Is there any passage in any poet that so ripples and sparkles with simple delight as this?
It is a sky of Italian April
full of sunshine and the hidden ecstasy of larks.
And we like it all the more that it reminds us of that passage in his friend Sidney
, where the shepherd-boy pipes ‘as if he would never be old.’
If we compare it with the mystical scene in Dante
of which it is a reminiscence, it will seem almost like a bit of real life; but taken by itself it floats as unconcerned in our cares and sorrows and vulgarities as a sunset cloud.
The sound of that pastoral pipe seems to come from as far away as Thessaly when Apollo
was keeping sheep there.
Sorrow, the great idealizer, had had the portrait of Beatrice
on her easel for years, and every touch of her pencil transfigured the woman more and more into the glorified saint.
But Elizabeth Nagle
was a solid thing of flesh and blood, who would sit down at meat with the poet on the very day when he had thus beatified her. As Dante
was drawn upward from heaven to heaven by the eyes of Beatrice
, so was Spenser
lifted away from the actual by those of that ideal Beauty whereof his mind had conceived the lineaments in its solitary musings over Plato
, but of whose haunting presence the delicacy of his senses had already premonished him. The intrusion of the real world upon this supersensual mood of his wrought an instant disenchantment:—
Much wondered Calidore at this strange sight
Whose like before his eye had never seen,
And, standing long astonished in sprite
And rapt with pleasance, wist not what to ween,
Whether it were the train of Beauty's Queen,
Or Nymphs, or Fairies, or enchanted show
With which his eyes might have deluded been,
Therefore resolving what it was to know,
Out of the woods he rose and toward them did go.