend does with his frend.
Whereat he wondred much, and gan enquere,
What stately building durst so high extend
Her loftie towres vnto the starry sphere,
And what vnknowen nation there empeopled were.
Faire knight (quoth he) Hierusalem that is,
The new Hierusalem, that God has built
For those to dwell in, that are chosen his,
His chosen people purg'd from sinfull guilt,
With pretious bloud, which cruelly was spilt
On cursed tree, of that vnspotted lam,
That for the sinnes of all the world was kilt:
Now are they Saints all in that Citie sam,
More deare vnto their God, then younglings to their dam.
Till now, said then the knight, I weened well,
That great Cleopolis, where I haue beene,
In which that fairest Faerie Queene doth dwell,
The fairest Citie was, that might be seene;
And that bright towre all built of christall cleene,
Panthea, seemd the brightest thing, that was:
But now by proofe all otherwise I weene;
For this great Citie that does far surpas,
And this bright Angels towre quite dims that towre of glas.
Most trew, then said the holy aged man;
Yet is Cleopolis for earthly frame,
The fairest peece, that eye beholden can:
And well beseemes all knights of noble name,
That couet in th'immortall booke of fame
To be eternized, that same to haunt,
And doen their seruice to that soueraigne Dame,
That glorie does to them for guerdon graunt:
For she is heauenly borne, and heauen may iustly vaunt.
And thou faire ymp, sprong out from English race,
How euer now accompted Elfins sonne,
Well worthy doest thy seruice for her grace,
To aide a virgin desolate foredonne.
But when thou famous victorie hast wonne,
And high emongst all knights hast hong thy shield,
Thenceforth the suit of earthly conquest shonne,
And wash thy hands from guilt of bloudy field:
For bloud can nought but sin, & wars but sorrowes yield.
Then seeke this path, that I to thee presage,
Which after all to heauen shall thee send;
Then peaceably thy painefull pilgrimage
To yonder same Hierusalem do bend,
Where is for thee ordaind a blessed end:
For thou emongst those Saints, whom thou doest see,
Shalt be a Saint, and thine owne nations frend
And Patrone: thou Saint George shalt called bee,
Saint George of mery England, the signe of victoree.
Vnworthy wretch (quoth he) of so great grace,
How dare I thinke such glory to attaine?
These that haue it attaind, were in like cace
(Quoth he) as wretched, and liu'd in like paine.
But deeds of armes must I at last be faine,
And Ladies loue to leaue so dearely bought?
What need of armes, where peace doth ay remaine,
(Said he) and battailes none are to be fought?
As for loose loues they are vaine, and vanish into nought.
O let me not (quoth he) then turne againe
Backe to the world, whose ioyes so fruitlesse are;
But let me here for aye in peace remaine,
Or streight way on that last long voyage fare,
That nothing may my present hope empare.
That may not be (said he) ne maist thou yit
Forgo that royall maides bequeathed care,
Who did her cause into thy hand commit,
Till from her cursed foe thou haue her freely quit.
Then shall I soone, (quoth he) so God me grace,
Abet that virgins cause disconsolate,
And shortly backe returne vnto this place,
To walke this way in Pilgrims poore estate.
But now aread, old father, why of late
Didst thou behight me borne of English blood,
Whom all a Faeries sonne doen nominate?
That word shall I (said he) auouchen good,
Sith to thee is vnknowne the cradle of thy brood.
For well I wote, thou springst from ancient race
Of Saxon kings, that haue with mightie hand
And many bloudie battailes fought in place
High reard their royall throne in Britans land,
And vanquisht them, vnable to withstand:
From thence a Faerie thee vnweeting reft,
There as thou slepst in tender swadling band,
And her base Elfin brood there for thee left.
Such men do Chaungelings call, so chaungd by Faeries theft.
Thence she thee brought into this Faerie lond,
And in an heaped furrow did thee hyde,
Where thee a Ploughman all vnweeting fond,
As he his toylesome teme that way did guyde,
And brought thee vp in ploughmans state to byde,
Whereof Georgos he thee gaue to name;
Till prickt with courage, and thy forces pryde,
To Faery court thou cam'st to seeke for fame,
And proue thy puissaunt armes, as seemes thee best became.
O holy Sire (quoth he) how shall I quight
The many fauours I with thee haue found,
That hast my name and nation red aright,
And taught the way that does to heauen bound?
This said, adowne he looked to the ground,
To haue returnd, but dazed were his eyne,
Through passing brightnesse, which did quite confound
His feeble sence, and too exceeding shyne.
So darke are earthly things compard to things diuine.
Raleigh was impressed enough by the poem that he invited Spenser to return to England, where he met Queen Elizabeth and read some of the poem to her; she appears to have been duly impressed. I mean, wouldn't you be? Though I do wonder if he read the part about the House of Pride:
High aboue all a cloth of State was spred,
And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day,
On which there sate most braue embellished
With royall robes and gorgeous array,
A mayden Queene, that shone as Titans ray,
In glistring gold, and peerelesse pretious stone:
Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay
To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne,
As enuying her selfe, that too exceeding shone.
Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fairest childe,
That did presume his fathers firie wayne,
And flaming mouthes of steedes vnwonted wilde
Through highest heauen with weaker hand to rayne;
Proud of such glory and aduancement vaine,
While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen,
He leaues the welkin way most beaten plaine,
And rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen,
With fire not made to burne, but fairely for to shyne.
So proud she shyned in her Princely state,
Looking to heauen; for earth she did disdayne,
And sitting high; for lowly she did hate:
Lo vnderneath her scornefull feete, was layne
A dreadfull Dragon with an hideous trayne,
And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright,
Wherein her face she often vewed fayne,
And in her selfe-lou'd semblance tooke delight;
For she was wondrous faire, as any liuing wight.
Of griesly Pluto she the daughter was,
And sad Proserpina the Queene of hell;
Yet did she thinke her pearelesse wroth to pas
That parentage, with pride so did she swell,
And thundring Ioue, that high in heauen doth dwell,
And wield the world, she claymed for her syre,
Or if that any else did Ioue excell:
For to the highest she did still aspyre,
Or if ought higher were then that, did it desyre.
And proud Lucifera men did her call,
That made her selfe a Queene, and crownd to be,
Yet rightfull kingdome she had none at all,
Ne heritage of natiue soueraintie,
But did vsurpe with wrong and tyrannie
Vpon the scepter, which she now did hold:
Ne ruld her Realmes with lawes, but pollicie,
And strong aduizement of six wisards old,
That with their counsels bad her kingdome did vphold.
I think you can see why passages like this would not have impressed Elizabeth so much! While much in The Faerie Queene praises Elizabeth highly -- there is, after all, a reason the name "Gloriana" has stuck to her -- there is also plenty of criticism, and it's certainly possible to see Elizabeth in the "mayden Queene" Lucifera, supported by sleazy councilors (the rest of the Seven Deadly Sins, actually, who are described in a passage I highly recommend for its splendid display of Spenser's knack for the grotesque) as well as in Gloriana or Britomart or Una. After all, the poem reflects the anxieties of the 1590s as much as it does the time's aspirations.
Spenser appears to have spent his time in England trying to get royal patronage so that he could stay there and do poety things rather than having to go back to Ireland (and thus a Marlowe: Gay Atheist Spy spinoff was born). This did not, however, pan out, though Elizabeth did grant him a pension. While in England, Spenser also took the time to publish the Complaints, which included Mother Hubberds Tale (discussed in my last post), and thus he again found himself in hot water for his satire on William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, no fan of Spenser's -- indeed, the Complaints were suppressed in 1591. Cecil also appears to have taken offense at the original and rather sexy ending of FQ Book III (scroll to the bottom; these are the stanzas in a smaller font). Spenser consequently snarks at him some more in the opening to Book IV, published in 1596:
THe rugged forhead that with graue foresight
Welds kingdomes causes, & affaires of state,
My looser rimes (I wote) doth sharply wite,
For praising loue, as I haue done of late,
And magnifying louers deare debate;
By which fraile youth is oft to follie led,
Through false allurement of that pleasing baite,
That better were in vertues discipled,
Then with vaine poemes weeds to haue their fancies fed.
