SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, the eldest son of Sir Henry Sidney, was born on the 29th of November, 1554, at Penshurst, in Kent. His life was one scene of romance from its commencement to its close. His early years were spent in travel, and on his return he was married to the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, a lady of many accomplishments, and of "extraordinary handsomenesse," but his heart was given to another. The Lady Penelope Devereux won it, and kept it till he fell on the field of Zutphen. Family regards had forbad their marriage, but she was united to the immortal part of him, and that contract has not been yet dissolved. She is still the Philoclea of the Arcadia, and Stella in the poems of Astrophel. It is unnecessary to follow, in detail, the course of Sir Philip Sidney's life. There is no strange inconsistency in it to reason off, no stain to clear, no blame to talk away. We describe it when we name his accomplishments. We remember it as we would a dream of uninterrupted glory. His learning, his beauty, his chivalry, his grace, shed a lustre on the most glorious reign recorded in the English annals. England herself, by reason of the wide-spread fame of Sir Philip Sidney, rose exalted in the eyes of foreign nations. He was the idol, the darling, of his own. For, with every sort of power at his command, it was his creed to think all vain but affection and honour, and to hold the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious. The only displeasure he ever incurred at court, was, when he vindicated the rights and independence of English commoners in his own gallant person, against the arrogance of English nobles in the person of the Earl of Oxford. For a time, then, he retired from the court, and sought rest in his loved simplicity. He went to Wilton, and there, for the amusement of his dear sister, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, he wrote the "Arcadia." "My great uncle," says Aubrey," Mr. T. Browne, remembered him; and said that he was wont to take his table-book out of his pocket, and write down his notions as they came into his head, when he was writing his Arcadia, as he was hunting on our pleasant plains." Again, however, he returned to court, and his Queen seized every opportunity to do him honour. He received her smiles with the same high and manly gallantry, the same plain and simple boldness, with which he had taken her frowns. In the end, Elizabethwho, to preserve this "jewel of her crown," had forcibly laid hands on him when he projected a voyage to America with Sir Francis Drake, and laid her veto on his quitting England, when he was offered the crown of Poland-could not restrain his bravery in battle, when circumstances called him there. At Zutphen, on the 22d of September, 1586, he received a mortal wound. He had a noble mourning. Kings clad themselves in dresses of grief, and universities poured forth their classical tributes of learning and of love. It is impossible to look through an impartial medium at the genius of Sir Philip Sidney. It has the same privileges that adorned his life. "His wit and understanding," says his friend Lord Brooke, "beat upon his heart, to make himself and others, not in word or opinion, but in life and action, good and great." This beating upon the heart includes almost all that we would say. The sweetness of his poetry, its exquisite and pensive softness, its delicacy, and fanciful richness, may be all referred to this, and to this alone, for in no other poet are they felt, as we feel them in Sidney, joined in immediate and most subtle union with the personal refinement of the poet's nature. Its main defects arise, as we apprehend, from the occasional ill-harmonised connexion which is seen in it between the high heroic and the simple pastoral. His sonnets we consider exquisite. They express, in the highest and most perfect way, the lofty Sidnean love. For in this, as in all things else, we are thrown again upon a personal reference. We must remember that it is the love of Sir Philip Sidney, a love which did not feed upon, and exhaust itself, but which pervaded and illustrated his life, his actions, his pursuits, and made the glorious vanities and graceful hyperboles of the passion "Things not too bright or good Let us be careful, then, in accusing Sir Philip Sidney of conceit. The images which lay at his feet, and were to him most natural, live far away from the thoughts of more ordinary men. Judge him in all things by his own standard, and he will be found in all things more than worthy of his undying fame. FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. In truth, O Love, with what a boyish kind Thou doest proceed, in thy most serious wayes? That when the heav'n to thee his best displayes, Yet of that best, thou leav'st the best behinde For like a childe that some faire booke doth find, With gilded leaves or colour'd velume playes, Or, at the most on some fine picture stayes, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind: So when thou saw'st, in nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight look'tst babies in her eyes, exquisite and pensive softness, its delicacy, and fanciful richness, may be all referred to this, and to this alone, for in no other poet are they felt, as we feel them in Sidney, joined in immediate and most subtle union with the personal refinement of the poet's nature. Its main defects arise, as we apprehend, from the occasional ill-harmonised connexion which is seen in it between the high heroic and the simple pastoral. His sonnets we consider exquisite. They express, in the highest and most perfect way, the lofty Sidnean love. For in this, as in all things else, we are thrown again upon a personal reference. We must remember that it is the love of Sir Philip Sidney, a love which did not feed upon, and exhaust itself, but which pervaded and illustrated his life, his actions, his pursuits, and made the glorious vanities and graceful hyperboles of the passion "Things not too bright or good Let us be careful, then, in accusing Sir Philip Sidney of conceit. The images which lay at his feet, and were to him most natural, live far away from the thoughts of more ordinary men. Judge him in all things by his own standard, and he will be found in all things more than worthy of his undying fame. FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. In truth, O Love, with what a boyish kind Thou doest proceed, in thy most serious wayes? That when the heav'n to thee his best displayes, Yet of that best, thou leav'st the best behinde For like a childe that some faire booke doth find, With gilded leaves or colour'd velume playes, Or, at the most on some fine picture stayes, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind: So when thou saw'st, in nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight look'tst babies in her eyes, In her cheekes' pit, thou did'st thy pitfould set, BECAUSE I oft, in darke abstracted guise, To them that would make speech of speech arise: Fawne on myselfe, and others do despise : Yet pride, I thinke, doth not my soule possesse, That makes me oft my best friends overpasse, WITH how sad steps, O moone, thou climb'st the skies! Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moone, tell me, Those lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse ? Do they call vertue there ungratefulnesse ? COME, sleepe: O sleepe! the certaine knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balme of woe, The poore man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge betweene the high and low; |