Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  Els had his sinnes so great and manifold

  Made him forget all that Fidelia told.

  In this distressed doubtfull agony, 195

  When him his dearest Una did behold,

  Disdeining life, desiring leave to dye,

  She found her selfe assayld with great perplexity:

  XXIII

  And came to Cœlia to declare her smart;

  Who, well acquainted with that commune plight, 200

  Which sinfull horror workes in wounded hart,

  Her wisely comforted all that she might,

  With goodly counsell and advisement right;

  And streightway sent with carefull diligence,

  To fetch a leach, the which had great insight 205

  In that disease of grieved conscience,

  And well could cure the same: his name was Patience.

  XXIV

  Who, comming to that sowle-diseased knight,

  Could hardly him intreat to tell his grief:

  Which knowne, and all that noyd his heavie spright 210

  Well searcht, eftsoones he gan apply relief

  Of salves and med’cines, which had passing prief,

  And there to added wordes of wondrous might:

  By which to ease he him recured brief,

  And much aswag’d the passion of his plight, 215

  That he his paine endur’d, as seeming now more light.

  XXV

  But yet the cause and root of all his ill,

  Inward corruption and infected sin,

  Not purg’d nor heald, behind remained still,

  And festring sore did ranckle yett within, 220

  Close creeping twixt the marow and the skin.

  Which to extirpe, he laid him privily

  Downe in a darksome lowly place far in,

  Whereas he meant his corrosives to apply,

  And with streight diet tame his stubborne malady. 225

  XXVI

  In ashes and sackcloth he did array

  His daintie corse, proud humors to abate,

  And dieted with fasting every day,

  The swelling of his woundes to mitigate,

  And made him pray both earely and eke late: 230

  And ever as superfluous flesh did rott,

  Amendment readie still at hand did wayt,

  To pluck it out with pincers fyrie whott,

  That soone in him was lefte no one corrupted jott.

  XXVII

  And bitter Penaunce, with an yron whip, 235

  Was wont him once to disple every day:

  And sharpe Remorse his hart did prick and nip,

  That drops of blood thence like a well did play:

  And sad Repentance used to embay

  His body in salt water smarting sore, 240

  The filthy blottes of sin to wash away.

  So in short space they did to health restore

  The man that would not live, but erst lay at deathes dore.

  XXVIII

  In which his torment often was so great,

  That like a lyon he would cry and rore, 245

  And rend his flesh, and his owne synewes eat.

  His owne deare Una, hearing evermore

  His ruefull shriekes and gronings, often tore

  Her guiltlesse garments and her golden heare,

  For pitty of his payne and anguish sore; 250

  Yet all with patience wisely she did beare;

  For well she wist, his cryme could els be never cleare.

  XXIX

  Whom, thus recover’d by wise Patience

  And trew Repentaunce, they to Una brought;

  Who, joyous of his cured conscience, 255

  Him dearely kist, and fayrely eke besought

  Himselfe to chearish, and consuming thought

  To put away out of his carefull brest.

  By this Charissa, late in child-bed brought,

  Was woxen strong, and left her fruitfull nest; 260

  To her fayre Una brought this unacquainted guest.

  XXX

  She was a woman in her freshest age,

  Of wondrous beauty, and of bounty rare,

  With goodly grace and comely personage,

  That was on earth not easie to compare; 265

  Full of great love, but Cupids wanton snare

  As hell she hated, chaste in worke and will;

  Her necke and brests were ever open bare,

  That ay thereof her babes might sucke their fill:

  The rest was all in yellow robes arayed still. 270

  XXXI

  A multitude of babes about her hong,

  Playing their sportes, that joyd her to behold;

  Whom still she fed, whiles they were weak and young,

  But thrust them forth still, as they wexed old:

  And on her head she wore a tyre of gold, 275

  Adornd with gemmes and owches wondrous fayre,

  Whose passing price uneath was to be told;

  And by her syde there sate a gentle payre

  Of turtle doves, she sitting in an yvory chayre.

  XXXII

  The knight and Una, entring, fayre her greet, 280

  And bid her joy of that her happy brood;

  Who them requites with court’sies seeming meet,

  And entertaynes with friendly chearefull mood.

  Then Una her besought, to be so good

  As in her vertuous rules to schoole her knight, 285

  Now after all his torment well withstood,

  In that sad house of Penaunce, where his spright

  Had past the paines of hell and long enduring night.

  XXXIII

  She was right joyious of her just request,

  And taking by the hand that Faeries sonne, 290

  Gan him instruct in everie good behest,

  Of love, and righteousnes, and well to donne,

  And wrath and hatred warely to shonne,

  That drew on men Gods hatred and his wrath,

  And many soules in dolours had fordonne: 295

  In which when him she well instructed hath,

  From thence to heaven she teacheth him the ready path.