Such ones ill iudge of loue, that cannot loue,
Ne in their frosen hearts feele kindly flame:
For thy, they ought not thing vnknowne reproue,
Ne naturall affection faultlesse blame,
For fault of few that haue abusd the same.
For it of honor and all vertue is
The roote, and brings forth glorious flowres of fame,
That crowne true louers with immortall blis,
The meed of them that loue, and do not liue amisse.
Which who so list looke backe to former ages,
And call to count the things that then were donne,
Shall find, that all the workes of those wise sages,
And braue exploits which great Heroes wonne,
In loue were either ended or begunne:
Witnesse the father of Philosophie,
Which to his Critias, shaded oft from sunne,
Of loue full manie lessons did apply,
The which these Stoicke censours cannot well deny.
To such therefore I do not sing at all,
But to that sacred Saint my soueraigne Queene,
In whose chast breast all bountie naturall,
And treasures of true loue enlocked beene,
Boue all her sexe that euer yet was seene;
To her I sing of loue, that loueth best,
And best is lou'd of all aliue I weene:
To her this song most fitly is addrest,
The Queene of loue, & Prince of peace from heauen blest.
In 1591, Spenser returned to Ireland; he deals with his experience in England and his feelings of alienation in the pastoral poem Colin Cloutes Come Home Again, which I've read a bit about but haven't actually read, because I suck, so I shall have to pass over it for now, with a link to the text. On a more cheerful note, in 1594 Spenser married Elizabeth Boyle, who came from a notable and well-to-do Anglo-Irish family. Do you remember Boyle's Law from your chemistry classes? Same family. They later have a son named Peregrine, who was probably not nicknamed Pippin, although he totally should have been.
Spenser's courtship of Elizabeth Boyle and their subsequent marriage forms the basis of the sonnet cycle Amoretti. The Amoretti are rather unusual among sonnet sequences in that the poet-speaker actually gets the girl at the end! Though it does, of course, start out with the usual angst of an Elizabethan sonnet sequence, and occasionally yields some interesting glances at Spenser's poetic and political careers, as here when he complains of having issues finishing The Faerie Queene -- which he never did get around to doing, actually; the version that we have is only half of what Spenser planned, as he intended to follow the classics and write twelve books.
GREAT wrong I doe, I can it not deny,
to that most sacred Empresse my dear dred,
not finishing her Queene of faëry,
that mote enlarge her liuing prayses dead:
But lodwick, this of grace to me aread:
doe ye not thinck th' accomplishment of it,
sufficient worke for one mans simple head,
all were it as the rest, but rudely writ.
How then should I without another wit:
thinck euer to endure so tædious toyle,
sins that this one is tost with troublous fit,
of a proud loue, that doth my spirite spoyle.
Ceasse then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest,
or lend you me another liuing brest.
(Lodwick is Spenser's friend Lodwick Bryskett -- talk about your unfortunate names!)
The Amoretti are also notable for displaying some rather freaky twists on the conventions of the sonnet cycles: while it starts out with the usual configuration where you have abject poet and distant domina, the whole thing gets turned on its head and the bondage metaphors so common in sonnet cycles get reversed:
I IOY to see how in your drawen work,
Your selfe vnto the Bee ye doe compare;
and me vnto the Spyder that doth lurke,
in close awayt to catch her vnaware.
Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
of a deare foe, and thralled to his loue:
in whose streight bands ye now captiued are
so firmely, that ye neuer may remoue.
But as your worke is wouen all aboue,
with woodbynd flowers and fragrant Eglantine:
so sweet your prison you in time shall proue,
with many deare delights bedecked fyne.
And all thensforth eternall peace shall see
betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.
Spenser, as it turns out, is a bit kinky. This is also evident in various bits of The Faerie Queene, thoughtfully compiled by lnhammer (and doesn't even get all of them!), and in things like this passage from Epithalamion, the wedding poem that is the culmination of the Amoretti:
WHO is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face, that shines so bright,
Is it not Cinthia, she that neuer sleepes,
But walkes about high heauen al the night?
O fayrest goddesse, do thou not enuy
My loue with me to spy:
For thou likewise didst loue, though now vnthought,
And for a fleece of woll, which priuily,
The Latmian shephard once vnto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought,
Therefore to vs be fauorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline they will t'effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing,
Ne let the woods vs answere, nor our Eccho ring.
If you remember that Cynthia, as the name of a moon goddess, was a common appellation for Elizabeth, and cross-reference the sonnet about not working on The Faerie Queene -- well. This is a disturbing little passage, isn't it?
(I do love the Epithalamion, though. It is a happy if occasionally weird poem. Also it is specific enough that I know that I was born on Spenser's 385th wedding anniversary. That makes me happy in a geeky sort of way.)
The second half of The Faerie Queene (such as it is) was finally published in 1596, though probably finished rather earlier. It's not as often taught/anthologized/whatever as the first half is, and it is thornier and more political. It also features perhaps the first robot in English literature, as Artegall, principal figure in Book V ("Of Justice") is accompanied by "an yron man" who kicks ass with a flail. Seriously.
Book V is the most topical part of the whole poem: it features references to Henri IV of France's conversion to Catholicism, Philip II of Spain's generally being a dick, and a rather in-depth coded depiction of the trial of Mary Queen of Scots -- the trial of Duessa, whom you'll remember from before, is based on Mary's. Her son, James VI of Scotland (later to become James I of England), objected rather strenuously to this, perhaps more so than he objected to the actual events, so it may have been well for Spenser that he died before James became king of England.
It also has purple man-eating cows. Nobody ever believes me when I say this, so I shall quote the relevant passage:
And sooth they say, that he was borne and bred
Of Gyants race, the sonne of Geryon,
He that whylome in Spaine so sore was dred,
For his huge powre and great oppression,
Which brought that land to his subiection,
Through his three bodies powre, in one combynd;
And eke all strangers in that region
Arryuing, to his kyne for food assynd;
The fayrest kyne aliue, but of the fiercest kynd.
For they were all, they say, of purple hew,
Kept by a cowheard, hight Eurytion,
A cruell carle, the which all strangers slew,
Ne day nor night did sleepe, t'attend them on,
But walkt about them euer and anone...
And, of course, features perhaps the most famous chick fight in English literature, which I shall quote for you here. In this passage, the really badass female knight Britomart saves her betrothed, Artegall, from the Amazon queen Radigund (another Mary Queen of Scots figure; this poem is full of fragmented depictions of important and/or notorious women):
Full fiercely layde the Amazon about,
And dealt her blowes vnmercifully sore:
Which Britomart withstood with courage stout,
And them repaide againe with double more.
So long they fought, that all the grassie flore
Was fild with bloud, which from their sides did flow,
And gushed through their armes, that all in gore
They trode, and on the ground their liues did strow,
Like fruitles seede, of which vntimely death should grow.
At last proud Radigund with fell despight,
Hauing by chaunce espide aduantage neare,
Let driue at her with all her dreadfull might,
And thus vpbrayding sayd; This token beare
Vnto the man, whom thou doest loue so deare;
And tell him for his sake thy life thou gauest.
