Halfe of this hart, this sprite, and will,
Di’de in the brest of Astrophill.
‘And you, compassionate of my wo,
Gentle birds, beasts, and shadie trees, 80
I am assurde ye long to kno
What be the sorrowes me agreev’s;
Listen ye then to that insu’th,
And heare a tale of teares and ruthe.
‘You knew — who knew not? — Astrophill: 85
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things knowne permit me to renew;
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say, you heare, too much. 90
‘Within these woods of Arcadie
He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke,
And on the mountaine Parthenie,
Upon the chrystall liquid brooke,
The Muses met him ev’ry day, 95
That taught him sing, to write, and say.
‘When he descended downe the mount,
His personage seemed most divine,
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerfull eine, 100
To heare him speake and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.
‘A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face, 105
The lineaments of Gospell bookes;
I trowe that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.
‘Was never eie, did see that face,
Was never eare, did heare that tong, 110
Was never minde, did minde his grace,
That ever thought the travell long,
But eies, and eares, and ev’ry thought,
Were with his sweete perfections caught.
‘O God, that such a worthy man, 115
In whom so rare desarts did raigne,
Desired thus, must leave us than,
And we to wish for him in vaine!
O could the stars that bred that wit
In force no longer fixed sit? 120
‘Then being fild with learned dew,
The Muses willed him to love;
That instrument can aptly shew
How finely our conceits will move:
As Bacchus opes dissembled harts, 125
So Love sets out our better parts.
‘Stella, a nymph within this wood,
Most rare and rich of heavenly blis,
The highest in his fancie stood,
And she could well demerite this: 130
Tis likely they acquainted soone;
He was a sun, and she a moone.
‘Our Astrophill did Stella love;
O Stella, vaunt of Astrophill,
Albeit thy graces gods may move, 135
Where wilt thou finde an Astrophill?
The rose and lillie have their prime,
And so hath beautie but a time.
‘Although thy beautie do exceed,
In common sight of ev’ry eie, 140
Yet in his poesies when we reede,
It is apparant more thereby:
He that hath love and judgement too
Sees more than any other doo.
‘Then Astrophill hath honord thee; 145
For when thy bodie is extinct,
Thy graces shall eternall be,
And live by vertue of his inke;
For by his verses he doth give
To short livde beautie aye to live. 150
‘Above all others this is hee,
Which erst approoved in his song
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints! it is no sinne nor blame, 155
To love a man of vertuous name.
‘Did never love so sweetly breath
In any mortall brest before;
Did never Muse inspire beneath
A poets braine with finer store: 160
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beautie reard above her height.
‘Then Pallas afterward attyrde
Our Astrophill with her device,
Whom in his armor heaven admyrde, 165
As of the nation of the skies;
He sparkled in his armes afarrs,
As he were dight with fierie starrs.
‘The blaze whereof when Mars beheld,
(An envious eie doth see afar) 170
“Such majestie,” quoth he, “is seeld,
Such majestie my mart may mar;
Perhaps this may a suter be,
To set Mars by his deitie.”
‘In this surmize he made with speede 175
An iron cane, wherein he put
The thunder that in cloudes do breede;
The flame and bolt togither shut
With privie force burst out againe,
And so our Astrophill was slaine.’ 180
His word, ‘was slaine,’ straightway did move,
And Natures inward life strings twitch:
The skie immediately above
Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch,
The wrastling winds from out the ground 185
Fild all the aire with ratling sound.
The bending trees exprest a grone,
And sigh’d the sorrow of his fall,
The forrest beasts made ruthfull mone,
The birds did tune their mourning call, 190
And Philomell for Astrophill
Unto her notes annext a phill.
The turtle dove with tunes of ruthe
Shewd feeling passion of his death;
Me thought she said, ‘I tell thee truthe, 195
Was never he that drew in breath
Unto his love more trustie found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound.’
The swan, that was in presence heere,
Began his funerall dirge to sing: 200
‘Good things,’ quoth he, ‘may scarce appeere,
But passe away with speedie wing:
This mortall life as death is tride,
And death gives life,’ — and so he di’de.
The generall sorrow that was made 205
Among the creatures of Kinde
Fired the phœnix where she laide,
Her ashes flying with the winde,
So as I might with reason see,
That such a phœnix nere should bee. 210
Haply the cinders, driven about,
May breede an offspring neere that kinde,
But hardly a peere to that, I doubt;
It cannot sinke into my minde,
That under branches ere can bee 215
Of worth and value as the tree.
The egle markt with pearcing sight
The mournfull habite of the place,
And parted thence with mounting flight,
To signifie to Jove the case, 220
What sorrow Nature doth sustaine
For Astrophill by envie slaine.
And while I followed with mine eie
The flight the egle upward tooke,
All things did vanish by and by, 225
And disappeared from my looke;
The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone,
So was the friend that made this mone.
This spectacle had firmly wrought
A deepe compassion in my spright; 230
My molting hart issude, me thought,
In streames forth at mine eies aright:
And here my pen is forst to shrinke,
My teares discollors so mine inke.
An Epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight: Lord Governor of Flushing
[By Sir Walter Raleigh.]
TO praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,
Is far beyon
d the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.
Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore, 5
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled more.
And I, that in thy time and living state
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought, 10
As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.
Drawne was thy race aright from princely line,
Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that Nature gave,
The common mother that all creatures have,) 15
Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.
A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde,
That God thee gave, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine. 20
Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth;
The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.
Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, 25
To treat from kings with those more great than kings,
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.
Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends: 30
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.
There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base Fortunes might:
Thy rising day saw never wofull night, 35
But past with praise from of this worldly stage.