  XXXIV

  Wherein his weaker wandring steps to guyde,

  An auncient matrone she to her does call,

  Whose sober lookes her wisedome well descryde: 300

  Her name was Mercy, well knowne over all

  To be both gratious and eke liberall:

  To whom the carefull charge of him she gave,

  To leade aright, that he should never fall

  In all his waies through this wide worldes wave, 305

  That Mercy in the end his righteous soule might save.

  XXXV

  The godly matrone by the hand him beares

  Forth from her presence, by a narrow way,

  Scattred with bushy thornes and ragged breares,

  Which still before him she remov’d away, 310

  That nothing might his ready passage stay:

  And ever when his feet encombred were,

  Or gan to shrinke, or from the right to stray,

  She held him fast, and firmely did upbeare,

  As carefull nourse her child from falling oft does reare. 315

  XXXVI

  Eftsoones unto an holy hospitall,

  That was foreby the way, she did him bring,

  In which seven bead-men, that had vowed all

  Their life to service of high heavens King,

  Did spend their daies in doing godly thing: 320

  Their gates to all were open evermore,

  That by the wearie way were traveiling,

  And one sate wayting ever them before,

  To call in commers by, that needy were and pore.

  XXXVII

  The first of them, that eldest was and best, 325

  Of all the house had charge and governement,

  As guardian and steward of the rest:

  His office was to give entert
ainement

  And lodging unto all that came and went:

  Not unto such, as could him feast againe, 330

  And double quite for that he on them spent,

  But such as want of harbour did constraine:

  Those for Gods sake his dewty was to entertaine.

  XXXVIII

  The second was as almner of the place:

  His office was, the hungry for to feed, 335

  And thristy give to drinke, a worke of grace:

  He feard not once him selfe to be in need,

  Ne car’d to hoord for those whom he did breede:

  The grace of God he layd up still in store,

  Which as a stocke he left unto his seede; 340

  He had enough; what need him care for more?

  And had he lesse, yet some he would give to the pore.

  XXXIX

  The third had of their wardrobe custody,

  In which were not rich tyres, nor garments gay,

  The plumes of pride, and winges of vanity, 345

  But clothes meet to keepe keene cold away,

  And naked nature seemely to aray;

  With which bare wretched wights he dayly clad,

  The images of God in earthly clay;

  And if that no spare clothes to give he had, 350

  His owne cote he would cut, and it distribute glad.

  XL

  The fourth appointed by his office was,

  Poore prisoners to relieve with gratious ayd,

  And captives to redeeme with price of bras,

  From Turkes and Sarazins, which them had stayd; 355

  And though they faulty were, yet well he wayd,

  That God to us forgiveth every howre

  Much more then that, why they in bands were layd,

  And He, that harrowd hell with heavie stowre,

  The faulty soules from thence brought to his heavenly bowre. 360

  XLI

  The fift had charge sick persons to attend,

  And comfort those, in point of death which lay;

  For them most needeth comfort in the end,

  When sin, and hell, and death doe most dismay

  The feeble soule departing hence away. 365

  All is but lost, that living we bestow,

  If not well ended at our dying day.

  O man, have mind of that last bitter throw;

  For as the tree does fall, so lyes it ever low.

  XLII

  The sixt had charge of them now being dead, 370

  In seemely sort their corses to engrave,

  And deck with dainty flowres their brydall bed,

  That to their heavenly spouse both sweet and brave

  They might appeare, when he their soules shall save.

  The wondrous workmanship of Gods owne mould, 375

  Whose face He made, all beastes to feare, and gave

  All in his hand, even dead we honour should.

  Ah! dearest God me graunt, I dead be not defould.

  XLIII

  The seventh, now after death and buriall done,

  Had charge the tender orphans of the dead 380

  And wydowes ayd, least they should be undone:

  In face of judgement he their right would plead,

  Ne ought the powre of mighty men did dread

  In their defence, nor would for gold or fee

  Be wonne their rightfull causes downe to tread: 385

  And when they stood in most necessitee,

  He did supply their want, and gave them ever free.

  XLIV

  There when the Elfin knight arrived was,

  The first and chiefest of the seven, whose care

  Was guests to welcome, towardes him did pas: 390

  Where seeing Mercie, that his steps upbare

  And alwaies led, to her with reverence rare

  He humbly louted in meeke lowlinesse,

  And seemely welcome for her did prepare:

  For of their order she was patronesse, 395

  Albe Charissa were their chiefest founderesse.

  XLV

  There she awhile him stayes, him selfe to rest,

  That to the rest more hable he might bee:

  During which time, in every good behest

  And godly worke of almes and charitee 400

  Shee him instructed with great industree:

  Shortly therein so perfect he became,

  That, from the first unto the last degree,

  His mortall life he learned had to frame

  In holy righteousnesse, without rebuke or blame. 405

  XLVI

  Thence forward by that painfull way they pas,

  Forth to an hill, that was both steepe and hy;

  On top whereof a sacred chappell was,

  And eke a litle hermitage thereby,

  Wherein an aged holy man did lie, 410

  That day and night said his devotion,

  Ne other worldly busines did apply:

  His name was Hevenly Contemplation;

  Of God and goodnes was his meditation.