Which spitefull words she sore engrieu'd to heare,
Thus answer'd; Lewdly thou my loue deprauest,
Who shortly must repent that now so vainely brauest.
Nath'lesse that stroke so cruell passage found,
That glauncing on her shoulder plate, it bit
Vnto the bone, and made a griesly wound,
That she her shield through raging smart of it
Could scarse vphold; yet soone she it requit.
For hauing force increast through furious paine,
She her so rudely on the helmet smit,
That it empierced to the very braine,
And her proud person low prostrated on the plaine.
Where being layd, the wrothfull Britonesse
Stayd not, till she came to her selfe againe,
But in reuenge both of her loues distresse,
And her late vile reproch, though vaunted vaine,
And also of her wound, which sore did paine,
She with one stroke both head and helmet cleft.
Which dreadfull sight, when all her warlike traine
There present saw, each one of sence bereft,
Fled fast into the towne, and her sole victor left.
But yet so fast they could not home retrate,
But that swift Talus did the formost win;
And pressing through the preace vnto the gate,
Pelmell with them attonce did enter in.
There then a piteous slaughter did begin:
For all that euer came within his reach,
He with his yron flale did thresh so thin,
That he no worke at all left for the leach:
Like to an hideous storme, which nothing may empeach.
And now by this the noble Conqueresse
Her selfe came in, her glory to partake;
Where though reuengefull vow she did professe,
Yet when she saw the heapes, which he did make,
Of slaughtred carkasses, her heart did quake
For very ruth, which did it almost riue,
That she his fury willed him to slake:
For else he sure had left not one aliue,
But all in his reuenge of spirite would depriue.
Tho when she had his execution stayd,
She for that yron prison did enquire,
In which her wretched loue was captiue layd:
Which breaking open with indignant ire,
She entred into all the partes entire.
Where when she saw that lothly vncouth sight,
Of men disguiz'd in womanishe attire,
Her heart gan grudge, for very deepe despight
Of so vnmanly maske, in misery misdight.
At last when as to her owne Loue she came,
Whom like disguize no lesse deformed had,
At sight thereof abasht with secrete shame,
She turnd her head aside, as nothing glad,
To haue beheld a spectacle so bad:
And then too well beleeu'd, that which tofore
Iealous suspect as true vntruely drad,
Which vaine conceipt now nourishing no more,
She sought with ruth to salue his sad misfortunes sore.
Not so great wonder and astonishment,
Did the most chast Penelope possesse,
To see her Lord, that was reported drent,
And dead long since in dolorous distresse,
Come home to her in piteous wretchednesse,
After long trauell of full twenty yeares,
That she knew not his fauours likelynesse,
For many scarres and many hoary heares,
But stood long staring on him, mongst vncertaine feares.
Ah my deare Lord, what sight is this (quoth she)
What May-game hath misfortune made of you?
Where is that dreadfull manly looke? where be
Those mighty palmes, the which ye wont t'embrew
In bloud of Kings, and great hoastes to subdew?
Could ought on earth so wondrous change haue wrought,
As to haue robde you of that manly hew?
Could so great courage stouped haue to ought?
Then farewell fleshly force; I see thy pride is nought.
Thenceforth she streight into a bowre him brought,
And causd him those vncomely weedes vndight;
And in their steede for other rayment sought,
Whereof there was great store, and armors bright,
Which had bene reft from many a noble Knight;
Whom that proud Amazon subdewed had,
Whilest Fortune fauourd her successe in fight,
In which when as she him anew had clad,
She was reuiu'd, and ioyd much in his semblance glad.
So there a while they afterwards remained,
Him to refresh, and her late wounds to heale:
During which space she there as Princess rained,
And changing all that forme of common weale,
The liberty of women did repeale,
Which they had long vsurpt; and them restoring
To mens subiection, did true Iustice deale:
That all they as a Goddesse her adoring,
Her wisedome did admire, and hearkned to her loring.
For all those Knights, which long in captiue shade
Had shrowded bene, she did from thraldome free;
And magistrates of all that city made,
And gaue to them great liuing and large fee:
And that they should for euer faithfull bee,
Made them sweare fealty to Artegall.
Who when him selfe now well recur'd did see,
He purposd to proceed, what so be fall,
Vppon his first aduenture, which him forth did call.
Full sad and sorrowfull was Britomart
For his departure, her new cause of griefe;
Yet wisely moderated her owne smart,
Seeing his honor, which she tendred chiefe,
Consisted much in that aduentures priefe.
The care whereof, and hope of his successe
Gaue vnto her great comfort and reliefe,
That womanish complaints she did represse,
And tempred for the time her present heauinesse.
There she continu'd for a certaine space,
Till through his want her woe did more increase:
Then hoping that the change of aire and place
Would change her paine, and sorrow somewhat ease,
She parted thence, her anguish to appease.
Meane while her noble Lord sir Artegall
Went on his way, ne euer howre did cease,
Till he redeemed had that Lady thrall:
That for another Canto will more fitly fall.
This is a complicated and rather startling passage: Britomart, despite being really kickass and capable, ultimately establishes male authority for Artegall, whom she's just rescued. It's rather paradoxical: she revokes "the liberty of women" but uses her own authority to do so. My diss director, actually, linked this to the notion of companionate marriage -- "behind every great man is a great woman," except that Spenser thinks the man does have to be there, in the best-case scenario. You get this sort of ambivalence about women's rule all the time in literature of this period, naturally.
The Faerie Queene, as I have said, is unfinished, and as it turns out, it has rather a downer ending, with the Blatant Beast, an avatar of slander (and, I think, excessive literalism!) still on the loose:
Thus was this Monster by the maystring might
Of doughty Calidore, supprest and tamed,
That neuer more he mote endammadge wight
With his vile tongue, which many had defamed,
And many causelesse caused to be blamed:
So did he eeke long after this remaine,
Vntill that, whether wicked fate so framed,
Or fault of men, he broke his yron chaine,
And got into the world at liberty againe.
Thenceforth more mischiefe and more scath he wrought
To mortall men, then he had done before;
Ne euer could by any more be brought
Into like bands, ne maystred any more:
Albe that long time after Calidore,
The good Sir Pelleas him tooke in hand,
And after him Sir Lamoracke of yore,
And all his brethren borne in Britaine land;
Yet none of them could euer bring him into band.
So now he raungeth through the world againe,
And rageth sore in each degree and state;
Ne any is, that may him now restraine,
He growen is so great and strong of late,
Barking and biting all that him doe bate,
Albe they worthy blame, or cleare of crime:
Ne spareth he most learned wits to rate,
Ne spareth he the gentle Poets rime,
But rends without regard of person or of time.
Ne may this homely verse, of many meanest,
Hope to escape his venemous despite,
More then my former writs, all were they clearest
From blamefull blot, and free from all that wite,
With which some wicked tongues did it backebite,
And bring into a mighty Peres displeasure,
That neuer so deserued to endite.
Therfore do you my rimes keep better measure,
And seeke to please, that now is counted wisemens threasure.
As it happens, then, Spenser, rather like Chaucer (of whom he was a great fan; Book IV of The Faerie Queene attempts to finish "The Squire's Tale," in very convoluted fashion), has issues with endings -- and thus the poem leaves us with rather a melancholy aftertaste.
Spenser finally returned to England at last in December 1598, and this time his stay was either very short or perhaps, I should say, permanent: he died in January of 1599. Ben Jonson would later tell William Drummond that during the terrible and catastrophic fighting that pervaded Ireland in the late 1590s, "the Irish having robbed Spenser's goods and burnt his house and a little child new born, he and his wife escaped and after, he died for lack of bread in King Street." (Modern biographers tend to find this assertion surprising or implausible, since Spenser was quite well-connected.)
