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SYDNEYS Sos -- I speak of the best of them -- are among the very best of their sort. They fall below the plain moral dignity, the sanctity, and high yet modest spirit of self-approval, of Milton, in his positions of a similar structure. They are in truth what Milton, suring 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 fesses 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 ohsman. But Milton was a Courtier when he wrote the Masque at Ludlow Castle, and still more a Courtier when he posed the Arcades. Wheional struggle was to begin, he beingly 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 Prihe times did not call him to the scaffold.The Sos which we ofte call to mind of Miltohe positions 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 ceits, befitting his occupation; for True Love thinks no labour to send out Thoughts upon the vast, and more than Indian voyages, t home rich pearls, outlandish wealth, gums, jewels, spicery, to sacrifi self-depreciating similitudes, as shadows of true amiabilities in the Beloved. We must be Lovers -- or at least the cooling touch of time, the circum praecordia frigins, must not have so damped our faculties, as to take away our recolle that we were once so -- before we duly appreciate the glorious vanities, and graceful hyperboles of the passion. The images which lie before our feet (though by some ated 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 Sistress; for passions 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 inde, 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 praesen<bdo>９９ｌib?</bdo>tem vox sonat ipsa Deum?
Aut Deus, aut vacui certe meia coeli,
Per tua secreto guttura serpit agens;
Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda
Sensim immortal assuescere posse sono.
QUOD SI CTA QUIDEM DEUS EST, PER CTAQUE FUSUS,
IN TE UNA LOQUITUR, CAETERA MUTUS HABET.
This is loving in a strange fashion; and it requires some dour of stru (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 flights 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 passions.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst 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
judge of love, thou feelst a lovers case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is stant love deemd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be
Do they above love to be loved, a
Those lovers s, 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 ungratefulhere a virtue?
e, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor mah, the prisoners release,
The 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 ihose 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, Stellas image see.
III
The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness
Bewray itself in my loled eyes,
Whehose 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, ambitie,
Sce of itself, still climbing slippery place
Holds my young brain captivd in gold cage.
O fools, or over-wise! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath her stop nor start,
But only Stellas eyes, and Stellas heart.
IV
Because I oft in dark abstracted guise
Seem most alone iest pany,
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 glass:
But one worse fault -- Ambition -- I fess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, -- while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, even unto Stellas grace.
V
Having this day, my horse, my hand, my lance,
Guided so well that I obtaihe prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy -- France,
Horsemen 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 ce;
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 lookd on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
VI
In martial sports I had my ing tried,
Ao break more staves did me address,
While with the peoples shouts (I must fess)
Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my veins with pride --
When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried
In Marss livery, prang in the press,
"What now, Sir Fool!" said he; "I would no less:
Look here, I say." I lookd, and STELLA spied,
Who hard by made a window send forth light.
My heart then quakd, then dazzled were mine eyes;
One hand fot to rule, thother to fight;
Nor trumpets sound I heard, nor friendly cries.
My foe came on, ahe air for me --
Till that her blush made me my shame to see.
VII
No more, my dear, no more these sels try;
O give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk oer-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 s ret my case --
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotles wit,
Nor do aspire to Caesars bleeding fame;
Nht do care, though some above me sit;
Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame,
But that whice may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou m藏书网y virtue art.
VIII
Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is,
Schoold only by his mothers tender eye;
What wohen, if he his lesson miss,
When for so soft a rod dear play he try?
A my STAR, because a sugard kiss
In sport I suckd, 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
Iys throne -- see now, who dares e near
Those scarlet judges, threatning bloody pain?
O heavnly Fool, <var>?</var>thy most kiss-worthy face
Anger is with such a lovely grace,
That angers self I needs must kiss again.
IX
I never drank of Aganippe well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses s with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poor lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of Poets fury tell,
But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pickpurse of anothers 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 STELLAs 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 sires revenge, joind with a kingdoms gain;
And, and by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame,
That balance weighd what Sword did late obtain.
Nor that he made the Floure-de-luce so `fraid,
Though strongly hedged of bloody Lions paws
That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid.
Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause --
But only, for this worthy knight durst prove
To lose his rather than fail his love.
