Spenser left Cambridge when he was twenty-four years old, and spent several years with his relations in the north of England. On his return to London, he published a series of twelve poems named after the months, and called “The Shephearde’s Calender.” This gained him a name as the first poet of the day. The next summer he went to Ireland as secretary to Lord Grey. Several years later he was awarded the Castle of Kilcolman for his services. Here he was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh. Spenser had written three books of “The Faerie Queene,” his greatest poem, and Raleigh listened to them as the two poets sat beneath the alder trees beside the River Mulla, which flowed through the castle grounds. Raleigh was delighted with the poem, and persuaded Spenser to accompany him to England, where he was presented to the Queen. The first three books of “The Faerie Queene” were dedicated to Queen Elizabeth. It was the first great allegorical poem that England had produced, and it has never lost its power. Spenser possessed a wonderful imagination, and had but to close his eyes and he was in an enchanted land. “The Faerie Queene” is the story of noble knights fighting against wrong, and a beautiful lady rescued from danger. Only six books of the twelve which Spenser planned were published. The last years of Spenser’s life were filled with sadness. During a rebellion his castle was burnt, and he and his family fled to England. He died in London in 1599, at the age of forty-six, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. NOUGHT is there under heaven’s wide hallowness That moves more dear compassiön of mind,[a] Than beauty brought t’ unworthy wretchedness Through envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind. I, whether lately through her brightness blind, Or through allegiance and fast feälty, Which I do owe unto all womankind, Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pity I could die. And now it is empassionèd so deep, For fairest Una’s sake, of whom I sing, That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep, To think how she through guileful handëling,[b] Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, Though fair as ever living wight was fair, Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, Is from her Knight divorcèd in despair, And her due loves derived to that vile Witch’s share.[c]