He was buried in Westminster Abbey, near Chaucer, as it happens -- at this point, Poets' Corner was just beginning to spring up -- and William Camden describes his funeral with "all Poets carrying his body to Church, and casting their dolefull Verses, and Pens too into his grave." Twenty years later, aristocratic poetry fan Lady Anne Clifford commissioned a monument in the Abbey; it reads "Heare lyes (expecting the second comminge of our Saviour Christ Jesus) the body of Edmond Spencer, the Prince of Poets in his tyme; whose divine spirrit needs noe other witnesse then the works which he left behind him."
In trying to conclude this post and writing about Spenser's death and burial, I keep thinking of the passage in The Faerie Queene where Spenser fears that he'll die in Ireland. It's a poignant moment (more so because of the rarity of the personal reference), but a chilling passage, because (as the footnotes in my ginormous edn of the poem tell us) what he seems to be thinking of -- and this is referenced in A View of the Present State of Ireland -- is that some of the poorest people in Ireland were desperate enough to eat dead human flesh:
The sixt had charge of them now being dead,
In seemely sort their corses to engraue,
And deck with dainty flowres their brydall bed,
That to their heauenly spouse both sweet and braue
They might appeare, when he their soules shall saue.
The wondrous workmanship of Gods owne mould,
Whose face he made, all beastes to feare, and gaue
All in his hand, euen dead we honour should.
Ah dearest God me graunt, I dead be not defould.
And I find that I'm struck by that sort of duality in general when writing about Spenser: a magnificent poet, and also party to some of the most terrible things about his culture. There's something so -- I don't know, essentially Elizabethan about him: beautiful but harsh, pious but violent, triumphant and anxious, and culturally he is both an insider and an outsider. Which may be why I've gotten to appreciate him: I always go straight to the places where I see paradoxes. I hope that you've found this interesting, and that you're inspired to get to know him better, because there's just so much I left out.
And thus concludes the first installment of "Better Know a Poet"! Next week, I shall tell you about Elizabeth Cary, who did not write nearly as much as Spenser, so (at the risk of privileging the colonialist patriarchy) the post shall not be anywhere near as long. She's really really cool though, and I think you'll like her.
For those of you who have been intrigued by these posts, more information about Spenser's life and works can be found at The Edmund Spenser Homepage, from whose biography I drew some of the information. I also used the biography/timeline in the Longman edition of The Faerie Queene edited by A.C. Hamilton, and some of the material on the shorter poems comes from the Penguin edition edited by Richard A. McCabe. You can assume that most of the intelligent things I say in here I stole from them; the stupid stuff is all mine.
All of Spenser's major works can be found online at Renascence Editions.
Submitted for your approval, the conclusion of my quickie survey of the life and works of Edmund Spenser. This half probably will be less amusing than the first, because most of the stuff Spenser was involved in in the eighties and nineties is just not really something you can make funny (I admit, too, to skipping over a lot if it, due to anxiety and lack of in-depth knowledge and desire to include more poetry).
But, on a more positive note, there is much more poetry in it! Even though I feel like I'm giving The Faerie Queene really short shrift (and there's a LOT of Faerie Queene in this post). There is also at least one free and legal music download.
When we last left our protagonist, he had been shipped off to Ireland as secretary to Arthur Lord Grey, Lord Deputy of Ireland. The 1580s and especially '90s marked a resurgence of interest in the perennial English project of Squishing the Irish Once and For All, so things got active pretty quickly. In August 1580 Grey's forces were defeated by Feach Machugh O'Byrne at Glenmalure; those of you who are into folk music may know the song "Follow Me Up to Carlow," in which this battle is mentioned; it is just possible that Spenser was actually there, though I can't remember where I read that. (Good song, btw.) The English did better for themselves in another endeavor Sir Walter Ralegh (of whom more later) had been leading a military expedition against various Italian and possibly Spanish forces and their Irish supporters at Smerwick; the expedition, rather improbably, was successful, and Spenser accompanied Grey on his march to Munster, where these forces were under siege at Fort d'Oro; the fort capitulated in November of 1580.
Spenser spent a lot of the 1580s doing various regional-level bureaucratic and occasionally military things (particularly after Grey was recalled to England in 1582), and attempting to secure land grants.
To turn now to other bits of international kerfuffling in which the English were involved at about this time, in 1586 Sir Philip Sidney, who had been part of the same social circles as Spenser in the late 1570s, was killed in battle at Zutphen in the Netherlands, where the English had been involved on behalf of Dutch Protestants against the Spanish; he was shot in the thigh and died of infection some days later. Spenser wrote him a rather lovely elegy called Astrophel, so named after Sidney's avatar in the sonnet cycle Astrophel and Stella. It headlined a collection of elegies, which are reproduced in the link I've given. Some of it follows here:
Stella the faire, the fairest star in skie,
As faire as Venus or the fairest faire:
A fairer star saw neuer liuing eie,
[S]hot her sharp pointed beames through purest aire.
Her he did loue, her he alone did honor,
His thoughts, his rimes, his songs were all vpõ her.
To her he vowd the seruice of his daies,
On her he spent the riches of his wit:
For her he made hymnes of immortall praise,
Of onely her he sung, he thought, he writ.
Her, and but her of loue he deemed,
For all the rest but little he esteemed.
Ne her with ydle words alone he wowed,
And verses vaine (yet verses are not vaine)
But with braue deeds to her sole seruice vowed,
And bold achieuements her did entertaine.
For both in deeds and words he nourtred was,
Both wise and hardie (too hardie alas).
In wrestling nimble, and in renning swift,
In shooting steddie, and in swimming strong:
Well made to strike, to throw, to leape, to lift,
And all the sports that shepheards are emong.
In euery one he vanquisht euery one,
He vanquist all, and vanquisht was of none.
Besides, in hunting such felicitie,
Or rather infelicitie he found:
That euery field and forest far away,
He sought, where saluage beasts do most abound.
No beast so saluage but he could it kill,
No chace so hard, but he therein had skill.
Such skill matcht with such courage as he had,
Did prick him foorth with proud desire of praise:
To seek abroad, of daunger nought y'drad,
His mistresse name, and his owne fame to raise.
What need[eth] perill to be sought abroad,
Since round about vs, it doth make aboad?
It fortuned as he, that perlous game
In forreine soyle pursued far away:
Into a forest wide, and waste he came
Where store he heard to be of saluage pray.
So wide a forest and so waste as this,
Nor famous Ardeyn, nor fowle Arlo is.
There his welwouen toyles and subtil traines,
He laid the brutish nation to enwrap:
So well he wrought with practise and with paines,
That he of them great troups did soone entrap.
Full happie man (misweening much) was hee,
So rich a spoile within his power to see.
Eftsoones all heedlesse of his dearest hale,
Full greedily into the heard he thrust:
To slaughter them, and work their finall bale,
Least that his tolye should of their troups be brust.
Wide wounds emongst them many a one he made,
Now with his sharp borespeare, now with his blade.
His care was all how he them all might kill,
That none might scape (so partiall vnto none)
Ill mynd so much to mynd anothers ill,
As to become vnmyndfull of his owne.
But pardon that vnto the cruell skies,
That from himselfe to them withdrew his eies.
So as he rag'd emongst that beastly rout,
A cruell beast of most accursed brood:
Vpon him turnd (despeyre makes cowards stout)
And with fell tooth accustomed to blood,
Launched his thigh with so mischieuous might,
That it both bone and muscles ryued quight.
So deadly was the dint and deep the wound,
And so huge streames of blood thereout did flow:
That he endured not the direfull stound,
But on the cold deare earth himselfe did throw.
