188 THE STORY OF UNA. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet, "The lion, lord of every beast in field," Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth abate, And mighty proud to humble weak does yield, Forgetful of the hungry rage, which late Him pricked, in pity of my sad estate :But he, my lion, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruel heart to hate Her, that him loved, and ever most adored As the god of my life? why hath he me abhorred?" Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint, To seek her strayed Champion if she might attain. The lion would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong guard Towards night Una discovers a cottage inhabited by an old woman named Corceca, (superstition,) and her daughter Abessa, (ignorance.) Into this cottage or hut Una enters with her lion. Full fast she fled, ne ever lookt behynd, Dame Una, weary Dame, and entrance did require. Which when none yielded, her unruly page With his rude claws the wicket open rent, She found them both in darksome corner pent; And thrice nine hundred Aves she was wont to say. During the night, a guilty accomplice of Corceca, a bold, blustering fellow, called Kirkrapine, comes to the cottage and commences his pranks, but receives his quietus from the paw of our honest friend Leo. Power is of right the guardian of innocence. The following day the noble beast continues to protect the noble lady. Dur ing this day she sees not far off a noble knight approaching. His shield bears the well-remembered emblem, and on a nearer approach, she sees it is indeed her own dear knight, Saint George. Such at least the lady supposes him to be, although the reader knows it to be the false Archimago, dressed and framed to appear like the Red-Cross Knight. The subtle magician, who in regard to the person of a lover, can deceive a woman's eyes, will not lack words to deceive her wit. Poor Una! She receives good and sufficient reasons for her lover's temporary absence, and she is too, too happy at his return, to refuse be lief to that which satisfies her heart, if not her head. Supposing, therefore, that she had in truth found her own good knight, she goes on to recount her adventures since their separation. But soon a new foe appears. Bold and cruel Sansloy, brother of the Sansfoy who had been slain, meets and attacks them. The encounter is very much like that between Sansfoy and the real Saint George, except in its result. The false Saint George is unhorsed, and Sansloy is about to slay him, when removing the vizor, behold, to the amazement both of the Saracen and the lady, a wrinkled, feeble old man-Archimago, stripped of all disguise. Una has hardly time to rejoice at her escape from this fearful danger, before a new and more imminent one stares her in the face-that, namely, of falling into the hands of this rude and lawless unbeliever! Sansloy leaves the old magician to die or recover, as it might happen, and directs his ill-boding attentions to his beauteous prize. Taking her rudely from her palfrey, he is attacked by the brave and faithful lion. But mere honesty and simple-minded courage are not always a match for bold and prac tised villany. The glittering Damascus blade drinks the heart's-blood of the noble beast, and the lady is at the mercy of an insulting and god less foe. But the thought of sin or disloyalty hath not yet entered her pure breast, and the reader never for one moment entertains a doubt about her safety. THE CLOSE OF DAY. The fortunes of St. George are various and disastrous, and he does not escape the snares of his subtle foes, nor regain his faithful Una, until the appearance of the great Hero of the whole Poem, Prince Arthur. This knight excels all other knights in magnificence. His majestic but youthful person, his heroic and knightly bearing, - his matchless armor, his princely qualities, are topics suited to the genius of Spenser. The - reader finds himself in a perfect blaze of splen- dor. It is a brightness not devoid of heat. The - imagination becomes not only dazzled, but warmed. The whole picture, indeed, is like one of those magnificent cathedrals of the olden time, in which the mind of the devout worshipper, - faint with the endless multiplicity of ever-in= creasing wonders, finds relief at last in that ultimate and only resting-place of human thought, the heavens to which the ever-springing Gothic - arch doth point. I will not spoil Spenser's des=cription of Prince Arthur by extracts. It should be read entire, and in its connexion, or not at all. This noble person extricates the parties from _ their difficulties. The adventure of Prince Arthur occupies about eight hundred and fifty lines, and forms one of the connecting links between the first book and those which follow. It is some- thing like the intervention of a comet within the 189 bounds of our solar system, where it lingers awhile, and then flies away into different and distant systems with which we are not yet acquainted. After Arthur has taken his departure, Saint George and Una resume their journey. While travelling together, enjoying sweet discourse, they meet something well suited to excite in the strongest degree their curiosity and their sympathy. The Knight, having gone through a variety of preparatory adventures, having learned equally his power and his weakness, having put to the trial both his lady-love and the weapons which he bare in her defence, he is now ready to enter upon his principal adventure. The description of this adventure, containing the destruction of the monster, the release of the parents, and the betrothal of the lady to her chosen and deserving Knight, occupy the eleventh and twelfth Cantos. This adventure surpasses in magnificence all the previous ones, as much as Prince Arthur surpassed the Knight of Saint George, or any common Knight. I cannot do justice to it without quoting more than would be expedient. I leave, therefore, the whole adventure to the reader's imagination. THE CLOSE OF DAY. BY J. ED. COMSTOCK. Lo! the day in twilight hushes, Mark the forest dark and pensive, Star by star from heaven sallies, O, those hours, when, gentle-hearted, Passions high, and wild, and vicious, Lo! the day in twilight hushes, LAND of the free! my own beloved land! Why from all climes do strangers seek thy shore? Why still press myriad feet unto thy strand, Nor mourn the regal skies that o'er them spread. From where Helvetia's mountain ramparts stand, They hasten hither, and the strain they sung Amid the glorious Alps, is sounding now The quiet vales of the New World amongFrom where Madeira sleeps amid the wave They come-nor pause their treasures thence to bring. Why is it that all leave their father's graves, And all their heart's wealth to the wild winds fling? Is it that thou art free, my native land? |