Back to the campe by thee that day was brought,
First thine owne death, and after thy long fame;
Teares to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame;
Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught. 40
What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon?
Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure
Of Fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure:
Oh happie race with so great praises run!
England doth hold thy lims, that bred the same; 45
Flaunders thy valure, where it last was tried;
The campe thy sorrow, where thy bodie died;
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame.
Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love;
Letters thy learning; thy losse, yeeres long to come; 50
In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe;
Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above.
Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares,
Yoong sighs, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall:
Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall; 55
Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares.
That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell,
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time,
Whose vertues, wounded by my worthlesse rime,
Let angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell. 60
Another of the Same
[Ascribed by Charles Lamb, ‘from internal testimony,’ to Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke.]
SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage;
Stald are my thoughts, which lov’d, and lost, the wonder of our age;
Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,
Enrag’de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.
Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigors teares abound, 5
And Envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found;
Knowledge her light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her knight,
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight.
Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride;
Time crieth out, ‘My ebbe is come: his life was my spring tide;’ 10
Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports;
Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts.
He was (wo worth that word!) to ech well thinking minde,
A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue ever shinde,
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, 15
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.
He, onely like himselfe, was second unto none,
Whose deth (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone;
Their losse, not him, waile they that fill the world with cries;
Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies. 20
Now sinke of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong,
Who wishing death, whom Deth denies, whose thred is al to long,
Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe,
Must spend my ever dying daies in never ending griefe.
Harts ease and onely I like parallels run on, 25
Whose equall length keep equall bredth, and never meet in one;
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes cell,
Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well.
Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreames,
Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beames, 30
Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth,
And farewel friendships sacred league, uniting minds of woorth.
And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes,
And all sports which, for lives restore, varietie assignes;
Let all that sweete is voyd; in me no mirth may dwell; 35
Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content, farewell!
Now Rime, the sonne of Rage, which art no kin to Skill,
And endles Griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,
Go seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde,
Salute the stones that keep the lims that held so good a minde.
FINIS.
Colin Clouts Come Home Againe
This is a pastoral poem that was published in 1595. In a tradition harking back to Petrarch, perhaps even as far back as Theocritus, the pastoral eclogue forms a dialogue between shepherds with a narrative or song as an inset, often concealing allegories of a political or divine nature. Spenser’s rendering of this form is based on the subject of his visit to London in 1591, composed as a humorous account of the journey. After his return home to Ireland later that year, Spenser began writing the poem, dedicating it to Sir Walter Raleigh in partial payment for an “infinite debt”. Raleigh had visited the poet before his London trip, urging him to go with him. While working on the poem, Spenser sent Raleigh several versions between 1591 and 1595, when the poem was published.
In the poem, Colin Clouts gives a detailed description of the London visit, making the poem one of Spenser’s most autobiographical works, offering much topical interest of the time, with references to other real life figures of the day.
Sir Walter Raleigh (1554-1618) the famous English soldier, courtier, spy, and explorer. Although well known for popularising the use of tobacco in England, he was also an accomplished poet, who acted partly as a mentor to the younger Spenser, inspiring him to write this poem.
TO THE RIGHT WORTHY AND NOBLE KNIGHT SIR WALTER RALEIGH, CAPTAINE OF HER MAJESTIES GUARD, LORD WARDEIN OF THE STANNERIES, AND LIEUTENANT OF THE COUNTIE OF CORNWALL
SIR, that you may see that I am not alwaies ydle as yee thinke, though not greatly well occupied, nor altogither undutifull, though not precisely officious, I make you present of this simple pastorall, un
worthie of your higher conceipt for the meanesse of the stile, but agreeing with the truth in circumstance and matter. The which I humbly beseech you to accept in part of paiment of the infinite debt in which I acknowledge my selfe bounden unto you, for your singular favours and sundrie good turnes shewed to me at my late being in England, and with your good countenance protect against the malice of evill mouthes, which are alwaies wide open to carpe at and misconstrue my simple meaning. I pray continually for your happinesse. From my house of Kilcolman, the 27 of December, 1591.
Yours ever humbly,
Ed. Sp.
COLIN CLOUTS COME HOME AGAINE
THE SHEPHEARDS boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,
Laies of sweet love, without rebuke or blame,
Sate (as his custome was) upon a day,
Charming his oaten pipe unto his peres, 5
The shepheard swaines that did about him play:
Who all the while, with greedie listfull eares,
Did stand astonisht at his curious skill,
Like hartlesse deare, dismayd with thunders sound.
At last when as he piped had his fill, 10
He rested him: and sitting then around,
One of those groomes (a jolly groome was he,
As ever piped on an oaten reed,
And lov’d this shepheard dearest in degree,
Hight Hobbinol) gan thus to him areed. 15
‘Colin, my liefe, my life, how great a losse
Had all the shepheards nation by thy lacke!
And I, poore swaine, of many, greatest crosse:
That, sith thy Muse first since thy turning backe
Was heard to sound as she was wont on hye, 20
Hast made us all so blessed and so blythe.
Whilest thou wast hence, all dead in dole did lie:
The woods were heard to waile full many a sythe,
And all their birds with silence to complaine:
The fields with faded flowers did seem to mourne, 25
And all their flocks from feeding to refraine:
The running waters wept for thy returne,
And all their fish with languour did lament:
But now both woods and fields and floods revive,
Sith thou art come, their cause of meriment, 30
That us, late dead, hast made againe alive.
But were it not too painfull to repeat
The passed fortunes, which to thee befell
In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat,
Now at thy leisure them to us to tell.’ 35
To whom the shepheard gently answered thus:
Complete Works of Edmund Spenser Page 153
