at as it
is, is the least part of the matter. Whosoever first invented butterflies
and pyramids in poetry is not greatly commendable, and if Spenser had done
nothing but arrange a cunning combination of eight heroics, with interwoven
rhymes and an Alexandrine to finish with, it may be acknowledged at once
that his claims to primacy would have to be dismissed at once. It is not
so. Independently of _The Faerie Queene_ altogether he has done work which
we must go to Milton and Shelley themselves to equal. The varied and
singularly original strains of _The Calendar_, the warmth and delicacy
combined of the _Epithalamion_, the tone of mingled regret and wonder (not
inferior in its characteristic Renaissance ring to Du Bellay's own) of _The
Ruins of Rome_, the different notes of the different minor poems, are all
things not to be found in any minor poet. But as does not always happen,
and as is perhaps not the case with Milton, Spenser's greatest work is also
his best. In the opinion of some at any rate the poet of _Lycidas_, of
_Comus_, of _Samson Agonistes_, even of the _Allegro_ and _Penseroso_,
ranks as high as, if not above, the poet of _Paradise Lost_. But the poet
of _The Faerie Queene_ could spare all his minor works and lose only, as
has been said, quantity not quality of greatness. It is hardly necessary at
this time of day to repeat the demonstration that Macaulay in his famous
jibe only succeeded in showing that he had never read what he jibed at; and
though other decriers of Spenser's masterpiece may not have laid themselves
open to quite so crushing a retort, they seldom fail to show a somewhat
similar ignorance. For the lover of poetry, for the reader who understands
and can receive the poetic charm, the revelation of beauty in metrical
language, no English poem is the superior, or, range and variety being
considered, the equal of _The Faerie Queene_. Take it up where you will,
and provided only sufficient time (the reading of a dozen stanzas ought to
suffice to any one who has the necessary gifts of appreciation) be given to
allow the soft dreamy versicoloured atmosphere to rise round the reader,
the languid and yet never monotonous music to gain his ear, the mood of
mixed imagination and heroism, adventure and morality, to impress itself on
his mind, and the result is certain. To the influence of no poet are the
famous lines of Spenser's great nineteenth-century rival so applicable as
to Spenser's own. The ench