Spenser. In the first Sidney expired of wounds
received at Zutphen; in the second, Mary Queen of Scots
was executed; in the third, God blew and scattered the
Armada, and also Leicester died. Spenser weeps over
Sidney--there was never, perhaps, more weeping,
poetical and other, over any death than over that of
Sidney--in his _Astrophel_, the poem above mentioned.
This poem is scarcely worthy of the sad occasion--the
flower of knighthood cut down ere its prime, not yet

In flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Certainly it in no way expresses what Spenser
undoubtedly felt when the woeful news came across the
Channel to him in his Irish home. Probably his grief
was 'too deep for tears.' It was probably one of those
'huge cares' which, in Seneca's phrase, not
'loquuntur,' but 'stupent.' He would fain have been
dumb and opened not his mouth; but the fashion of the
time called upon him to speak. He was expected to
bring his immortelle, so to say, and lay it on his
hero's tomb, though his limbs would scarcely support
him, and his hand, quivering with the agony of his
heart, could with difficulty either weave it or carry
it. All the six years they had been parted, the image
of that chivalrous form had never been forgotten. It
had served for the one model of all that was highest
and noblest in his eyes. It had represented for him
all true knighthood. Nor all the years that he lived
after Sidney's death was it forgotten. It is often
before him, as he writes his later poetry, and is
greeted always with undying love and sorrow. Thus in
the _Ruines of Time_, he breaks out in a sweet fervour
of unextinguished affection:

Most gentle spirite breathed from above,
Out of the bosom of the Makers blis,
In whom all bountie and all vertuous love
Appeared in their native propertis
And did enrich that noble breast of his
With treasure passing all this worldes worth.
Worthie of heaven itselfe, which brought it forth.

His blessed spirite, full of power divine
And influence of all celestiall grace,
Loathing this sinfull earth and earthlie slime,
Fled backe too soone unto his native place;
Too soone for all that did his love embrace,
Too soone for all this wretched world, whom he
Robd of all right and true nobilitie.

Yet ere this happie soule to heaven went
Out of this fleshie gaole, he did devise
Unto his heavenlie Maker to present
His bodi