  XLVII

  Great grace that old man to him given had; 415

  For God he often saw from heavens hight,

  All were his earthly eien both blunt and bad,

  And through great age had lost their kindly sight,

  Yet wondrous quick and persaunt was his spright,

  As eagles eie, that can behold the sunne. 420

  That hill they scale with all their powre and might,

  That his fraile thighes, nigh weary and fordonne,

  Gan faile; but by her helpe the top at last he wonne.

  XLVIII

  There they doe finde that godly aged sire,

  With snowy lockes adowne his shoulders shed, 425

  As hoary frost with spangles doth attire

  The mossy braunches of an oke halfe ded.

  Each bone might through his body well be red,

  And every sinew seene, through his long fast:

  For nought he car’d his carcas long unfed; 430

  His mind was full of spirituall repast,

  And pyn’d his flesh, to keepe his body low and chast.

  XLIX

  Who, when these two approaching he aspide,

  At their first presence grew agrieved sore,

  That forst him lay his hevenly thoughts aside; 435

  And had he not that dame respected more,

  Whom highly he did reverence and adore,

  He would not once have moved for the knight.

  They him saluted, standing far afore;

  Who, well them greeting, humbly did requight, 440

  And asked, to what end they clomb that tedious hight.

  L

  ‘What end,’ quoth she, ‘should cause us take such paine,

  But that same end, which every living wight

  Should make his marke, high heaven to attaine?

  Is not from hence the way, that leadeth right 445

  To that most glorious house, that glistreth bright

  With burning starres and everliving fire,

  Whereof the keies are to thy hand behight

  By wise Fidelia? Shee doth thee require,

  To shew it to this knight, according his desire.’ 450

  LI

  ‘Thrise happy man,’ said then the father grave,

  ‘Whose staggering steps thy steady hand doth lead,

  And shewes the way, his sinfull soule to save!

  Who better can the way to heaven aread

  Then thou thy selfe, that was both borne and bred 455

  In hevenly throne, where thousand angels shine?

  Thou doest the praiers of the righteous sead

  Present before the Majesty Divine,

  And His avenging wrath to clemency incline.

  LII

  ‘Yet, since thou bidst, thy pleasure shalbe donne. 460

  Then come, thou man of earth, and see the way,

  That never yet was seene of Faries son
ne,

  That never leads the traveiler astray,

  But, after labors long and sad delay,

  Brings them to joyous rest and endlesse blis. 465

  But first thou must a season fast and pray,

  Till from her bands the spright assoiled is,

  And have her strength recur’d from fraile infirmitis.’

  LIII

  That done, he leads him to the highest mount;

  Such one, as that same mighty man of God, 470

  That blood-red billowes like a walled front

  On either side disparted with his rod,

  Till that his army dry-foot through them yod,

  Dwelt forty daies upon; where writt in stone

  With bloody letters by the hand of God, 475

  The bitter doome of death and balefull mone

  He did receive, whiles flashing fire about him shone.

  LIV

  Or like that sacred hill, whose head full hie,

  Adornd with fruitfull olives all arownd,

  Is, as it were for endlesse memory 480

  Of that deare Lord, who oft thereon was fownd,

  For ever with a flowring girlond crownd:

  Or like that pleasaunt mount, that is for ay

  Through famous poets verse each where renownd,

  On which the thrise three learned ladies play 485

  Their hevenly notes, and make full many a lovely lay.

  LV

  From thence, far off he unto him did shew

  A litle path, that was both steepe and long,

  Which to a goodly citty led his vew;

  Whose wals and towres were builded high and strong 490

  Of perle and precious stone, that earthly tong

  Cannot describe, nor wit of man can tell;

  Too high a ditty for my simple song:

  The Citty of the Greate King hight it well,

  Wherein eternall peace and happinesse doth dwell. 495

  LVI

  As he thereon stood gazing, he might see

  The blessed angels to and fro descend

  From highest heven, in gladsome companee,

  And with great joy into that citty wend,

  As commonly as frend does with his frend. 500

  Whereat he wondred much, and gan enquere,

  What stately building durst so high extend

  Her lofty towres unto the starry sphere,

  And what unknowen nation there empeopled were.

  LVII

  ‘Faire knight,’ quoth he, ‘Hierusalem that is, 505

  The New Hierusalem, that God has built

  For those to dwell in, that are chosen his,

  His chosen people purg’d from sinful guilt,

  With pretious blood, which cruelly was spilt

  On cursed tree, of that unspotted Lam, 510

  That for the sinnes of al the world was kilt:

  Now are they saints all in that citty sam,

  More dear unto their God, then younglings to their dam.’