ON THE SAME. THE praise of meaner wits this work like profit brings, 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 Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? 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; Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt, in me, THE curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness But harder judges judge ambition's rage, Of all my thoughts hath neither stop or start,. 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, So in my swelling breast, that only I Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place HAVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance, Others, because of both sides I do take How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one, But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, STELLA, think not that I by verse seek fame, A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : That any laud to me thereof should grow, C |