Chaucer was buried in the year 1400, and it was close upon two hundred years before another great poet, Edmund Spenser, "followed here the footing of his feet." During much of this interval England had been in a state of unrest and excitement. First the Wars of the Roses, then the Reformation, with the bitter persecutions that followed it, had stirred men to the very core. Their eyes had been dazzled by the sudden and vehement changes which had followed each other. English blood had flown freely, English life had been offered up on English soil, not only in the great battles of the Civil War, but on scaffolds and in fiery names. It had not been an age for poets or writers. Of the few who have left their mark on our literature during that time, John Wycliffe had not even been allowed to rest in peace after death, for his body was taken from its grave and burnt, and his ashes were thrown into the river Swift, while both Sir Thomas More and the Earl of Surrey had been executed at the command of Henry VIII. One important piece of work had indeed been commenced and carried on during those days of storm which affected both earlier and later writers, and which was distinctly connected with the Abbey. For in the year 1477, William Caxton had settled with his printing press in the Almonry at Westminster, and had issued his famous advertisement, in which he had made known the fact "that if it should plese ony man, spiritual or temporal, to bye ony pyes of two and three commemoracions of Salisbro's use, enpryntid after the forme of this present lettre, which been wel and truly correct, lete hym come to Westmonester into the Almonerye at the Red Pale, and he shal have them good chepe." He had learned his art in Cologne and Bruges, having lived for nearly thirty years in the latter place, where he traded as a merchant, and during those years he had translated a number of books into English. Why he settled on Westminster when at last he returned to England as a middle-aged man, we know not, unless it was that he fancied he should find quiet and security under the walls of the Abbey, or that the abbots and monks, as the patrons of learning, would prove themselves good friends to him. But here he came, and here from his study, "where lay many and diverse paunflettis and bookys," this wonderful man, who was master-printer, translator, corrector, and editor, worked and directed his apprentices. Over a hundred different books were issued from this press, among them being "The Canterbury Tales," the "fayre and ornate termes" of which gave Caxton "such greate playsir," that he desired to make them widely known. Many people, some friends, some strangers, found their way, full of curiosity and interest, to the quaint house, which was marked by a large white shield with a red bar, there to watch Master Caxton and his workmen at their strange new craft, and many shook their heads, declaring that "so many books could never find purchasers." But the wise printer heeded them not. He worked with a will from morn till eve, and marked his hours by the Abbey bells. It was not only Chaucer's writings that he gave to the public, but many other works which without him would long have remained unknown or forgotten, and more than any one else he helped to fix the language which Chaucer had used, by himself using the same in all his translations. His busy life came to an end in 1491, and he was buried in the Church of St. Margaret's, Westminster. But at the sign of the Red Pale his favourite apprentice, Wynken de Worde, carried on the master's work with the same extraordinary industry, producing no fewer than five hundred separate books up to the time of his death in 1535. This date brings us to within about twenty years of the time when Edmund Spenser, Walter Raleigh, and Philip Sidney, the singing birds and knightly spirits of the Elizabethan Court, were born. Like Chaucer, Spenser was a Londoner and he describes his birthplace as

    "The merry London, my most kyndly nurse,
    That to me gave this life's first active source."

He proudly declared that "he took his name from an ancient house," but we know little of his immediate family. His boyhood was spent at Smithfield, then within easy reach of woods and fields, and he has given us a glimpse of it in these words, which show that he was a boy very much like all other boys:—

    "Whilome in youth, when flowed my joy full spring
    Like swallow swift, I wandered here and there
    for heat of headlesse lust me did so sting,
    That I oft doubted daunger, had no fear:
    I went the wastefull woodes and forrest wide
    Withouten dread of wolves to bene espied.
    "I wont to raunge amid the mazie thicket,
    And gather nuttes to make my Christmas game,
    And joyed oft to chase the trembling pricket,
    Or hunt the hartlesse hare till she were tame.
    What wrecked I of wintrie age's waste?
    Tho' deemed I my spring would ever last.
    "How often have I scaled the craggie oke,
    All to dislodge the raven of her nest?
    How have I wearied with many a stroke
    The stately walnut tree, the while the rest
    Under the tree fell all for nuttes at strife?
    For like to me was libertye and life."