The whiles the captiue heard his nets did rend,
And hauing none to let, to wood did wend.
Ah where were ye this while his shepheard peares,
To whom aliue was nought so deare as hee:
And ye faire Mayds the matches of his yeares,
Which in his grace did boast you most to bee?
Ah where were ye, when he of you had need,
To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed?
Ah wretched boy the shape of dreryhead,
And sad ensample of mans suddein end:
Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead,
Vnpitied, vnplaynd, of foe or frend.
Whilest none is nigh, thine eylids vp to close,
And kisse thy lips like faded leaues of rose.
In 1589, Spenser occupied the castle of Kilcolman and its accompanying estates, which had belonged to the Earl of Desmond, who had rebelled and been executed; in 1590, he received a grant confirming his ownership. It was also in 1589 that he was paid a visit at Kilcolman by Sir Walter Ralegh, an important moment because it was at this time that Ralegh became acquainted with a bit of poetry Spenser had been dashing off when not being a colonial oppressor. In other words, we've arrived at what you've all been waiting for: the publication of the most daunting poem in the Elizabethan corpus: The Faerie Queene. I have a complicated relationship with it, myself; it took me three months to read it all, and I spent a lot of that time pulling my hair. I certainly won't be able to do it justice in this space; I'm not sure that any space really can do it justice, because it is enormous, literally and in terms of significance and amount of meaning it contains.
The complete text of the poem is located here and I do encourage you all to peruse it. Do look at the later books, especially; so many people never get past Book I, and there is some great stuff later on.
Spenser first makes reference to The Faerie Queene in correspondance with Gabriel Harvey, published in 1580; by 1589, it was a fairly well-developed idea, if only a third completed (or halfway, if you count by what he ever actually ended up finishing). He explains what he thinks the poem is about in a dedicatory letter (which is fascinating, btw, from a literary-theory standpoint; I recommend it) to Ralegh:
The generall end therefore of all the booke is to fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline: Which for that I conceiued shoulde be most plausible and pleasing, being coloured with an historicall fiction, the which the most part of men delight to read, rather for variety of matter, then for profite of the ensample: I chose the historye of king Arthure, as most fitte for the excellency of his person being made famous by many mens former workes, and also furthest from the daunger of enuy, and suspition of present time...I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before he was king, the image of a braue knight, perfected in the twelue morall vertues, as Aristotle hath deuised, the which is the purpose of these first twelue bookes: which if I finde to be well accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged, to frame the other part of polliticke vertues in his person, after that hee came to be king. To some I know this Methode will seeme displeasaunt, which had rather haue good discipline deliuered plainly in way of precepts, or sermoned at large, as they vse, then thus clowdily enrapped in Allegoricall deuises. But such, me seeme, should be satisfide with the vse of these dayes seeing all things accounted by their showes, and nothing esteemed of, that is not delightfull and pleasing to commune sence.
But it's about a lot of things, really: Protestantism and Englishness -- Britishness, I should say, rather -- and how to read an allegorical epic poem, and, really, basically everything. The setup of the poem, as you've discerned from the dedicatory letter, is that each book tells the story of a knight who represents a particular virtue: holiness, temperance, chastity, friendship, justice, and courtesy (in the old-fashioned sense of "courtly values" -- a term not without irony by the time Spenser gets to writing it).
Book I is the part that's most often anthologized, and this is because it is foundational as far as the epic is concerned, since it's very strongly engaged with religion and nationalism; the story concerns the adventures of the Redcrosse Knight (aka baby St. George) and the lady Una, representing the One True Church (and sometimes Elizabeth or Anne Boleyn) and Prince (later King) Arthur, and their encounters with such nasty papist types as the wizard Archimago, the giant Orgoglio, the insane vomiting dragon Errour, and most of all the sorceress Duessa (who frequently plays the role of all the hostile Catholic queens named Mary from this period), who is described in Whore-of-Babylon-like rhetoric:
And after him the proud Duessa came,
High mounted on her manyheaded beast,
And euery head with fyrie tongue did flame,
And euery head was crowned on his creast,
And bloudie mouthed with late cruell feast.
That when the knight beheld, his mightie shild
Vpon his manly arme he soone addrest,
And at him fiercely flew, with courage fild,
And eger greedinesse through euery member thrild.
Here I'll reproduce for you one of the shiniest nationalist passages in the poem. This is the point where the Redcrosse Knight, having repented for falling in with Duessa, has his destiny revealed to him, that he's going to grow up to be St. George:
From thence, far off he vnto him did shew
A litle path, that was both steepe and long,
Which to a goodly Citie led his vew;
Whose wals and towres were builded high and strong
Of perle and precious stone, that earthly tong
Cannot describe, nor wit of man can tell;
Too high a ditty for my simple song;
The Citie of the great king hight it well,
Wherein eternall peace and happinesse doth dwell.
As he thereon stood gazing, he might see
The blessed Angels to and fro descend
From highest heauen, in gladsome companee,
And with great ioy into that Citie wend,
As commonly as friend does with his frend.
Whereat he wondred much, and gan enquere,
What stately building durst so high extend
Her loftie towres vnto the starry sphere,
And what vnknowen nation there empeopled were.
Faire knight (quoth he) Hierusalem that is,
The new Hierusalem, that God has built
For those to dwell in, that are chosen his,
His chosen people purg'd from sinfull guilt,
With pretious bloud, which cruelly was spilt
On cursed tree, of that vnspotted lam,
That for the sinnes of all the world was kilt:
Now are they Saints all in that Citie sam,
More deare vnto their God, then younglings to their dam.
Till now, said then the knight, I weened well,
That great Cleopolis, where I haue beene,
In which that fairest Faerie Queene doth dwell,
The fairest Citie was, that might be seene;
And that bright towre all built of christall cleene,
Panthea, seemd the brightest thing, that was:
But now by proofe all otherwise I weene;
For this great Citie that does far surpas,
And this bright Angels towre quite dims that towre of glas.
Most trew, then said the holy aged man;
Yet is Cleopolis for earthly frame,
The fairest peece, that eye beholden can:
And well beseemes all knights of noble name,
That couet in th'immortall booke of fame
To be eternized, that same to haunt,
And doen their seruice to that soueraigne Dame,
That glorie does to them for guerdon graunt:
For she is heauenly borne, and heauen may iustly vaunt.
And thou faire ymp, sprong out from English race,
How euer now accompted Elfins sonne,
Well worthy doest thy seruice for her grace,
To aide a virgin desolate foredonne.
But when thou famous victorie hast wonne,
And high emongst all knights hast hong thy shield,
Thenceforth the suit of earthly conquest shonne,
And wash thy hands from guilt of bloudy field:
For bloud can nought but sin, & wars but sorrowes yield.
Then seeke this path, that I to thee presage,
Which after all to heauen shall thee send;
Then peaceably thy painefull pilgrimage
To yonder same Hierusalem do bend,
Where is for thee ordaind a blessed end:
For thou emongst those Saints, whom thou doest see,
Shalt be a Saint, and thine owne nations frend
And Patrone: thou Saint George shalt called bee,
Saint George of mery England, the signe of victoree.
Vnworthy wretch (quoth he) of so great grace,
How dare I thinke such glory to attaine?
These that haue it attaind, were in like cace
(Quoth he) as wretched, and liu'd in like paine.
But deeds of armes must I at last be faine,
And Ladies loue to leaue so dearely bought?
What need of armes, where peace doth ay remaine,
(Said he) and battailes none are to be fought?
As for loose loues they are vaine, and vanish into nought.
