Next follow--a mournful procession--_suicidal faces_, saved against their wills from drowning; dolefully trailing a length of reluctant gratefulness, with ropy weeds pendant from locks of watchet hue-constrained Lazari--Pluto's half-subjects--stolen 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) s.n.a.t.c.heth straight, intending to suspend it to the stern G.o.d of Sea. Then follow dismal streams of Lethe, in which the half-drenched on earth are constrained to drown downright, by wharfs 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 a.s.suredly 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[1], 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 aesculapian chair, to welcome into that happy company the matured virtues of the man, whose tender scions in the boy he himself upon earth had so prophetically fed and watered.

[Footnote 1: Graium _tantum vidit_.]

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 sanct.i.ty, 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 Commonwealthsman. 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 hey-day of his blood. They are stuck full of amorous fancies--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 _circ.u.m praecordia frigus_, must not have so damped our faculties, as to take away our recollection that we were once so--before we can duly appreciate the glorious vanities, and graceful hyperboles, of the pa.s.sion. 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 pa.s.sions 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 apostrophise a singing-girl:--

Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes) Obtigit aetheriis ales ab ordinibus.

Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major, Nam tua praesentem vox sonat ipsa Deum?

Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia coeli, Per tua secret guttura serpit agens; Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda Sensim immortali a.s.suescere posse sono.

QUOD SI CUNCTA QUIDEM DEUS EST, PER CUNCTAQUE FUSUS, IN TE UNa LOQUITUR, CaeTERA MUTUS HABET.

This is loving in a strange fashion; and it requires some candour 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 nights 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 pa.s.sions.

I

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 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 languish! grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even 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_!

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

II

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, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease[1]

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 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 captiv'd in golden cage.

O 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 I Fawn on myself, and others do despise; Yet _Pride_, I think, doth not my Soul possess, Which looks too oft in his unflattering gla.s.s: But one worse fault--_Ambition_--I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpa.s.s, 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 obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that _sweet enemy_,--France; Hors.e.m.e.n my skill in horsemanship advance; Townsfolk 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 excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms 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 fill'd 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 less: 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; O give my pa.s.sions leave to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'er-charged 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 Caesar'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?

And 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 b.l.o.o.d.y pain?

O 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 lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.

Some do I bear of Poets' fury tell, But (G.o.d wot) wot not what they mean by it; And this I swear by blackest brook of h.e.l.l, 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?--fye, 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 name, Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain-- Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame.

Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain; And, gain'd by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame, That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain.