The Shorter Poems

by Edmund Spenser

Which did the losse of some dere loue lament,

  I doubt; or one of those three fatall Impes,

  Which draw the dayes of men forth in extent;

  Or th’auncient Genius of that Citie brent:

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  But seeing her so piteouslie perplexed,

  I (to her calling) askt what her so vexed.

  Ah what delight (quoth she) in earthlie thing,

  Or comfort can I wretched creature haue?

  Whose happines the heauens enuying,

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  From highest staire to lowest step me draue,

  And haue in mine owne bowels made my graue,

  That of all Nations now I am forlorne,

  The worlds sad spectacle, and fortunes scorne.

  Much was I mooued at her piteous plaint,

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  And felt my heart nigh riuen in my brest

  With tender ruth to see her sore constraint,

  That shedding teares a while I still did rest,

  And after did her name of her request.

  Name haue I none (quoth she) nor anie being,

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  Bereft of both by Fates vniust decreeing.

  I was that Citie, which the garland wore

  Of Britaines pride, deliuered vnto me

  By Romane Victors, which it wonne of yore;

  Though nought at all but ruines now I bee,

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  And lye in mine owne ashes, as ye see:

  Verlame I was; what bootes it that I was,

  Sith now I am but weedes and wastfull gras?

  O vaine worlds glorie, and vnstedfast state

  Of all that liues, on face of sinfull earth,

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  Which from their first vntill their vtmost date

  Tast no one hower of happines or merth,

  But like as at the ingate of their berth,

  They crying creep out of their mothers woomb,

  So wailing backe go to their wofull toomb.

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  Why then dooth flesh, a bubble glas of breath,

  Hunt after honour and aduauncement vaine,

  And reare a trophee for deuouring death,

  With so great labour and long lasting paine,

  As if his daies for euer should remaine?

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  Sith all that in this world is great or gaie,

  Doth as a vapour vanish, and decaie.

  Looke backe, who list, vnto the former ages,

  And call to count, what is of them become:

  Where be those learned wits and antique Sages,

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  Which of all wisedome knew the perfect somme:

  Where those great warriors, which did ouercomme

  The world with conquest of their might and maine,

  And made one meare of th’earth and of their raine?

  What nowe is of th’Assyrian Lyonesse,

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  Of whome no footing now on earth appeares?

  What of the Persian Beares outragiousnesse,

  Whose memorie is quite worne out with yeares?

  Who of the Grecian Libbard now ought heares,

  That ouerran the East with greedie powre,

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  And left his whelps their kingdomes to deuoure?

  And where is that same great seuen headded beast,

  That made all nations vassals of her pride,

  To fall before her feete at her beheast,

  And in the necke of all the world did ride?

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  Where doth she all that wondrous welth nowe hide?

  With her own weight down pressed now shee lies,

  And by her heaps her hugenesse testifies.

  O Rome thy ruine I lament and rue,

  And in thy fall my fatall ouerthrowe,

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  That whilom was, whilst heauens with equall vewe

  Deignd to behold me, and their gifts bestowe,

  The picture of thy pride in pompous shew:

  And of the whole world as thou wast the Empresse,

  So I of this small Northerne world was Princesse.

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  To tell the beawtie of my buildings fayre,

  Adornd with purest golde, and precious stone;

  To tell my riches, and endowments rare

  That by my foes are now all spent and gone:

  To tell my forces matchable to none,

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  Were but lost labour, that few would beleeue,

  And with rehearsing would me more agreeue.

  High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters,

  Strong walls, rich porches, princelie pallaces,

  Large streetes, braue houses, sacred sepulchers,

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  Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries,

  Wrought with faire pillours, and fine imageries,

  All those (O pitie) now are turnd to dust,

  And ouergrowen with blacke obliuions rust.