O let me not (quoth he) then turne againe
Backe to the world, whose ioyes so fruitlesse are;
But let me here for aye in peace remaine,
Or streight way on that last long voyage fare,
That nothing may my present hope empare.
That may not be (said he) ne maist thou yit
Forgo that royall maides bequeathed care,
Who did her cause into thy hand commit,
Till from her cursed foe thou haue her freely quit.
Then shall I soone, (quoth he) so God me grace,
Abet that virgins cause disconsolate,
And shortly backe returne vnto this place,
To walke this way in Pilgrims poore estate.
But now aread, old father, why of late
Didst thou behight me borne of English blood,
Whom all a Faeries sonne doen nominate?
That word shall I (said he) auouchen good,
Sith to thee is vnknowne the cradle of thy brood.
For well I wote, thou springst from ancient race
Of Saxon kings, that haue with mightie hand
And many bloudie battailes fought in place
High reard their royall throne in Britans land,
And vanquisht them, vnable to withstand:
From thence a Faerie thee vnweeting reft,
There as thou slepst in tender swadling band,
And her base Elfin brood there for thee left.
Such men do Chaungelings call, so chaungd by Faeries theft.
Thence she thee brought into this Faerie lond,
And in an heaped furrow did thee hyde,
Where thee a Ploughman all vnweeting fond,
As he his toylesome teme that way did guyde,
And brought thee vp in ploughmans state to byde,
Whereof Georgos he thee gaue to name;
Till prickt with courage, and thy forces pryde,
To Faery court thou cam'st to seeke for fame,
And proue thy puissaunt armes, as seemes thee best became.
O holy Sire (quoth he) how shall I quight
The many fauours I with thee haue found,
That hast my name and nation red aright,
And taught the way that does to heauen bound?
This said, adowne he looked to the ground,
To haue returnd, but dazed were his eyne,
Through passing brightnesse, which did quite confound
His feeble sence, and too exceeding shyne.
So darke are earthly things compard to things diuine.
Raleigh was impressed enough by the poem that he invited Spenser to return to England, where he met Queen Elizabeth and read some of the poem to her; she appears to have been duly impressed. I mean, wouldn't you be? Though I do wonder if he read the part about the House of Pride:
High aboue all a cloth of State was spred,
And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day,
On which there sate most braue embellished
With royall robes and gorgeous array,
A mayden Queene, that shone as Titans ray,
In glistring gold, and peerelesse pretious stone:
Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay
To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne,
As enuying her selfe, that too exceeding shone.
Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fairest childe,
That did presume his fathers firie wayne,
And flaming mouthes of steedes vnwonted wilde
Through highest heauen with weaker hand to rayne;
Proud of such glory and aduancement vaine,
While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen,
He leaues the welkin way most beaten plaine,
And rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen,
With fire not made to burne, but fairely for to shyne.
So proud she shyned in her Princely state,
Looking to heauen; for earth she did disdayne,
And sitting high; for lowly she did hate:
Lo vnderneath her scornefull feete, was layne
A dreadfull Dragon with an hideous trayne,
And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright,
Wherein her face she often vewed fayne,
And in her selfe-lou'd semblance tooke delight;
For she was wondrous faire, as any liuing wight.
Of griesly Pluto she the daughter was,
And sad Proserpina the Queene of hell;
Yet did she thinke her pearelesse wroth to pas
That parentage, with pride so did she swell,
And thundring Ioue, that high in heauen doth dwell,
And wield the world, she claymed for her syre,
Or if that any else did Ioue excell:
For to the highest she did still aspyre,
Or if ought higher were then that, did it desyre.
And proud Lucifera men did her call,
That made her selfe a Queene, and crownd to be,
Yet rightfull kingdome she had none at all,
Ne heritage of natiue soueraintie,
But did vsurpe with wrong and tyrannie
Vpon the scepter, which she now did hold:
Ne ruld her Realmes with lawes, but pollicie,
And strong aduizement of six wisards old,
That with their counsels bad her kingdome did vphold.
I think you can see why passages like this would not have impressed Elizabeth so much! While much in The Faerie Queene praises Elizabeth highly -- there is, after all, a reason the name "Gloriana" has stuck to her -- there is also plenty of criticism, and it's certainly possible to see Elizabeth in the "mayden Queene" Lucifera, supported by sleazy councilors (the rest of the Seven Deadly Sins, actually, who are described in a passage I highly recommend for its splendid display of Spenser's knack for the grotesque) as well as in Gloriana or Britomart or Una. After all, the poem reflects the anxieties of the 1590s as much as it does the time's aspirations.
Spenser appears to have spent his time in England trying to get royal patronage so that he could stay there and do poety things rather than having to go back to Ireland (and thus a Marlowe: Gay Atheist Spy spinoff was born). This did not, however, pan out, though Elizabeth did grant him a pension. While in England, Spenser also took the time to publish the Complaints, which included Mother Hubberds Tale (discussed in my last post), and thus he again found himself in hot water for his satire on William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, no fan of Spenser's -- indeed, the Complaints were suppressed in 1591. Cecil also appears to have taken offense at the original and rather sexy ending of FQ Book III (scroll to the bottom; these are the stanzas in a smaller font). Spenser consequently snarks at him some more in the opening to Book IV, published in 1596:
THe rugged forhead that with graue foresight
Welds kingdomes causes, & affaires of state,
My looser rimes (I wote) doth sharply wite,
For praising loue, as I haue done of late,
And magnifying louers deare debate;
By which fraile youth is oft to follie led,
Through false allurement of that pleasing baite,
That better were in vertues discipled,
Then with vaine poemes weeds to haue their fancies fed.
Such ones ill iudge of loue, that cannot loue,
Ne in their frosen hearts feele kindly flame:
For thy, they ought not thing vnknowne reproue,
Ne naturall affection faultlesse blame,
For fault of few that haue abusd the same.
For it of honor and all vertue is
The roote, and brings forth glorious flowres of fame,
That crowne true louers with immortall blis,
The meed of them that loue, and do not liue amisse.
Which who so list looke backe to former ages,
And call to count the things that then were donne,
Shall find, that all the workes of those wise sages,
And braue exploits which great Heroes wonne,
In loue were either ended or begunne:
Witnesse the father of Philosophie,
Which to his Critias, shaded oft from sunne,
Of loue full manie lessons did apply,
The which these Stoicke censours cannot well deny.
To such therefore I do not sing at all,
But to that sacred Saint my soueraigne Queene,
In whose chast breast all bountie naturall,
And treasures of true loue enlocked beene,
Boue all her sexe that euer yet was seene;
To her I sing of loue, that loueth best,
And best is lou'd of all aliue I weene:
To her this song most fitly is addrest,
The Queene of loue, & Prince of peace from heauen blest.
In 1591, Spenser returned to Ireland; he deals with his experience in England and his feelings of alienation in the pastoral poem Colin Cloutes Come Home Again, which I've read a bit about but haven't actually read, because I suck, so I shall have to pass over it for now, with a link to the text. On a more cheerful note, in 1594 Spenser married Elizabeth Boyle, who came from a notable and well-to-do Anglo-Irish family. Do you remember Boyle's Law from your chemistry classes? Same family. They later have a son named Peregrine, who was probably not nicknamed Pippin, although he totally should have been.
Spenser's courtship of Elizabeth Boyle and their subsequent marriage forms the basis of the sonnet cycle Amoretti. The Amoretti are rather unusual among sonnet sequences in that the poet-speaker actually gets the girl at the end! Though it does, of course, start out with the usual angst of an Elizabethan sonnet sequence, and occasionally yields some interesting glances at Spenser's poetic and political careers, as here when he complains of having issues finishing The Faerie Queene -- which he never did get around to doing, actually; the version that we have is only half of what Spenser planned, as he intended to follow the classics and write twelve books.