He was educated at the Merchant Taylors' School, and afterwards at Cambridge, where an old biographer declares "he mispent not his time, as the fruites of his labours doe manifest, for that he became an excellent scholar, especially most happy in English poetry." But no other memories remain to us of his university life except the names of his two great and lifelong friends, and all we know of him during the first few years after he left Cambridge is that he lived in the north, and that he fell violently in love with a certain Rosaline, "a gentlewoman both of nature and manners, worthy to be commended to immortalitie for her rare and singular virtues," but who apparently did not in any way return his ardent affections. He lamented her indifference so deeply that he left his home and made his way to London, "all weeping and disconsolate," and though he was by nature light-hearted and pleasure-loving, he treasured the memory of her many charms for fourteen years, until he met and married the Elizabeth whom he described as "my love, my life's last ornament." But if it was despair which drove Spenser to London, he had no cause ever to regret the move, for it led to his making the acquaintance of Sir Philip Sidney, who introduced him to his uncle, the all-powerful Earl of Leicester. Both received him cordially, and in a short time he was mixing in all the intellectual society of the day. England was at peace; Elizabeth's firm rule made for prosperity; the new learning had taken root; the spirit of adventure, of imagination, of chivalry had free scope; the spirit of growth, of progress, of enterprise pervaded the air. All was ready for the coming of a poet who could sing as Chaucer had done, and make sweet music with the national language. In the winter of 1579 Spenser published, not under his own name, his "Shepherdes Calendar," a series of shepherd tales, one for each of the twelve months of the year, and these he dedicated to "Maister Philip Sidney, that noble and vertuous gentleman, most worthy of all titles, both of learning and chevalrie." At once the "new poet" leapt into fame, though nothing could have been in greater contrast than Chaucer's Tales and Spenser's Calendar. The first faithfully pictured life as it was without romance or exaggeration; the second, according to the fashion of the day, was in the form of a masquerade: the heroes and heroines were all shepherds or shepherdesses; everything took place in the country, every one was a rustic, and the highest praise that could be given to Chaucer was to call him the "god of shepherds." So the Calendar had none of that simplicity and truthfulness which gave to Chaucer's work its great charm. Shepherds and shepherdesses, when put in all kinds of unnatural positions, could not fail to be unreal and artificial, especially when they were made to talk in the language of scholars. But Spenser's strength lay in the melody of his verse, in his sense of beauty and his power over language, and it has been truly said that though he is not the greatest of poets, his poetry is the most poetical of all poetry.

Fuller, who wrote on the "Worthies of England," tells us that Spenser was presented to Queen Elizabeth, who was so overcome by the beauties of his poem, that she ordered Lord Burleigh to give him a hundred pounds, to which the cautious Treasurer objected, saying it was too much. "Then give him what is reason," said the Queen. But it was evident that Burleigh had not a great liking for the new poet, probably because he was such a friend of Leicester's, and Spenser saw nothing of the money till he brought it to the Queen's remembrance in a little rhyme. He soon found that he could not live by his poetry, but he had no desire to exist on the favours of Leicester or Sidney, and preferred to earn his own daily bread in some honourable and independent way. An opening came unexpectedly. Ireland was causing much anxiety to the crown; one Lord Deputy after another sent from England had failed to restore to it order or good government, and had come home depressed and disheartened, if not actually disgraced. In 1579 the Government pressed Lord Grey de Wilton—the "good Lord Grey"—high-minded, religious, and fearless, to undertake the thankless task, and he, from a sense of duty, accepted the office of Lord Deputy. He invited Spenser to come with him, as his secretary, and the offer was at once accepted, though it must have cost the poet something to tear himself away from the centre of life and learning, from the society he so enjoyed, to bury himself in a country regarded as only half civilised, and which at that very time was in open rebellion. He left behind him Merrie England, with all that was pleasant to him, when he went to Ireland, which was then in a most turbulent and rebellious condition, and for the time being his writing had to be laid aside for sterner stuff. But all honour to him that he chose work rather than dependence.

Lord Grey de Wilton did not succeed any better than his predecessors had done. Naturally kind-hearted, he nevertheless deemed it his duty to carry out a policy of great severity, and himself almost a Puritan in his religious views, he saw no hope for the distressful country until Protestantism reigned there. Spenser adopted the same opinions as his master, and pitiless force was the only weapon used in the warfare. Of course it availed nothing, and Lord Grey was recalled, more or less under a cloud, for he had many enemies at home among those who found him too uncompromisingly straightforward and honourable, as well as among those who condemned his fanatical severity and his ruthlessly heavy hand. Spenser, who stayed behind in Ireland, always remained loyal to him, and sturdily defended that "most just and honourable personage, whose least virtues, of many most excellent, which abounded in his heroical spirit, they were never able to aspire to, who with evil tongues did most untruly and maliciously backbite and slander him."