  Theretoo for warlike power, and peoples store,

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  In Britannie was none to match with mee,

  That manie often did abie full sore:

  Ne Troynouant, though elder sister shee,

  With my great forces might compared bee;

  That stout Pendragon to his perill felt,

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  Who in a siege seauen yeres about me dwelt.

  But long ere this Bunduca Britonnesse

  Her mightie hoast against my bulwarkes brought,

  Bunduca, that victorious conqueresse,

  That lifting vp her braue heroick thought

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  Boue womens weaknes, with the Romanes fought,

  Fought, and in field against them thrice preuailed:

  Yet was she foyld, when as she me assailed.

  And though at last by force I conquered were

  Of hardie Saxons, and became their thrall;

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  Yet was I with much bloodshed bought full deere

  And prizde with slaughter of their Generall:

  The moniment of whose sad funerall,

  For wonder of the world, long in me lasted;

  But now to nought through spoyle of time is wasted.

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  Wasted it is, as if it neuer were,

  And all the rest that me so honord made,

  And of the world admired eu’rie where,

  Is turnd to smoake, that doth to nothing fade;

  And of that brightnes now appeares no shade,

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  But greislie shades, such as doo haunt in hell

  With fearfull fiends, that in deep darknes dwell.

  Where my high steeples whilom vsde to stand,

  On which the lordly Faulcon wont to towre,

  There now is but an heap of lyme and sand,

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  For the Shriche-owle to build her balefull bowre:

  And where the Nightingale wont forth to powre

  Her restles plaints, to comfort wakefull Louers

  There now haunt yelling Mewes and whining Plouers.

  And where the christall Thamis wont to slide

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  In siluer channell, downe along the Lee,

  About whose flowrie bankes on either side

  A thousand Nymphes, with mirthfull iollitee

  Were wont to play, from all annoyance free;

  There now no riuers course is to be seene,

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  But moorish fennes, and marshes euer greene.

  Seemes, that that gentle Riuer for great griefe

  Of my mishaps, which oft I to him plained;

  Or for to shunne the horrible mischiefe,

  With which he saw my cruell foes me pained,

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  And his pure streames with guiltles blood oft stained,

  From my vnhappie neighborhood farre fled,

  And his sweete waters away with him led.

  There also where the winged ships were seene

  In liquid waues to cut their fom
ie waie,

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  And thousand Fishers numbred to haue been,

  In that wide lake looking for plenteous praie

  Of fish, which they with baits vsde to betraie,

  Is now no lake, nor anie fishers store,

  Nor euer ship shall saile there anie more.

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  They all are gone, and all with them is gone,

  Ne ought to me remaines, but to lament

  My long decay, which no man els doth mone,

  And mourne my fall with dolefull dreriment.

  Yet it is comfort in great languishment,

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  To be bemoned with compassion kinde,

  And mitigates the anguish of the minde.

  But me no man bewaileth, but in game,

  Ne sheddeth teares from lamentable eie:

  Nor anie liues that mentioneth my name

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  To be remembred of posteritie,

  Saue One that maugre fortunes iniurie,

  And times decay, and enuies cruell tort,

  Hath writ my record in true-seeming sort.

  Cambden the nourice of antiquitie,

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  And lanterne vnto late succeeding age,

  To see the light of simple veritie,

  Buried in ruines, through the great outrage

  Of her owne people, led with warlike rage,

  Cambden, though time all moniments obscure,

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  Yet thy iust labours euer shall endure.

  But whie (vnhappie wight) doo I thus crie,

  And grieue that my remembrance quite is raced

  Out of the knowledge of posteritie,

  And all my antique moniments defaced?

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  Sith I doo dailie see things highest placed,

  So soone as fates their vitall thred haue shorne,

  Forgotten quite as they were neuer borne.

  It is not long, since these two eyes beheld

  A mightie Prince, of most renowmed race,

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  Whom England high in count of honour held,

  And greatest ones did sue to gaine his grace;

  Of greatest ones he greatest in his place,

  Sate in the bosome of his Soueraine,

  And Right and loyall did his word maintaine.

