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SONNET MADE ON ISABELLA MARKHAM,

WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOW, IN GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED

TO DIVERS IN THE COURT YÅRD.

From the Nugæ Antiquæ, where the original Manuscript is said

to be dated 1564.

WHENCE comes my love? O heart disclose;
It was from cheeks that sham'd the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From
eyes

that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone,

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The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say “ 'tis Cupid's fire;”
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind, bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek-
Yet not a heart to save my pain;
O Venus, take thy gifts again;
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

VERSES ON A MOST STONY HEARTED MAIDEN WHO

DID SORELY BEGUILE THE NOBLE KNIGHT,

MY TRUE FRIEND.

J. H. MSS. 1564.- From the Nugæ Antiquæ.

I.
Why didst thou raise such woeful wail,
And waste in briny tears thy days ?
'Cause she that wont to flout and rail,
At last gave proof of woman's ways;
She did, in sooth, display the heart
That might have wrought thee greater smart.

11.
Why, thank her then, not weep or moan;
Let others guard their careless heart,
And praise the day that thus made known
The faithless hold on woman's art;
Their lips can gloze and gain such root,
That gentle youth hath hope of fruit.

III.
But, ere the blossom fair doth rise,
To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste,
Creepeth disdain in canker-wise,
And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast:
There is no hope of all our toil;
There is no fruit from such a soil.

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IV.
Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er ;
She might have poison'd all thy life;
Such wayward mind had bred thee more
Of sorrow had she proved thy wife:
Leave her to meet all hopeless meed,
And bless thyself that so art freed.

No youth shall sue such one to win,
Unmark'd by all the shining fair,
Save for her pride and scorn, such sin
As heart of love can never bear;
Like leafless plant in blasted shade,
So liveth shea barren maid,

SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.

BORN 1554.-DIED 1586.

WITHOUT enduring Lord Orford's cold blooded depreciation of this hero, it must be owned that his writings fall short of his traditional glory; nor were his actions of the very highest importance to his country. Still there is no necessity for supposing the impression which he made upon his contemporaries to have been either illusive or exaggerated. Traits of character will distinguish great men, independently of their pens or their swords. The contemporaries of Sydney knew the man: and foreigners, no less than his own countrymen, seem to have felt, from his personal influence and conversation, an homage for him, that could only be paid to a commanding intellect guiding the principles of a noble heart. The variety of his ambition, perhaps, unfavourably divided the force of his genius: feeling that he could take different paths to reputation, he did not confine himself to one, but was successively occupied in the punctilious duties of a courtier, the studies and pursuits of a scholar and traveller, and in the life of a soldier, of which the chivalrous accomplishments could not be learnt without diligence and fatigue. All his excellence in those pursuits, and all the celebrity that would have placed him among the competitors for a crown, was gained in a life of thirty-two years. His sagacity and independence are recorded in the advice which he gave to his own sovereign. In the quarrel with Lord Oxford * he opposed the rights of an English commoner to the prejudices of aristocracy and of royalty itself. At home he was the patron of literature. All England wore mourning for his death. Perhaps the well known anecdote of his generosity to the dying soldier speaks more powerfully to the

* Vide the biographical notice of Lord Oxford.

heart than the whole volumes of elegies in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, that were published at his death by the universities,

Mr. Ellis has exhausted the best specimens of his poetry. I have only offered a few short ones.

TO SLEEP.

FROM THE ARCADIA.

COME sleep, 0 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 doth at me 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 weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than else-where Stella's image see.

1 Press, or crowd.

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