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ON THE SAME.

THE praise of meaner wits this work like profit brings,
As doth the Cuckoo's song delight when Philomela sings.
If thou hast formed right true Virtue's face herein;

Virtue herself can best discern, to whom they written been.

If thou hast Beauty praised, let her sole looks divine Judge if ought therein be amiss, and mend it by her eyne.

If Chastity want ought, or Temperance her due,

Behold her princely mind aright, and write thy Queen

anew.

Meanwhile she shall perceive how far her virtues soar Above the reach of all that live, or such as wrote of yore; And thereby will excuse and favour thy good will,

Whose virtue cannot be exprest, but by an Angel's quill.

Of me no lines are loved, nor letters are of price,

Of all which speak our English tongue, but those of thy device,

the eldest son of Sir Henry Sidney, by a daughter of the Duke of Northumberland, was born on the 29th of November, 1554, at Penshurst, in Kent. The great, the brave, the chivalrous of his day, whose whole life appears a romance. High moral principles, untainted purity, united to various accomplishments, rendered him the ornament and delight of his countrymen.

Although married to the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, his heart had been previously won by the Lady Penelope Devereux, sister to the hapless Essex, whom he has celebrated in his Sonnets under the name of Stella. Destined for each other, while she was yet in her infancy, she early won his heart; and though family arrangements caused the marriage to be broken off, it does not appear but that the Lady Penelope retained her place in his affections, until England was deprived of this gallant knight, her idol, and the admiration of foreign nations, who fell gloriously, on the memorable field of Zutphen: he expired on the 17th of October, 1586, after exhibiting the most unaffected piety, and exemplary composure, at the early age of thirty-two, while yet in the summer of his existence. Few characters, recorded by Fame, are so distinguished, or so unexceptionable, as that of the gallant, the heroic Sydney. It has been justly observed, that "if judged in all things by his own standard, he will be found in all things more than worthy of his undying fame."

His poems, lauded with admiration in his own day, are too little known or appreciated in this. His Sonnets are written in a beautiful style, and will, it is to be hoped, to the credit of this enlightened age, regain their well-merited popularity.

TO THE MOON.

WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face!

What! may it be, that even in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrow tries?

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read in thy looks, thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then of fellowship, O Moon, tell me

Is constant love deem'd there but want 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?

TO SLEEP.

COME, Sleep-O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease; Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : O make in me those civil wars to cease!

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a heavy 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.

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 captiv'd in golden cage.
O fools, or over wise! alas! the race

Of all my thoughts hath neither stop or start,.
But only Stella's eyes, and Stella's heart.

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 babbling pride doth lie

So in my swelling breast, that only I
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, I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass

Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his power, even unto Stella's grace.

HAVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance,
Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgement of the English eyes,
And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France;
Horsemen, my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town-folks, my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;

Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excell in this,
Think nature me a man of arms did make :

How far they shot awry! the true cause is,

Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan;
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear,
What, he? say they of me, now I dare swear
He cannot love! no, no; let him alone.
And think so still, so Stella know my mind!
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;

But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart.
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove:
They love indeed, who quake to say they love.

STELLA, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live, but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history:
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame

A nest for my young praise in laurel tree :
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be
Graved in my epitaph a poet's name.
Ne, if I would, I could just title make,

That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take,
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow;
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and make me write.

C

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