The Poetical Works of Edmund Spenser, Volume 5 | Page 3

ride? Where doth she all that wondrous
welth nowe hide? 75 With her own weight downe pressed now shee
lies, And by her heaps her hugenesse testifies.
"O Rome, thy ruine I lament and rue, And in thy fall my fatall
overthrowe, That whilom was, whilst heavens with equall vewe 80
Deignd to behold me and their gifts bestowe, The picture of thy pride in
pompous shew: And of the whole world as thou wast the empresse, So
I of this small Northerne world was princesse.
"To tell the beawtie of my buildings fayre, 85 Adornd with purest golde
and precious stone, To tell my riches and endowments rare, That by my
foes are now all spent and gone, To tell my forces, matchable to none,
Were but lost labour that few would beleeve, 90 And with rehearsing
would me more agreeve.
"High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters, Strong walls, rich porches,
princelie pallaces, Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepulchers, Sure
gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries 95 Wrought with faire pillours
and fine imageries,-- All those, O pitie! now are turnd to dust, And
overgrowen with blacke oblivions rust.
"Theretoo, for warlike power and peoples store In Britannie was none

to match with mee, 100 That manie often did abie full sore: Ne
Troynovant*, though elder sister shee, With my great forces might
compared bee; That stout Pendragon to his perill felt, Who in a siege
seaven yeres about me dwelt. 105 [* _Troynovant_, London]
"But long ere this, Bunduca, Britonnesse, Her mightie hoast against my
bulwarkes brought; Bunduca! that victorious conqueresse, That, lifting
up her brave heroick thought Bove womens weaknes, with the
Romanes fought, 110 Fought, and in field against them thrice prevailed:
Yet was she foyld, when as she me assailed.
"And though at last by force I conquered were Of hardie Saxons, and
became their thrall, Yet was I with much bloodshed bought full deere,
115 And prizde with slaughter of their generall, The moniment of
whose sad funerall, For wonder of the world, long in me lasted, But
now to nought, through spoyle of time, is wasted.
"Wasted it is, as if it never were; 120 And all the rest that me so honord
made, And of the world admired ev'rie where, Is turnd to smoake that
doth to nothing fade; And of that brightnes now appeares no shade, But
greislie shades, such as doo haunt in hell 125 With fearfull fiends that
in deep darknes dwell.
"Where my high steeples whilom usde to stand, On which the lordly
faulcon wont to towre, There now is but an heap of lyme and sand For
the shriche-owle to build her balefull bowre: 130 And where the
nightingale wont forth to powre Her restles plaints, to comfort wakefull
lovers, There now haunt yelling mewes and whining plovers.
"And where the christall Thamis wont to slide In silver channell downe
along the lee, 135 About whose flowrie bankes on either side A
thousand nymphes, with mirthfull iollitee, Were wont to play, from all
annoyance free, There now no rivers course is to be seene, But moorish
fennes, and marshes ever greene. 140
"Seemes that that gentle river, for great griefe Of my mishaps which oft
I to him plained, Or for to shunne the horrible mischiefe With which he
saw my cruell foes me pained, And his pure streames with guiltles
blood oft stained, From my unhappie neighborhood farre fled, 145 And
his sweete waters away with him led.
"There also where the winged ships were seene In liquid waves to cut
their fomie waie, And thousand fishers numbred to have been, 150 In
that wide lake looking for plenteous praie Of fish, which they with

baits usde to betraie, Is now no lake, nor anie fishers store, Nor ever
ship shall saile there anie more.
"They all are gone, and all with them is gone! 155 Ne ought to me
remaines, but to lament My long decay, which no man els doth mone,
And mourne my fall with dolefull dreriment: Yet it is comfort in great
languishment, To be bemoned with compassion kinde, 160 And
mitigates the anguish of the minde.
"But me no man bewaileth, but in game Ne sheddeth teares from
lamentable eie; Nor anie lives that mentioneth my name To be
remembred of posteritie, 165 Save one, that maugre Fortunes iniurie,
And Times decay, and Envies cruell tort*, Hath writ my record in
true-seeming sort. [* _Tort_, wrong]
"CAMBDEN! the nourice* of antiquitie, And lanterne unto late
succeding age 170 To see the light of simple veritie Buried in ruines,
through the great outrage Of her owne people led with warlike rage,
CAMBDEN! though Time all moniments obscure, Yet thy iust labours
ever shall endure. 175 [* _Nourice_, nurse]
"But whie, unhappie wight! doo I thus