Next him was Fear, all arm’d from top to toe,
        Yet thought himselfe not safe enough thereby,
      But fear’d each shadow moving to and fro;
        And his own arms when glittering he did spy
      Or clashing heard, he fast away did fly,
        As ashes pale of hue, and winged-heel’d;
      And evermore on Daunger fixt his eye,
        ’Gainst whom he always bent a brazen shield,
    Which his right hand unarmed fearfully did wield.

      With him went Hope in rank, a handsome maid,
        Of chearfull look and lovely to behold;
      In silken samite she was light array’d,
        And her fair locks were woven up in gold;
      She always smil’d, and in her hand did hold
        An holy-water sprinkle dipt in dew,
      With which she sprinkled favours manifold
        On whom she list, and did great liking shew,
    Great liking unto many, but true love to few.

      Next after them, the winged God himself
        Came riding on a lion ravenous,
      Taught to obey the menage of that elfe
        That man and beast with power imperious
      Subdueth to his kingdom tyrannous: 
        His blindfold eyes he bade awhile unbind,
      That his proud spoil of that same dolorous
        Fair dame he might behold in perfect kind;
    Which seen, he much rejoiced in his cruel mind.

      Of which full proud, himself uprearing high,
        He looked round about with stern disdain,
      And did survey his goodly company: 
        And marshalling the evil-ordered train,
      With that the darts which his right hand did strain,
        Full dreadfully he shook, that all did quake,
      And clapt on high his colour’d winges twain,
        That all his many it afraid did make: 
    Tho, blinding him again, his way he forth did take.”

The description of Hope, in this series of historical portraits, is one of the most beautiful in Spenser:  and the triumph of Cupid at the mischief he has made, is worthy of the malicious urchin deity.  In reading these descriptions, one can hardly avoid being reminded of Rubens’s allegorical pictures; but the account of Satyrane taming the lion’s whelps and lugging the bear’s cubs along in his arms while yet an infant, whom his mother so naturally advises to “go seek some other play-fellows,” has even more of this high picturesque character.  Nobody but Rubens could have painted the fancy of Spenser; and he could not have given the sentiment, the airy dream that hovers over it!  With all this, Spenser neither makes us laugh nor weep.  The only jest in his poem is an allegorical play upon words, where he describes Malbecco as escaping in the herd of goats, “by the help of his fayre hornes on hight.”  But he has been unjustly charged with a want of passion and of strength.  He has both in an immense degree.  He has not indeed the pathos of immediate action or suffering,