For the next few years the poet held various clerkships and other posts, and at last he became the possessor of Kilcolman Castle, where he lived for some time, devoting his spare hours to the great work he so long had in contemplation, "The Faerie Queene." In 1590 he got permission to return for awhile to England that he might publish that part of his book which he had finished, a permission he owed to Raleigh, who had read much of the work when staying as his guest in Ireland, and who with generous sympathy longed to give to the poet the fame which was so justly his. Thanks to him, too, the Queen listened to some portions of the poem, and was greatly delighted with the many references made to herself. For Spenser had learnt how to flatter gracefully in his verse, and had realised that to find favour in the Queen's eyes he would do well

    "To lyken her to a crowne of lillies
    Upon a virgin bryde's adorned head,
    With roses dight and goolds and daffadillies;
    Or like the circlet of a Turtle true
    In which alle colours of the rainbow bee.
    Or like faire Phebes' garland shining new,
    In which alle pure perfection one may see.
    But vain it is to think by paragone
    Of earthly things, to judge of things Divine."
    

He had dedicated his book to her, "The most High, Mightie, and Magnificent Empress, renowned for Pietie, Virtue, and alle gracious Government;" and at the end of the dedication expressed the humble hope that "thus his labours might live with the eternity of her fame." Elizabeth smiled graciously on one who added such glory to her court, and gave Spenser a pension of ￡50. "The Faerie Queene" was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic praise, and the publisher, who in an introduction had begged gentle readers to "graciouslie entertain the new Poet," had no reason to complain of the warm welcome given to him.

Of course, the work was an allegory, a double allegory, so to speak; for besides having a general meaning to his story, he had a special one which referred to living people, such as the Queen, Sir Philip Sidney, Lord Grey, and so on. The whole poem, therefore, is rather complicated, and in great contrast to the well-arranged plots which Chaucer had woven into his stories. The general idea was that in a certain happy country there reigned a great Queen Gloriana, around whose presence had gathered a body of brave and fearless knights. The queen decided to hold a feast for twelve days, and on each day an adventure was to be undertaken by one of these knights for the purpose of righting some wrong, releasing some captive, or succouring some oppressed person. Spenser purposed to tell of these several adventures in twelve books, but only six were finished. Now if in "The Faerie Queene" we attempt to unravel the very knotted allegory, we shall soon get into difficulties, for Spenser's greatest gifts did not lie in his power of making a clear story, but in his perfectly chosen language, his lofty thoughts, and the never-failing music of his verse. So the wisest plan, I think, is to read the romances for their own beauty without trying to find a hidden meaning in every line, and even so, we shall everywhere discover rich gems.

It is strange that in spite of all the fame which "The Faerie Queene" gave the poet, it brought him neither wealth nor even work, and he "tourned back to his sheepe" in Ireland. He married, and poured out his joy in an exquisite song called "Epithalamion." Besides this, he wrote more books of his great work, many sonnets and hymns, and a treatise on Ireland. He was made Sheriff of Cork, and altogether his worldly affairs prospered; for Burleigh was dead, and it was Burleigh who had always checked the Queen's generosity towards him, "saying a song needed not such liberal payment." Suddenly a fresh and violent rebellion broke out in Ireland. Spenser's castle was attacked and set on fire; his little child was burned to death; and all his valued possessions were destroyed. He came back to London with his wife, homeless, penniless, broken-hearted. Over the next few months a veil is drawn; how it came to pass that his many friends and admirers knew nothing of his sufferings, or knowing did not raise a hand to help him, remains a mystery. This is certain, that he died of grief and for lack of bread in a street near Westminster. After his death, indeed, his friends came to the fore once more. The Earl of Essex paid all the expenses of his funeral, which took place in the Abbey. Poets and writers flocked to his grave-side, throwing on to his coffin their songs of woe. We may take it for granted that Shakespeare was among the mourners, and with him were all the brightest spirits of the day. Truly the broken-hearted poet was well honoured on that last event of his life. At some period of his career, probably near the end, he had written a poem on "Change and Mutabilitie." God grant that in those bitter closing days he found the ray of hope he thus did sing of:—

    "Then gin I think on that which Nature sayd,
    Of that same time when no more Change shall be,
    But stedfast rest of all things firmly stayd,
    Upon the Pillars of Eterni............