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  I saw him die, I saw him die, as one

  Of the meane people, and brought foorth on beare,

  I saw him die, and no man left to mone

  His dolefull fate, that late him loued deare:

  Scarse anie left to close his eylids neare;

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  Scarse anie left vpon his lips to laie

  The sacred sod, or Requiem to saie.

  O trustlesse state of miserable men,

  That builde your blis on hope of earthly thing,

  And vainly thinke your selues halfe happie then,

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  When painted faces with smooth flattering

  Doo fawne on you, and your wide praises sing,

  And when the courting masker louteth lowe,

  Him true in heart and trustie to you trow.

  All is but fained, and with oaker dide,

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  That euerie shower will wash and wipe away,

  All things doo change that vnder heauen abide,

  And after death all friendship doth decaie.

  Therefore what euer man bearst worldlie sway,

  Liuing, on God, and on thy selfe relie;

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  For when thou diest, all shall with thee die.

  He now is dead, and all is with him dead,

  Saue what in heauens storehouse he vplaid:

  His hope is faild, and come to passe his dread,

  And euill men now dead, his deeds vpbraid:

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  Spite bites the dead, that liuing neuer baid.

  He now is gone, the whiles the Foxe is crept

  Into the hole, the which the Badger swept.

  He now is dead, and all his glorie gone,

  And all his greatnes vapoured to nought,

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  That as a glasse vpon the water shone,

  Which vanisht quite, so soone as it was sought:

  His name is worne alreadie out of thought,

  Ne anie Poet seekes him to reuiue;

  Yet manie Poets honourd him aliue.

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  Ne doth his Colin, carelesse Colin Cloute,

  Care now his idle bagpipe vp to raise,

  Ne tell his sorrow to the listning rout

  Of shepherd groomes, which wont his songs to praise:

  Praise who so list, yet I will him dispraise,

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  Vntill he quite him of this guiltie blame:

  Wake shepheards boy, at length awake for shame.

  And who so els did goodnes by him gaine,

  And who so els his bounteous minde did trie,

  Whether he shepheard be, or shepheards swaine,

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  (For manie did, which doo it now denie)

  Awake, and to his Song a part applie:

  And I, the whilest you mourne for his decease,

  Will with my mourning plaints your plaint increase.

  He dyde, and after him his brother dyde,

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  His brother Prince, his brother noble Peere,

  That whilste he liued, was of none enuyde,

  And dead is now, as liuing, counted deare,

  Deare vnto all that true affection beare:

  But vnto thee most deare, O dearest Dame,

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  His noble Spouse, and Paragon of fame.

  He whilest he liued, happie was through thee,

  And being dead is happie now much more;

  Liuing, that lincked chaunst with thee to bee,

  And dead, because him dead thou dost adore

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  As liuing, and thy lost deare loue deplore.

  So whilst that thou, faire flower of chastitie,

  Dost liue, by thee thy Lord shall neuer die.

  Thy Lord shall neuer die, the whiles this verse

  Shall liue, and surely it shall liue for euer:

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  For euer it shall liue, and shall rehearse

  His worthie praise, and vertues dying neuer,

  Though death his soule doo from his bodie seuer.

  And thou thy selfe herein shalt also liue;

  Such grace the heauens doo to my verses giue.

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  Ne shall his sister, ne thy father die,

  Thy father, that good Earle of rare renowne,

  And noble Patrone of weake pouertie;

  Whose great good deeds in countrey and in towne

  Haue purchast him in heauen an happie crowne;

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  Where he now liueth in eternall blis,

  And left his sonne t’ensue those steps of his.

  He noble bud, his Grandsires liuelie hayre,

  Vnder the shadow of thy countenaunce

  Now ginnes to shoote vp fast, and flourish fayre

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  In learned artes and goodlie gouernaunce,

  That him to highest honour shall aduaunce.