Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  L

  But he the more thereby enraged was,

  And with more eager felnesse him pursew’d,

  So that at length, after long weary chace,

  Having by chaunce a close advantage vew’d, 445

  He over raught him, having long eschew’d

  His violence in vaine, and with his spere

  Strooke through his shoulder, that the blood ensew’d

  In great aboundance, as a well it were,

  That forth out of an hill fresh gushing did appere. 450

  LI

  Yet ceast he not for all that cruell wound,

  But chaste him still, for all his ladies cry,

  Not satisfyde till on the fatall ground

  He saw his life powrd forth dispiteously:

  The which was certes in great jeopardy, 455

  Had not a wondrous chaunce his reskue wrought,

  And saved from his cruell villany:

  Such chaunces oft exceed all humaine thought:

  That in another canto shall to end be brought.

  Faerie Queene Detailed Table of Contents

  Glossary for ‘The Faerie Queene’

  Canto IV

  Calepine by a salvage man

  From Turpine reskewed is;

  And whylest an infant from a beare

  He saves, his love doth misse.

  I

  LIKE as a ship with dreadfull storme long tost,

  Having spent all her mastes and her ground-hold,

  Now farre from harbour likely to be lost,

  At last some fisher barke doth neare behold,

  That giveth comfort to her courage cold: 5

  Such was the state of this most courteous knight,

  Being oppressed by that faytour bold,

  That he remayned in most perilous plight,

  And his sad ladie left in pitifull affright.

  II

  Till that by fortune, passing all foresight, 10

  A salvage man, which in those woods did wonne,

  Drawne with that ladies loud and piteous shright,

  Toward the same incessantly did ronne,

  To understand what there was to be donne.

  There he this most discourteous craven found, 15

  As fiercely yet as when he first begonne

  Chasing the gentle Calepine around,

  Ne sparing him the more for all his grievous wound.

  III

  The salvage man, that never till this houre

  Did taste of pittie, neither gentlesse knew, 20

  Seeing his sharpe assault and cruell stoure,

  Was much emmoved at his perils vew,

  That even his ruder hart began to rew,

  And feele compassion of his evill plight,

  Against his foe that did him so pursew: 25

  From whom he meant to free him, if he might,

  And him avenge of that so villenous despight.

  IV

  Yet armes or weapon had he none to fight,

  Ne knew the use of warlike instruments,

  Save such as sudden rage him lent to smite. 30

  But naked, without needfull vestiments

  To clad his corpse with meete habiliments,

  He cared not for dint of sword nor speere,

  No more then for the stroke of strawes or bents:

  For from his mothers wombe, which him did beare, 35

  He was invulnerable made by magicke leare.

  V

  He stayed not t’ advize, which way were best

  His foe t’ assayle, or how himselfe to gard,

  But with fierce fury and with force infest

  Upon him ran; who being well prepard, 40

  His first assault full warily did ward,

  And with the push of his sharp-pointed speare

  Full on the breast him strooke, so strong and hard

  That forst him backe recoyle, and reele areare;

  Yet in his bodie made no wound nor bloud appeare. 45

  VI

  With that the wyld man more enraged grew,

  Like to a tygre that hath mist his pray,

  And with mad mood againe upon him flew,

  Regarding neither speare, that mote him slay,

  Nor his fierce steed, that mote him much dismay: 50

  The salvage nation doth all dread despize.

  Tho on his shield he griple hold did lay,

  And held the same so hard, that by no wize

  He could him force to loose, or leave his enterprize.

  VII

  Long did he wrest and wring it to and fro, 55

  And every way did try, but all in vaine:

  For he would not his greedie grype forgoe,

  But hayld and puld with all his might and maine,

  That from his steed him nigh he drew againe.

  Who having now no use of his long speare, 60

  So nigh at hand, nor force his shield to straine,

  Both speare and shield, as things that needlesse were,

  He quite forsooke, and fled himselfe away for feare.

  VIII

  But after him the wyld man ran apace,

  And him pursewed with importune speed, 65

  (For he was swift as any bucke in chace)

  And had he not in his extreamest need,

  Bene helped through the swiftnesse of his steed,

  He had him overtaken in his flight.

  Who ever, as he saw him nigh succeed, 70

  Gan cry aloud with horrible affright,

  And shrieked out, a thing uncomely for a knight.

  IX

  But when the salvage saw his labour vaine,

  In following of him that fled so fast,

  He wearie woxe, and backe return’d againe 75

  With speede unto the place whereas he last

  Had left that couple, nere their utmost cast.

  There he that knight full sorely bleeding found,

  And eke the ladie fearefully aghast,

  Both for the perill of the present stound, 80

  And also for the sharpnesse of her rankling wound.

  X

  For though she were right glad, so rid to bee

  From that vile lozell which her late offended,

  Yet now no lesse encombrance she did see,

  And perill, by this salvage man pretended; 85

  Gainst whom she saw no meanes to be defended,

  By reason that her knight was wounded sore.