XI
O happy Thames, that didst my STELLA bear,
I saw thyself, with many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, Joys livery wear,
While those fair plas on thy streams did shine;
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear,
While wanton winds, with beauty so divine
Ravishd, stayd not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine.
And fain those Aeols youth there would their stay
Have made; but, forced by nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display.
She, so dishevelld, blushd; from window I
With sight thereof cried out, O fair disgrace,
Let honours self to thee grant highest place!
XII
Highway, siny chief Parnassus be;
And that my Muse, to some ears not u,
Tempers her words to trampling horses feet,
More soft than to a chamber melody, --
Now blessed You bear onward blessed Me
To Her, where I my heart safe left shall meet,
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honourd by public heed,
By no enent wrongd, nor time fot;
Nor blamd for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed.
And that you know, I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you STELLAS feet may kiss.
Of the foing, the first, the sed, and the last so, are my favourites. But the general beauty of them all is, that they are so perfectly characteristical. The spirit of "learning and of chivalry, -- "of whiion, Spenser has entitled Sydo have been the "president," -- shihrough them. I fess, I see nothing of the "jejune "or &quid" in them; much less of the "stiff" and "cumbrous " -- which I have sometimes heard objected to the Arcadia. The verse runs off swiftly and gallantly. It might have been tuo the trumpet; or tempered (as himself: expresses it) to "trampling horses feet." They abound in felicitous phrases --
O heavnly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy lips
8th So
-------Sweet pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
2nd So
-------That sweet enemy, -- France --
5th So,
But they are not ri words only, in vague and unlocalised feelings -- the failing too much of some poetry of the present day they are full, material, and circumstantiated. Time and place appropriates every one of them. It is not a fever of passion wasting itself upon a thi of dainty words, but a transdent passion pervadi<u></u>ng and illuminating a, pursuits, studies, feats of arms, the opinions of poraries and his judgment of them. An historical thread runs through them, which almost affixes a date to them; marks the when and where they were written.
I have dwelt the longer upon what I ceive the merit of these poems, because I have been hurt by the wantonness (I wish I could treat it by a gentler name) with which W. H. takes every occasion of insulting the memory of Sir Philip Sydney. But the decisions of the Author of Table Talk, &c., (most profound and subtle where they are, as for the most part, just) are more safely to be relied upon, on subjects and authors he has a partiality for, than on such as he has ceived an actal prejudice against. Milton wrote Sos, and was a kinghater; and it was genial perhaps to sacrifice a courtie<q></q>r to a patriot. But I was unwilling to lose a fine idea from my mind. The noble images, passions, ses, and poetical delicacies of character, scattered all over the Arcadia (spite of some stiffness and encumberment), justify to me the character which his poraries have left us of the writer. I ot think with the Critic, that Sir Philip Sydney was that opprobrious thing which a foolish nobleman in his i hostility chose to term him. I call to mind the epitaph made on him, to guide me to juster thoughts of him; and I repose upon the beautiful lines in the "Friends Passion for his Astrophel," printed with the Elegies of Spenser and others.
You knew -- who knew not Astrophel?
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!) --
Things know me to renew --
Of him you know his merit such,
I ot Say -- you hear -- too much.
Within these woods of Arcady
He chief delight and pleasure took;
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The Muses met him every day,
That taught him sing, to write, and say.
When he desded down the mount,
His personage seemed most divine:
A thousand graight t
Upon his lovely chearful eyne.
To hear him speak, and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while,
A sweet attractive kind of grace;
A full assurance given by looks;
tinual fort in a face,
The lis of Gospel books --
I trow that tnance ot lye,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.
*****
Above all others this is he,
Which erst approved in his song,
That love and hht agree,
And that pure love will do n.
Sweet Saints, it is no Sin or blame
To love a man of virtuous name.
Did never Love so sweetly breathe
In any mortal breast before:
Did never Muse inspire beh
A Poets brain with fiore.
He wrote of Love with high ceit,
Ay reard above her height.
Or let any ohe deeper sorrows (grief running inte) in the Poem, -- the last in the colle apanying the above, -- which from internal testimony I believe to be Lord Brookes, -- beginning with "Silence augmeh grief,"and then seriously ask himself, whether the subject of such abs and fous could have been that thing which Lord Oxford termed him.
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