appreciated. His lesser pieces contain many beauties. Dryden thought The Shepheards Calender the most complete work of the kind which imagination had produced since the time of Virgil. It has not, however, risen in estimation. The language is so much more obsolete than that of the Faerie Queene, the groundwork of which is the language of his age, that it required a glossary at the time of publication. It is, however, the Faerie Queene which must be considered as constituting Spenser one of the chief fathers of English poetry. Its predominant excellences are imagery, feeling, taste, and melody of versification. Its defects are partly those of his model, Ariosto, and partly those of his age. His own errours are the confusion and inconsistency admitted in the stories and allegorical personages of the ancients, and the absurd mixture of christian and heathenish allusions. Mr. Spence has fully exemplified these in his Polymetis. It is, indeed, impossible to criticise the Faerie Queene by any rules; but we find in it the noblest examples of all the graces of poetry, the sublime, the pathetic, and such powers of description as have never been exceeded. Bishop Hurd has therefore judiciously considered it under the idea of a Gothic rather than a classical poem. It certainly strikes with all the grand effect of that species of architecture; and perhaps it is not too much to say that, like that, its reputation has suffered by the predominant taste for the more correct, higher, and more easily practicable forms of the Grecian school.

Hume was among the first who endeavoured to depreciate the value of the Faerie Queene, by asserting that the perusal of it was rather a task than a pleasure, and challenging any individual to deny this. Pope and lord Somers are two who might have accepted the challenge with hope of success. But, in fact, Spenser will not lose, much if we admit the assertion. That the perusal of the Faerie Queene must be, at first, a task, and a very irksome one, will be confessed by all who are unacquainted with any English words but what are current. If that difficulty be surmounted, the reader of taste cannot fail to relish the beauties so profusely scattered in this poem. With respect to the objections that have been made to the allegorical plan, it is sufficient to refer to its antiquity; it was one of the earliest vehicles of pleasure blended with instruction; and although modern critics object to a continued allegory, which, indeed, it is extremely difficult to accomplish without falling into inconsistencies, yet specimens of it, detached personifications, aiming at the sublimity of Spenser, still continue to be among the efforts by which our best writers wish to establish their fame. Perhaps the same remark may be extended to the stanza of Spenser, which critics have censured, and poets, praised by those critics, have imitated. After all, it is to the language of Spenser that we must look for the reason why his popularity is less than that of many inferior poets. Spenser, Chaucer, and, indeed, all the early poets, can be relished, not by common readers, but by students; and not separately, but as connected with times, characters, and manners, the illustration of which demands the skill and industry of the antiquary.

7 "There is something," said Pope, "in Spenser, that pleases one as strongly in one's old age as it did in one's youth. I read the Faerie Queene, when I was about twelve, with a vast deal of delight: and I think it gave me as much when I read it over about a year or two ago." Spence's Anecdotes, quoted by Dr. Warton, who very justly censures Pope's Imitation of Spenser. See Pope's Works, Bowles's edit. vol. ii. 289. C.

COMMENDATORY VERSES

ON SPENSER.

From Ioannis Stradlingi Fpigrammat. Libb. (Whom princes have made laureates for your

Sage Upton came, from every mystic tale

To chase the gloom that hung o'er fairy ground:
His wisard hand unlocks each guarded vale,
And opes each flowery forest's magic bound.
Thus, never knight with mortal arms essay'd
The castle of proud Busyrane to quell,
Till Britomart her beamy shield display'd,

And broke with golden spear the mighty spell:
The dauntless maid with hardy step explor'd

Each room, array'd in glistering imagery;
And through the enchanted chamber, richly stor'd,
Saw Cupid's stately maske come sweeping by.
At this, where'er, in distant regions sheen, [bough,
She roves, embower'd with many a spangled
Mild Una, lifting her majestic mien,

The loves of shepherds, and their harmless cheer
In every month that decks the varied year.
Now on the flute with equal grace he play'd,
And his soft numbers died along the shade;
The skilful dancers to his accents mov'd,
And every voice his easy tune approv'd;
Ev'n Hyla, blooming maid, admir'd the strain,
While through her bosom shot a pleasing pain.
Now all was hush'd: no rival durst arise;
Pale were their cheeks, and full of tears their eyes:
Menalcas, rising from his flowery seat,
Thus, with a voice majestically sweet,
Address'd th' attentive throng; "Arcadians, hear!
The sky grows dark, and beamy stars appear:
Haste to the vale; the bridal bowers prepare,

Braids with a brighter wreath her radiant brow. And hail with joy Menalcas' tuneful heir.
At this, in hopeless sorrow drooping long,
Her painted wings Imagination plumes;
Pleas'd that her laureate votary's rescued song
Its native charm and genuine grace resumes.
By the Rev. T. Warton.

THE CONTEST OF THE SHEPHERDS FOR THE
DAUGHTERS OF MENALCAS.

Hɛ (Tityrus) ended; and, as rolling billows loud,
His praise resounded from the circling crowd.
The clamorous tumult softly to compose,
High in the midst the plaintive Colin rose,
Born on the lilied banks of royal Thame,
Which oft had rung with Rosalinda's name;
Fair, yet neglected; neat, yet unadorn'd;
The pride of dress, and flowers of art, he scorn'd:
And, like the nymph who fir'd his youthful breast,
Green were his buskins, green his simple vest:
With careless ease his rustic lays he sung,
And melody flow'd smoothly from his tongue :
Of June's gay fruits, and August's corn he told,
The bloom of April, and December's cold;

Thou, Tityrus, of swains the pride and grace,
Shalt clasp soft Daphne in thy fond embrace:
And thou, young Colin, in thy willing arms
Shalt fold my Hyla, fair in native charms:
O'er these sweet plains divided empire hold,
And to your latest race transmit an age of gold.
What splendid visions rise before my sight,
And fill my aged bosom with delight!
Henceforth of wars and conquest shall you sing,
Arms and the man in every clime shall ring:
Thy Muse, bold Maro, Tityrus no more,
Shall tell of chiefs that left the Phrygian shore,
Sad Dido's love, and Venus' wandering son,
The Latians vanquish'd, and Lavinia won.
And thou, O Colin, Heaven-defended youth,
Shalt hide in fiction's veil the charms of truth;
Thy notes the sting of sorrow shall beguile,
And smooth the brow of anguish till it smile;
Notes, that a sweet Elysian dream can raise,
And lead th' enchanted soul through fancy's

maze;

Thy verse shall shine with Gloriana's name,
And fill the world with Britain's endless fame."

From sir William Jones's Arcadia.