  Therefore her selfe she wholy recommended

  To Gods sole grace, whom she did oft implore

  To send her succour, being of all hope forlore. 90

  XI

  But the wyld man, contrarie to her feare,

  Came to her creeping like a fawning hound,

  And by rude tokens made to her appeare

  His deepe compassion of her dolefull stound,

  Kissing his hands, and crouching to the ground; 95

  For other language had he none, nor speach,

  But a soft murmure, and confused sound

  Of senselesse words, which Nature did him teach,

  T’ expresse his passions, which his reason did empeach.

  XII

  And comming likewise to the wounded knight, 100

  When he beheld the streames of purple blood

  Yet flowing fresh, as moved with the sight,

  He made great mone after his salvage mood,

  And running streight into the thickest wood,

  A certaine herbe from thence unto him brought, 105

  Whose vertue he by use well understood:

  The juyce whereof into his wound he wrought,

  And stopt the bleeding straight, ere he it staunched thought.

  XIII

  Then taking up that recreants shield and speare,

  Which earst he left, he signes unto them made, 110

  With him to wend unto his wonning neare:

  To which he easily did them perswade.

  Farre
in the forrest, by a hollow glade,

  Covered with mossie shrubs, which spredding brode

  Did underneath them make a gloomy shade: 115

  Where foot of living creature never trode,

  Ne scarse wyld beasts durst come, there was this wights abode.

  XIV

  Thether he brought these unacquainted guests;

  To whom faire semblance, as he could, he shewed

  By signes, by lookes, and all his other gests. 120

  But the bare ground, with hoarie mosse bestrowed,

  Must be their bed, their pillow was unsowed,

  And the frutes of the forrest was their feast:

  For their bad stuard neither plough’d nor sowed,

  Ne fed on flesh, ne ever of wyld beast 125

  Did taste the bloud, obaying Natures first beheast.

  XV

  Yet howsoever base and meane it were,

  They tooke it well, and thanked God for all,

  Which had them freed from that deadly feare,

  And sav’d from being to that caytive thrall. 130

  Here they of force (as fortune now did fall)

  Compelled were themselves a while to rest,

  Glad of that easement, though it were but small;

  That having there their wounds awhile redrest,

  They mote the abler be to passe unto the rest. 135

  XVI

  During which time, that wyld man did apply

  His best endevour and his daily paine,

  In seeking all the woods both farre and nye

  For herbes to dresse their wounds; still seeming faine,

  When ought he did that did their lyking gaine. 140

  So as ere long he had that knightes wound

  Recured well, and made him whole againe:

  But that same ladies hurt no herbe he found

  Which could redresse, for it was inwardly unsound.

  XVII

  Now when as Calepine was woxen strong, 145

  Upon a day he cast abrode to wend,

  To take the ayre and heare the thrushes song,

  Unarm’d, as fearing neither foe nor frend,

  And without sword his person to defend.

  There him befell, unlooked for before, 150

  An hard adventure with unhappie end,

  A cruell beare, the which an infant bore

  Betwixt his bloodie jawes, besprinckled all with gore.

  XVIII

  The litle babe did loudly scrike and squall,

  And all the woods with piteous plaints did fill, 155

  As if his cry did meane for helpe to call

  To Calepine, whose eares those shrieches shrill,

  Percing his hart, with pities point did thrill;

  That after him he ran with zealous haste,

  To rescue th’ infant, ere he did him kill: 160

  Whom though he saw now somewhat overpast,

  Yet by the cry he follow’d, and pursewed fast.

  XIX

  Well then him chaunst his heavy armes to want,

  Whose burden mote empeach his needfull speed,

  And hinder him from libertie to pant: 165

  For having long time, as his daily weed,

  Them wont to weare, and wend on foot for need,

  Now wanting them he felt himselfe so light,

  That like an hauke, which feeling her selfe freed

  From bels and jesses, which did let her flight, 170

  Him seem’d his feet did fly, and in their speed delight.

  XX

  So well he sped him, that the wearie beare

  Ere long he overtooke, and forst to stay,

  And without weapon him assayling neare,

  Compeld him soone the spoyle adowne to lay. 175

  Wherewith the beast, enrag’d to loose his pray,

  Upon him turned, and with greedie force

  And furie, to be crossed in his way,

  Gaping full wyde, did thinke without remorse

  To be aveng’d on him, and to devoure his corse. 180

  XXI

  But the bold knight, no whit thereat dismayd,

  But catching up in hand a ragged stone,

  Which lay thereby (so Fortune him did ayde)

  Upon him ran, and thrust it all attone

  Into his gaping throte, that made him grone 185

  And gaspe for breath, that he nigh choked was,

  Being unable to digest that bone;

  Ne could it upward come, nor downward passe,

  Ne could he brooke the coldnesse of the stony masse.