GREAT wrong I doe, I can it not deny,
to that most sacred Empresse my dear dred,
not finishing her Queene of faëry,
that mote enlarge her liuing prayses dead:
But lodwick, this of grace to me aread:
doe ye not thinck th' accomplishment of it,
sufficient worke for one mans simple head,
all were it as the rest, but rudely writ.
How then should I without another wit:
thinck euer to endure so tædious toyle,
sins that this one is tost with troublous fit,
of a proud loue, that doth my spirite spoyle.
Ceasse then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest,
or lend you me another liuing brest.
(Lodwick is Spenser's friend Lodwick Bryskett -- talk about your unfortunate names!)
The Amoretti are also notable for displaying some rather freaky twists on the conventions of the sonnet cycles: while it starts out with the usual configuration where you have abject poet and distant domina, the whole thing gets turned on its head and the bondage metaphors so common in sonnet cycles get reversed:
I IOY to see how in your drawen work,
Your selfe vnto the Bee ye doe compare;
and me vnto the Spyder that doth lurke,
in close awayt to catch her vnaware.
Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
of a deare foe, and thralled to his loue:
in whose streight bands ye now captiued are
so firmely, that ye neuer may remoue.
But as your worke is wouen all aboue,
with woodbynd flowers and fragrant Eglantine:
so sweet your prison you in time shall proue,
with many deare delights bedecked fyne.
And all thensforth eternall peace shall see
betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.
Spenser, as it turns out, is a bit kinky. This is also evident in various bits of The Faerie Queene, thoughtfully compiled by lnhammer (and doesn't even get all of them!), and in things like this passage from Epithalamion, the wedding poem that is the culmination of the Amoretti:
WHO is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face, that shines so bright,
Is it not Cinthia, she that neuer sleepes,
But walkes about high heauen al the night?
O fayrest goddesse, do thou not enuy
My loue with me to spy:
For thou likewise didst loue, though now vnthought,
And for a fleece of woll, which priuily,
The Latmian shephard once vnto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought,
Therefore to vs be fauorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline they will t'effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing,
Ne let the woods vs answere, nor our Eccho ring.
If you remember that Cynthia, as the name of a moon goddess, was a common appellation for Elizabeth, and cross-reference the sonnet about not working on The Faerie Queene -- well. This is a disturbing little passage, isn't it?
(I do love the Epithalamion, though. It is a happy if occasionally weird poem. Also it is specific enough that I know that I was born on Spenser's 385th wedding anniversary. That makes me happy in a geeky sort of way.)
The second half of The Faerie Queene (such as it is) was finally published in 1596, though probably finished rather earlier. It's not as often taught/anthologized/whatever as the first half is, and it is thornier and more political. It also features perhaps the first robot in English literature, as Artegall, principal figure in Book V ("Of Justice") is accompanied by "an yron man" who kicks ass with a flail. Seriously.
Book V is the most topical part of the whole poem: it features references to Henri IV of France's conversion to Catholicism, Philip II of Spain's generally being a dick, and a rather in-depth coded depiction of the trial of Mary Queen of Scots -- the trial of Duessa, whom you'll remember from before, is based on Mary's. Her son, James VI of Scotland (later to become James I of England), objected rather strenuously to this, perhaps more so than he objected to the actual events, so it may have been well for Spenser that he died before James became king of England.
It also has purple man-eating cows. Nobody ever believes me when I say this, so I shall quote the relevant passage:
And sooth they say, that he was borne and bred
Of Gyants race, the sonne of Geryon,
He that whylome in Spaine so sore was dred,
For his huge powre and great oppression,
Which brought that land to his subiection,
Through his three bodies powre, in one combynd;
And eke all strangers in that region
Arryuing, to his kyne for food assynd;
The fayrest kyne aliue, but of the fiercest kynd.
For they were all, they say, of purple hew,
Kept by a cowheard, hight Eurytion,
A cruell carle, the which all strangers slew,
Ne day nor night did sleepe, t'attend them on,
But walkt about them euer and anone...
And, of course, features perhaps the most famous chick fight in English literature, which I shall quote for you here. In this passage, the really badass female knight Britomart saves her betrothed, Artegall, from the Amazon queen Radigund (another Mary Queen of Scots figure; this poem is full of fragmented depictions of important and/or notorious women):
Full fiercely layde the Amazon about,
And dealt her blowes vnmercifully sore:
Which Britomart withstood with courage stout,
And them repaide againe with double more.
So long they fought, that all the grassie flore
Was fild with bloud, which from their sides did flow,
And gushed through their armes, that all in gore
They trode, and on the ground their liues did strow,
Like fruitles seede, of which vntimely death should grow.
At last proud Radigund with fell despight,
Hauing by chaunce espide aduantage neare,
Let driue at her with all her dreadfull might,
And thus vpbrayding sayd; This token beare
Vnto the man, whom thou doest loue so deare;
And tell him for his sake thy life thou gauest.
Which spitefull words she sore engrieu'd to heare,
Thus answer'd; Lewdly thou my loue deprauest,
Who shortly must repent that now so vainely brauest.
Nath'lesse that stroke so cruell passage found,
That glauncing on her shoulder plate, it bit
Vnto the bone, and made a griesly wound,
That she her shield through raging smart of it
Could scarse vphold; yet soone she it requit.
For hauing force increast through furious paine,
She her so rudely on the helmet smit,
That it empierced to the very braine,
And her proud person low prostrated on the plaine.
Where being layd, the wrothfull Britonesse
Stayd not, till she came to her selfe againe,
But in reuenge both of her loues distresse,
And her late vile reproch, though vaunted vaine,
And also of her wound, which sore did paine,
She with one stroke both head and helmet cleft.
Which dreadfull sight, when all her warlike traine
There present saw, each one of sence bereft,
Fled fast into the towne, and her sole victor left.
But yet so fast they could not home retrate,
But that swift Talus did the formost win;
And pressing through the preace vnto the gate,
Pelmell with them attonce did enter in.
There then a piteous slaughter did begin:
For all that euer came within his reach,
He with his yron flale did thresh so thin,
That he no worke at all left for the leach:
Like to an hideous storme, which nothing may empeach.
And now by this the noble Conqueresse
Her selfe came in, her glory to partake;
Where though reuengefull vow she did professe,
Yet when she saw the heapes, which he did make,
Of slaughtred carkasses, her heart did quake
For very ruth, which did it almost riue,
That she his fury willed him to slake:
For else he sure had left not one aliue,
But all in his reuenge of spirite would depriue.
Tho when she had his execution stayd,
She for that yron prison did enquire,
In which her wretched loue was captiue layd:
Which breaking open with indignant ire,
She entred into all the partes entire.
Where when she saw that lothly vncouth sight,
Of men disguiz'd in womanishe attire,
Her heart gan grudge, for very deepe despight
Of so vnmanly maske, in misery misdight.
At last when as to her owne Loue she came,
Whom like disguize no lesse deformed had,
At sight thereof abasht with secrete shame,
She turnd her head aside, as nothing glad,
To haue beheld a spectacle so bad:
And then too well beleeu'd, that which tofore
Iealous suspect as true vntruely drad,
Which vaine conceipt now nourishing no more,
She sought with ruth to salue his sad misfortunes sore.
Not so great wonder and astonishment,
Did the most chast Penelope possesse,
To see her Lord, that was reported drent,
And dead long since in dolorous distresse,
Come home to her in piteous wretchednesse,
After long trauell of full twenty yeares,
That she knew not his fauours likelynesse,
For many scarres and many hoary heares,
But stood long staring on him, mongst vncertaine feares.
