Spenser

By Craven Langstroth Betts (1853–1941)

(Died Jan. 13, 1599)

I’VE watched him stroll with Raleigh by the wood,

Or Sidney, near the Mulla’s rippling brim,

While Nature crooned her Summer-evening hymn,

Till o’er the fields the new moon’s syckle stood.

I’ve heard calm words of courtly brotherhood

Chime like an Angelus through the ages dim,

And they, whom all else honored, honored him,

My Spenser, votary of the Holy Rood.

They rose and passed through Honor’s troubled sky;

Each quenched in blood his fitful, fervent star;

He dwelt apart, unknown, and fixed his eye

Where aureoled Beauty beckoned him afar.

Thy Lion, Maid, and Knight can never die,

O Childe, for of them England’s glories are!