JOHN HARRINGTON.

1564.

Father of Sir John Harrington, this gentleman is distinguished for the following poem, written, as he informs us, "on ISABELLA MARKHAM, when he first thought her fair; as she stood at the Princess's window, in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard." He was the friend and admirer of Queen Elizabeth, who rewarded his attachment to her cause, by the reversion of a grant of lands at Thelston, near Bath. He died in 1582."If," says Mr. Ellis, "the poem here selected be rightly attributed to him, he cannot be denied the singular merit of having united an elegance of taste with an artifice of style which far exceeded his contemporaries."

WHENCE Comes my Love?-oh, heart disclose!
"Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise ;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze :
Whence comes my woe? as freely own—
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind;
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire :
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my Love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain?
O Venus! take thy gifts again.

Make nought so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like your own.

EDMUND SPENSER.

1586.

Of the gentle and the generous SPENSER, who was the prin cipal poet of an age distinguished for its poetical productions, scanty is the information which posterity at present possesses. He whose merit would confer splendour on any name, cannot be traced in his family connections. It is, however, ascertained that ROSALIND was no imaginary mistress; but that she first awakened in his heart the passion he has so tenderly displayed in his writings, by which he attracted the notice of Sir Philip Sidney, his earliest and noblest patron. Nothing can be more exquisitely touching than the kindness with which ROSALIND is mentioned by a lover who had long despaired of obtaining her affection.

But who can tell what cause had that fair maid
To use him so, that loved her so well?
Or who with blame can justly her upbraid,
For loving not-for who can love compel?
And (sooth to say) it is full hardy thing,

Rashly to censure creatures so divine!
For demigods they be; and first did spring

From heaven, though graft in frailness feminine.

This is the language of a noble and a tender heart. It is not possible for a mind rightly constituted ever to recol lect with resentment even the wrongs that have been inflicted by a beloved object. Love will always seek to extenuate the faults of those whom it would believe to be faultless. In his "Faery Queen," SPENSER thus eloquently vindicates this part of his character, against those who seem to have charged him with effeminacy of spirit.

Such ones ill judge of love, that cannot love;
Nor in their frozen hearts feel kindly flame:
Wherefore they ought not thing unknown reprove,
Nor natural affection, faultless, blame;

For fault of few that have abus'd the same.
For it of honour and all virtue is

The root; and brings forth glorious flowers of fame, That crown true lovers with immortal bliss!

The meed of them that love, and do not live amiss.

But the sonnets of SPENSER are addressed principally, if not entirely, to a lady of whom he became enamoured in Ireland, and who frequented the banks of the Mulla, where he resided in the meridian of his life. If poetry may in such cases be credited, he had now less cause to deplore the unsuccessfulness of his suit to Rosalind; happy in the possession of one, whose accomplishments, whose beauty, and whose virtue were by no means of a common description. What were the matrimonial fruits of this union, which the bard has commemorated by an animated epithalamium, we are hitherto uninformed. His wife was the daughter of a rich Irish merchant. SPENSER died about the year 1598; after a chequered, but, on the whole, not a disastrous life. It would be ridicu lous to represent him as miserable, who had been loved and patronized by Sidney and Raleigh; whose talents were acknowledged while he was living, and honoured when he was dead. Conformably to his own request, he was interred in Westminster-abbey, near the remains of his admired Chaucer, the funeral being attended by many men both of rank and abilities; and copies of verses, sacred to his memory, thrown into his grave. A monument was afterwards erected to him, by the noble but unfortunate Earl of Essex, who thus honourably repaid the Sonnet addressed to him by the poet, on the publication of his "Faery Queene."

It is at length believed that Spenser was born about the year 1553.

970

SONNETS.

FAIR eyes, the mirror of my mazed heart!
What wondrous virtue is contain'd in you;
The which both life and death forth from you dart
Into the object of your mighty view?

For when ye mildly look with lovely hue,
Then is my soul with life and love inspir'd;
But when ye lour, or look on me askew,
Then do I die, as one with lightning fir'd.
But since that life is more than death desir'd,
Look ever lovely, as becomes you best;
That your bright beams, of my weak sight admir'd,
May kindle living fire within my breast.
Such life should be the honour of your light;
Such death, the sad ensample of your might!

WAS it the work of Nature or of Art,
Which temper'd so the features of her face,
That pride and meekness, mixt by equal part,
Do both appear to' adorn her beauty's grace?—
For with mild pleasaunce, which doth pride displace,
She to her love doth lookers' eyes allure;

And, with stern count'nance, back again doth chase
Their looser looks, that stir up lusts impure.
With such strange terms her eyes she doth inure,
That with one look she doth my life dismay,
And with another doth it straight recure ;

Her smile me draws, her frown me drives away:
Thus doth she train and teach me, with her looks!
Such art of eyes I never read in books.

SONNETS.

ONE day, as I unwarily did gaze

On those fair eyes my Love's immortal light,
(The while my stonish'd heart stood in amaze,
Through sweet illusion of her look's delight,)
I might perceive how in her glancing sight
Legions of Loves with little wings did fly,
Darting their deadly arrows, fiery bright,
At every rash beholder passing by;
One of those archers closely I did spy
Aiming his arrow at my very heart,
When suddenly, with twinkle of her eye,
The Damsel broke his misintended dart:
Had she not so done, sure I had been slain!
Yet, as it was, I hardly scap'd with pain.

FRESH Spring! the herald of Love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are display'd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring;
In goodly colours, gloriously array'd.-
Go to my Love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter's bower, not well awake;
Tell her, the joyous time will not be staid,
Unless she do him by the fore-lock take:
Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one that misseth then her MAKE,
Shall be by him amerc'd with penance due.
Make haste therefore, sweet Love! whilst it is prime;
For none can call again the passed time.