Ah my deare Lord, what sight is this (quoth she)
What May-game hath misfortune made of you?
Where is that dreadfull manly looke? where be
Those mighty palmes, the which ye wont t'embrew
In bloud of Kings, and great hoastes to subdew?
Could ought on earth so wondrous change haue wrought,
As to haue robde you of that manly hew?
Could so great courage stouped haue to ought?
Then farewell fleshly force; I see thy pride is nought.
Thenceforth she streight into a bowre him brought,
And causd him those vncomely weedes vndight;
And in their steede for other rayment sought,
Whereof there was great store, and armors bright,
Which had bene reft from many a noble Knight;
Whom that proud Amazon subdewed had,
Whilest Fortune fauourd her successe in fight,
In which when as she him anew had clad,
She was reuiu'd, and ioyd much in his semblance glad.
So there a while they afterwards remained,
Him to refresh, and her late wounds to heale:
During which space she there as Princess rained,
And changing all that forme of common weale,
The liberty of women did repeale,
Which they had long vsurpt; and them restoring
To mens subiection, did true Iustice deale:
That all they as a Goddesse her adoring,
Her wisedome did admire, and hearkned to her loring.
For all those Knights, which long in captiue shade
Had shrowded bene, she did from thraldome free;
And magistrates of all that city made,
And gaue to them great liuing and large fee:
And that they should for euer faithfull bee,
Made them sweare fealty to Artegall.
Who when him selfe now well recur'd did see,
He purposd to proceed, what so be fall,
Vppon his first aduenture, which him forth did call.
Full sad and sorrowfull was Britomart
For his departure, her new cause of griefe;
Yet wisely moderated her owne smart,
Seeing his honor, which she tendred chiefe,
Consisted much in that aduentures priefe.
The care whereof, and hope of his successe
Gaue vnto her great comfort and reliefe,
That womanish complaints she did represse,
And tempred for the time her present heauinesse.
There she continu'd for a certaine space,
Till through his want her woe did more increase:
Then hoping that the change of aire and place
Would change her paine, and sorrow somewhat ease,
She parted thence, her anguish to appease.
Meane while her noble Lord sir Artegall
Went on his way, ne euer howre did cease,
Till he redeemed had that Lady thrall:
That for another Canto will more fitly fall.
This is a complicated and rather startling passage: Britomart, despite being really kickass and capable, ultimately establishes male authority for Artegall, whom she's just rescued. It's rather paradoxical: she revokes "the liberty of women" but uses her own authority to do so. My diss director, actually, linked this to the notion of companionate marriage -- "behind every great man is a great woman," except that Spenser thinks the man does have to be there, in the best-case scenario. You get this sort of ambivalence about women's rule all the time in literature of this period, naturally.
The Faerie Queene, as I have said, is unfinished, and as it turns out, it has rather a downer ending, with the Blatant Beast, an avatar of slander (and, I think, excessive literalism!) still on the loose:
Thus was this Monster by the maystring might
Of doughty Calidore, supprest and tamed,
That neuer more he mote endammadge wight
With his vile tongue, which many had defamed,
And many causelesse caused to be blamed:
So did he eeke long after this remaine,
Vntill that, whether wicked fate so framed,
Or fault of men, he broke his yron chaine,
And got into the world at liberty againe.
Thenceforth more mischiefe and more scath he wrought
To mortall men, then he had done before;
Ne euer could by any more be brought
Into like bands, ne maystred any more:
Albe that long time after Calidore,
The good Sir Pelleas him tooke in hand,
And after him Sir Lamoracke of yore,
And all his brethren borne in Britaine land;
Yet none of them could euer bring him into band.
So now he raungeth through the world againe,
And rageth sore in each degree and state;
Ne any is, that may him now restraine,
He growen is so great and strong of late,
Barking and biting all that him doe bate,
Albe they worthy blame, or cleare of crime:
Ne spareth he most learned wits to rate,
Ne spareth he the gentle Poets rime,
But rends without regard of person or of time.
Ne may this homely verse, of many meanest,
Hope to escape his venemous despite,
More then my former writs, all were they clearest
From blamefull blot, and free from all that wite,
With which some wicked tongues did it backebite,
And bring into a mighty Peres displeasure,
That neuer so deserued to endite.
Therfore do you my rimes keep better measure,
And seeke to please, that now is counted wisemens threasure.
As it happens, then, Spenser, rather like Chaucer (of whom he was a great fan; Book IV of The Faerie Queene attempts to finish "The Squire's Tale," in very convoluted fashion), has issues with endings -- and thus the poem leaves us with rather a melancholy aftertaste.
Spenser finally returned to England at last in December 1598, and this time his stay was either very short or perhaps, I should say, permanent: he died in January of 1599. Ben Jonson would later tell William Drummond that during the terrible and catastrophic fighting that pervaded Ireland in the late 1590s, "the Irish having robbed Spenser's goods and burnt his house and a little child new born, he and his wife escaped and after, he died for lack of bread in King Street." (Modern biographers tend to find this assertion surprising or implausible, since Spenser was quite well-connected.)
He was buried in Westminster Abbey, near Chaucer, as it happens -- at this point, Poets' Corner was just beginning to spring up -- and William Camden describes his funeral with "all Poets carrying his body to Church, and casting their dolefull Verses, and Pens too into his grave." Twenty years later, aristocratic poetry fan Lady Anne Clifford commissioned a monument in the Abbey; it reads "Heare lyes (expecting the second comminge of our Saviour Christ Jesus) the body of Edmond Spencer, the Prince of Poets in his tyme; whose divine spirrit needs noe other witnesse then the works which he left behind him."
In trying to conclude this post and writing about Spenser's death and burial, I keep thinking of the passage in The Faerie Queene where Spenser fears that he'll die in Ireland. It's a poignant moment (more so because of the rarity of the personal reference), but a chilling passage, because (as the footnotes in my ginormous edn of the poem tell us) what he seems to be thinking of -- and this is referenced in A View of the Present State of Ireland -- is that some of the poorest people in Ireland were desperate enough to eat dead human flesh:
The sixt had charge of them now being dead,
In seemely sort their corses to engraue,
And deck with dainty flowres their brydall bed,
That to their heauenly spouse both sweet and braue
They might appeare, when he their soules shall saue.
The wondrous workmanship of Gods owne mould,
Whose face he made, all beastes to feare, and gaue
All in his hand, euen dead we honour should.
Ah dearest God me graunt, I dead be not defould.
And I find that I'm struck by that sort of duality in general when writing about Spenser: a magnificent poet, and also party to some of the most terrible things about his culture. There's something so -- I don't know, essentially Elizabethan about him: beautiful but harsh, pious but violent, triumphant and anxious, and culturally he is both an insider and an outsider. Which may be why I've gotten to appreciate him: I always go straight to the places where I see paradoxes. I hope that you've found this interesting, and that you're inspired to get to know him better, because there's just so much I left out.
And thus concludes the first installment of "Better Know a Poet"! Next week, I shall tell you about Elizabeth Cary, who did not write nearly as much as Spenser, so (at the risk of privileging the colonialist patriarchy) the post shall not be anywhere near as long. She's really really cool though, and I think you'll like her.
For those of you who have been intrigued by these posts, more information about Spenser's life and works can be found at The Edmund Spenser Homepage, from whose biography I drew some of the information. I also used the biography/timeline in the Longman edition of The Faerie Queene edited by A.C. Hamilton, and some of the material on the shorter poems comes from the Penguin edition edited by Richard A. McCabe. You can assume that most of the intelligent things I say in here I stole from them; the stupid stuff is all mine.
All of Spenser's major works can be found online at Renascence Editions.