tion by it. You shall not go wandering into Euripus with Aristotle, if we can help it. Fy, man, to turn dipper at your years,

after your many tracts in favour of sprinkling only! I have nothing but water in my head o’nights since this frightful accident. Sometimes I am with Clarence in his dream. At others, I behold Christian beginning to sink, and crying out to his good brother Hopeful, (that is, to me,) “I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my hea all the waves go over me.

Selah.” Then I have before me Palinurus, just letting go the steerage. I cry out too late to save. Next follow-a mournful procession-suicidal faces, saved against their wills from drowning; dolefully trailing a length of reluctant gratefulness, with ropy weeds pendent from locks of watchet hue-constrained Lazari — Pluto's half-subjectsstolen fees from the grave - bilking Charon of his fare. At their head Arion-or is it G. D. ?—in his singing garments marcheth singly, with harp in hand, and votive garland, which Machaon (or Dr. Hawes) snatcheth straight, intending to sus. pend it to the stern god of sea. Then follow dismal streams of Lethe, in which the half-drenched on earth are constrained to drown downright, by wharves where Ophelia twice acts her muddy death.

And, doubtless, there is some notice in that invisible world, when one of us approacheth (as my friend did so lately) to their inexorable precincts. When a soul knocks once, twice, at death's door, the sensation aroused within the palace must be considerable; and the grim feature, by modern science so often dispossessed of his prey, must have learned by this time to pity Tantalus.

A pulse assuredly was felt along the line of the Elysian shades, when the near arrival of G. D. was announced by no equivocal indications. From their seats of Asphodel arose the gentler and the graver ghosts-poet or historian-of Grecian or of Roman lore-to crown with unfading chaplets the half-finished love-labours of their unwearied scholiast. Him Markland expected-him Tyrwhitt hoped to encounter -him the sweet lyrist of Peter House, whom he had barely seen upon earth,* with newest airs prepared to greet and, patron of the gentle Christ's boy-who should have been his patron through life--the mild Askew, with longing aspirations, leaned foremost from his venerable Æsculapian chair to welcome into that happy company the matured virtues of the man, whose tender scions in the boy he himself upor. earth had so prophetically fed and watered.

SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY

Sydney's sonnets-I speak of the best of them are among the very best of their sort. They fall below the plain moral dignity, the sanctity, and high yet modest spirit of self-approval of Milton, in his compositions of a similar structure. They are, in truth, what Milton, censuring the Arcadia, says of that work, (to which they are a sort of after-tune or application,)“ vain and amatorious” enough, yet the things in their kind (as he confesses to be true of the romance) may be “full of worth and wit.” They savour of the courtier, it must be allowed, and not of the commonwealths-man. But Milton was a courtier when he wrote the Masque at Ludlow Castle, and still more a courtier when he composed the Arcades. When the national struggle was to begin, he becomingly cast these vanities behind him; and if the order of time had thrown Sir Philip upon the crisis which preceded the revolution, there is no reason why he should not have acted the same part in that emergency, which has glorified the name of a later Sydney. He did not want for plainness or boldness of spirit. His letter on the French match may testify he could speak his mind freely to princes. The times did not call him to the scaffold.

The sonnets which we oftenest call to mind of Milton were the compositions of his maturest years. Those of Sydney, which I am about to produce, were written in the very heyday of his blood. They are stuck full of amorous fan cies---far-fetched conceits, befitting his occupation ; for true love thinks no labour to send out thoughts upon the vast, and more than Indian voyages, to bring home rich pearls, outlandish wealth, gums, jewels, spicery, to sacrifice in self-depreciating similitudes, as shadows of true amiabilities in the beloved. We must be lovers—or at least the cooling touch of time, the circum precordia frigus, must not have so damped our faculties as to take away our recollection that we were once 80—before we can duly appreciate the glorious vanities and graceful hyperboles of the passion. The images which lie before our feet (though by some accounted the only natural) are least natural for the high Sydnean love to express its fancies by. They may serve for the loves of Tibullus, or the dear author of the Schoolmistress; for passions that creep and whine in elegies and pastoral ballads. I am sure Milton never loved at this rate. I am afraid some of his addresses (ad Leonoram I mean) have rather erred on the farther side ; and that the poet came not much short of a religious indecorum when he could thus apostrophize a singing-girl :

“ Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes)

Obtigit ætheriiis ales ab ordinibus.
Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major,

Nam tua præsentem vox sonat ipsa Deum?
Aut Deus, aut vacui certè mens tertia cæli

Per tua secretò guttura serpit agens ;
Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda

Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono.
QUOD SI CUNCTA QUIDEM DEUS EST, PER CUNCTAQUE FUSUS,

IN TE UNA LOQUITUR, CETERA MUTUS HABET.” This is loving in a strange fashion ; and it requires some canlour of construction (besides the slight darkening of a dead language) to cast a veil over the ugly appearance of something very like blasphemy in the last two verses. I think the lover would have been staggered if he had gone about to express the same thought in English. I am sure Sydney has no flights like this. His extravaganzas do not strike at the sky, though he takes leave to adopt the pale Dian into a fellowship with his mortal passions.

“ With how sad steps, oh moon, thou climb'st the skies;

How silently; and with how wan a face!
What! may it be, that even in heavenly plave
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, oh moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but tant of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there--ungratefulness !" The last line of this poem is a little obscured by transposition. He means, Do they call ungratefulness there a virtue I

“Come, Sleep, oh Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

The baiting place of wit, the balm of wo,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the preasc*
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw :
Oh make in me those civil wars to cease :
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so

• Prose,

Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere STELLA's image see.

III.
..The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness
Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes,
Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,
With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess.
Some, that know how my spring I did address,
Deem that my muse some fruit of knowledge plies
Others, because the prince my service tries,
Think that I think state errors to redress;
But harder judges judge, ambition's rage,
Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place,
Holds my young brain captived in golden cage.
Oh fools, or over-wise ! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start,
But only STELLA's eyes, and STELLA's heart.

IV.
« Because I oft in dark abstracted guise

Seem most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, or answers quite awry,
To them that would make speech of speech arise ;
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,
That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only !
Fawn on myself, and others do despise ;
Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass :
But one worse fault-ambition-1 confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard--while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, even unto STELLA's grace.

V.
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance,
Guided so well that I obtain'd

the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes,
And of some sent from that sweet enemy-France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance;
Townsfolk my strength; a daintier judge applies.
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rive;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them, who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arins did make.
How far they shot awry! the true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

VI.
" In martial sports I had my cunning tried,

And yet to break more staves did me address,
While with the people's shouts (I must confess).
Youth, luck, and praise, even fillid my veins with pride
When Cupid having me (his slave) descried
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press,
•What now, Sir Fool! said he : *I would no logs :
Look here, I say.! I look'd, and Stella spied,
Who hard by made a window send forth light.
My heart then quak'd, then dazzled were mine eyes;
One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight;
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries.
My foe came on, and beat the air for me
Till that her blush made me my shame to see.

VII.
“No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;

Oh give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry ;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps, but of lost labour, trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case-
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame;
Nor aught do care, though some above me sit;
Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart :
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

VIII.
“ Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is,

School'd only by his mother's tender eye;
What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss.
When for so soft a rod dear play he try?
Aud yet my STAR, because a sugar'd kiss
In sport I suck’d, while she asleep did lie,
Doth lour, nay, chide, nay, threat, for only this.
Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I.
But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear
In beauty's throne-see now who dares come near
Those scarlet judges, threat'ning bloody pain ?
Oh heav'nly fool, thy most kiss worthy face
Anger invests with such a lovely grace,
That anger's self I needs must kiss again.

IX. * I never drank of Aganippe well,

Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites untit.
Some do I hear of poet's fury tell,
But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it ;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.
How falls it, then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please
Guess me the cause--what, is it thus ?-fy, no.
Or so ?-much less. How then ? sure thus it is,
My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss

X.

“ Of all the kings that ever here did reign,

Edward, named Fourth, as first in praise I namo,