  XXII

  Whom when as he thus combred did behold, 190

  Stryving in vaine that nigh his bowels brast,

  He with him closd, and laying mightie hold

  Upon his throte, did gripe his gorge so fast,

  That, wanting breath, him downe to ground he cast;

  And then oppressing him with urgent paine, 195

  Ere long enforst to breath his utmost blast,

  Gnashing his cruell teeth at him in vaine,

  And threatning his sharpe clawes, now wanting powre to straine.

  XXIII

  Then tooke he up betwixt his armes twaine

  The litle babe, sweet relickes of his pray; 200

  Whom pitying to heare so sore complaine,

  From his soft eyes the teares he wypt away,

  And from his face the filth that did it ray,

  And every litle limbe he searcht around,

  And every part that under sweathbands lay, 205

  Least that the beasts sharpe teeth had any wound

  Made in his tender flesh; but whole them all he found.

  XXIV

  So having all his bands againe uptyde,

  He with him thought backe to returne againe:

  But when he lookt about on every syde, 210

  To weet which way were best to entertaine,

  To bring him to the place where he would faine,

  He could no path nor tract of foot descry,

  Ne by inquirie learne, nor ghesse by ayme;

  For nought but woods and forrests farre and nye, 215

  That all about did close the compasse of his eye.

  XXV

  Much was he then encombred, ne could tell

  Which way to take: now west he went a while,

  Then north; then neither, but as fortune fell.

  So up and downe he wandred many a mile, 220

  With wearie travell and uncertaine toile,

  Yet nought the nearer to his journeys end;

  And evermore his lovely litle spoile

  Crying for food did greatly him offend.

  So all that day in wandring vainely he did spend. 225

  XXVI

  At last, about the setting of the sunne,

  Him selfe out of the forest he did wynd,

  And by good fortune the plaine champion wonne:

  Where looking all about, where he mote fynd

  Some place of succour to content his mynd, 230

  At length he heard under the forrests syde

  A voice, that seemed of some woman kynd

  Which to her selfe lamenting loudly cryde,

  And oft complayn’d of Fate, and Fortune oft defyde.

  XXVII

  To whom approching, when as she perceived 235

  A stranger wight in place, her plaint she stayd,

  As if she doubted to have bene deceived,

  Or loth to let her sorrowes be bewrayd.

  Whom when as Calepine saw so dismayd,

  He to her drew, and with faire blandishment 240

  Her chearing up, thus gently to her sayd:

  ‘What be you, wofull dame, which thus lament?

  And for what cause declare, so mote ye not repent.’

  XXVIII

  To whom she thus: ‘What need me, sir, to tell

  That which your selfe have earst ared so right? 245

  A wofull dame ye have me termed well;

/>   So much more wofull, as my wofull plight

  Cannot redressed be by living wight.’

  ‘Nathlesse,’ quoth he, ‘if need doe not you bynd,

  Doe it disclose, to ease your grieved spright: 250

  Oftimes it haps, that sorrowes of the mynd

  Find remedie unsought, which seeking cannot fynd.’

  XXIX

  Then thus began the lamentable dame:

  ‘Sith then ye needs will know the griefe I hoord,

  I am th’ unfortunate Matilde by name, 255

  The wife of bold Sir Bruin, who is lord

  Of all this land, late conquer’d by his sword

  From a great gyant, called Cormoraunt;

  Whom he did overthrow by yonder foord,

  And in three battailes did so deadly daunt, 260

  That he dare not returne for all his daily vaunt.

  XXX

  ‘So is my lord now seiz’d of all the land,

  As in his fee, with peaceable estate,

  And quietly doth hold it in his hand,

  Ne any dares with him for it debate. 265

  But to these happie fortunes cruell fate

  Hath joyn’d one evill, which doth overthrow

  All these our joyes, and all our blisse abate;

  And like in time to further ill to grow,

  And all this land with endlesse losse to overflow. 270

  XXXI

  ‘For th’ heavens, envying our prosperitie,

  Have not vouchsaft to graunt unto us twaine

  The gladfull blessing of posteritie,

  Which we might see after our selves remaine

  In th’ heritage of our unhappie paine: 275

  So that for want of heires it to defend,

  All is in time like to returne againe

  To that foule feend, who dayly doth attend

  To leape into the same after our lives end.

  XXXII

  ‘But most my lord is grieved herewithall, 280

  And makes exceeding mone, when he does thinke

  That all this land unto his foe shall fall,

  For which he long in vaine did sweat and swinke,

  That now the same he greatly doth forthinke.

  Yet was it sayd, there should to him a sonne 285

  Be gotten, not begotten, which should drinke

  And dry up all the water which doth ronne

  In the next brooke, by whom that feend shold be fordonne.

  XXXIII

  ‘Well hop’t he then, when this was propheside,

  That from his sides some noble chyld should rize, 290

  The which through fame should farre be magnifide,

  And this proud gyant should with brave emprize

  Quite overthrow, who now ginnes to despize

  The good Sir Bruin, growing farre in yeares;

  Who thinkes from me his sorrow all doth rize. 295

  Lo! this my cause of griefe to you appeares;

  For which I thus doe mourne, and poure forth ceaselesse teares.’