PORTRAIT OF PHILIP SIDNEY.

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,

And taught him sing, to write, and say.

When he descended down the mount,

His personage seem'd most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerful 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;
Continual comforts in a face;

The lineaments of Gospel books:

I trow that count'nance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible to the eye.

Above all others this is he,

Which erst approved in his song,
That love and honour might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
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 beneath
A Poet's brain with finer store.

He wrote of love with high conceit,
And Beauty rear'd above her height.

Uncertain.

TRUE USE OF KNOWLEDGE.

THE chief use then in man of that he knows,
Is his painstaking for the good of all,
Not fleshly weeping for our own made woes,
Not laughing from a melancholy gall,

Not hating from a soul that overflows

With bitterness, breath'd out from inward thrall; "But sweetly rather to ease, loose, or bind, As need requires, this frail, fall'n humankind."

Yet some seek knowledge, merely to be known,
And idle curiosity that is;-

Some but to sell, not freely to bestow,

These gain and spend both time, and wealth amiss; Embasing hearts, by basely deeming so;

Some to build others, which is charity,

But these to build themselves, who wise men be.

And to conclude, whether we would erect
Ourselves, or others, by this choice of arts,
Our chief endeavour must be to effect

A sound foundation, not on sandy parts

Of light opinion, selfness, words of men,

But that sure rock of truth, God's word, or pen.

Next, that we do not overbuild our states,

In searching secrets of the Deity,

Obscurities of nature, casualty of fates,
But measure first our own humanity,
Then on our gifts impose an equal rate,

And so seek wisdom with sobriety:

"Not curious what our fellows ought to do, But what our own creation binds us to."

TRUE USE OF KNOWLEDGE.

Lastly, we must not to the world erect
Theatres, nor plant our paradise in dust,
Nor build up Babels for the devil's elect;
Make temples of our hearts to God we must;
And then, as Godless wisdoms follies be,
So are His heights our true philosophy,

With which fair cautions, man may well profess
To study God, whom he is born to serve;
Nature, t' admire the greater in the less;
Time, but to learn; ourselves we may observe,
To humble us; others, to exercise

Our love and patience, wherein duty lies.

Lastly, the truth and good to love, and do them,

The error, only to destroy, and shun it;

Our hearts in general will lead us to them,

When gifts of grace, and faith, have once begun it:

"For without these, the mind, the mind of man grows numb,

The body darkness, to the soul a tomb."

Thus are true learnings in the humble heart
A spiritual work, raising God's image, razed
By our transgression; a well-framed art,

At which the world and error stand amazed;
A light divine, where man sees joy and smart
Immortal, in this mortal body blazed;

A wisdom, which the wisdom us assureth,
With hers even to the sight of God endureth.

Lord Brooke.

REPENTANCE

Ar the round Earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise
From Death, you numberless infinities

Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow,
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,

Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you, whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste Death's woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space;

For, if above all these, my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,

When we are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent; for that's as good

As if Thou hadst sealed my pardon with Thy blood.

DEATH.

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me :
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke ;-why swell'st thou then?

Our short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.

John Donne.

PICTURE OF A MIND.

PAINTER, you're come, but may be gone;
Now I have better thought thereon,
This work I can perform alone,

And give you reasons more than one.

Not that your art I do refuse ;
But here I may no colours use;
Beside, your hand will never fit
To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle towering in the sky,
The sun, a sea, or soundless pit;
But these are like a mind-not it.

No, to express this mind to sense,
Would ask a Heaven's intelligence;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kin to whence it came.

Sweet mind, then speak yourself, and say,

As you go on, by what brave way
Our sense you do with knowledge fill,
And yet remain our wonder still.

I call you, Muse, now make it true:
Henceforth may every line be you;
That all may say, that see the frame,
This is no picture, but the same.

A mind so pure, so perfect, fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine;
And so disdaining any trier;
'Tis got where it can try the fire.