So that on ev'ry coast men shipwrack did abide, Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves, And such as came to shoare were beaten with despaire.
DEATH OF SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, &c.1
COLIN, well fits thy sad cheare this sad stownd,
This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine
This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres.
The Medwaies silver streames, that wont so still to Hear'st thou the Orown? how with hollow sownd
Were troubled now and wrothe; whose hidden hollow caves,
Along his banks with fog then shrowded from mans
Ay Phillip did resownd, aie Phillip they did crie. His nimphs were seen no more (thogh custom stil it craves)
With haire spred to the wynd themselves to bath or sport,
Or with the hooke or net, barefooted wantonly, The pleasant daintie fish to entangle or deceive. The shepheards left their wonted places of resort, Their bagpipes now were still; their loving mery layes
Were quite forgot; and now their flocks men might perceive
To wander and to straie, all carelesly neglect. And, in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and dayes
Nought els was to be heard, but woes, complaints,
But thou (Oblessed soule!) doest haply not respect These teares we shead, though full of loving pure affect,
Having affixt thine eyes on that most glorious throne, Where full of maiestie the high Creator reignes; In whose bright shining face thy ioyes are all complete,
Whose love kindles thy spright; where, happie alwaies one,
Thou liv'st in blis that earthly passion never straines; Where from the purest spring the sacred nectar
Is thy continuall drinke; where thou doest gather
Of well emploied life th' inestimable gaines.
There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place,
And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy vertue bow,
And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most.
In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace,
A chaire of gold he setts to thee, and there doth tell
Thy noble acts arew, whereby even they that boast
Themselves of auncient fame, as Pirrbus, Hanniball,
Scipio, and Cæsar, with the rest that did excell
In martiall prowesse, high thy glorie do admire.
All haile, therefore, O worthie Phillip immortall, The flowre of Sydneyes race, the honour of thy name!
Whose worthie praise to sing, my Muses not aspire, But sorrowful and sad these teares to thee let fall, Yet wish their verses might so farre and wide thy fame
Extend, that envies rage, nor time, might end the
He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine,
And seemes to say unto the fading flowres,
Along his bankes, unto the bared trees;
Phillisides is dead. Up, iolly swaine,
Thou that with skill canst tune a dolefull lay,
Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth freese,
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I beare, though rude: but, as I may,
With sobs and sighes I second will thy song,
And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.
COLIN. Ah Lycon, Lycon, what need skill, to teach
A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints! how long
Hath the pore turtle gon to school (weenest thou)
To learne to mourne her lost make! No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to waile.
Seest not these flocks, bow sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile
With hanging head to shew a heavie cheare,
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes
Himselfe of late? did any cheerfull note
Come to thine eares, or gladsone sight appeare
Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre?
Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing teares?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his powre
Doth us invite to make a sad consort;
Come, let us ioyne our mournfull song with theirs.
Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce,
Thy voice; and eccho will our words report.
LYCON. Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses That others farre excell; yet will I force [frame, My selfe to answere thee the best I can, And honour my base words with bis high name. But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit In secret shade or cave; vouchsafe (O Pan) To pardon me, and hear this hard constraint With patience while I sing, and pittie it. And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell In these wilde woods; if ever piteous plaint We did endite, or taught a wofull minde With words of pure affect his griefe to tell, Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on, And I will follow thee, though farre behinde. COLIN. Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death, O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion,
The signature to this poem is L. B. that is, Lodowick Bryskett. Mr. Warton's conjecture, that lord Brooke might be the person designed by those initials, cannot, I believe, be supported. Mr. Warton, however, concedes that L. B. may signifie the author's name, as in the poem we have neither the perspicuity nor the harmony of Spenser. Todd.
When shalt thou see, emong thy shepheards all,
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath
Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;
Curteous, valiant, and liberall.
Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire
Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hill.
And her faire face, bent sadly downe, doth send
A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the Heav'ns despightfull, envious,
Cruell his fate, that made so short an end
Of that same life, well worthie to have bene
Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.
The nymphs and oreades her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene;
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests,
Accuse the direfull dart that Death sent out
To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame,
That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their cristall springs, where they wont
frame
Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,
To sport themselves free from the scorching Sun.
And now the hollow caves where horror darke
Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire,
They seeke; and there in mourning spend their time
With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and
barke,
And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.
LYCON. Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme!
Why should my toong expresse thee? who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint,
Lycon unfortunate! What spitefull fate,
What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort; of thy onely stay!
Where is become thy wonted happie state,
(Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale,
Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne
Along the bankes of many silver streames, [way,
Thou with him yodest: and with him didst scale
The craggie rocks of th' Alpes and Appenine!
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames
Of vertue kindled in his noble brest,
Which after did so gloriously forth shine!
But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are
All suddeinly, and death hath them opprest.
Loe father Neptune, with sad countenance,
How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare,
Yonder, where th' Ocean with his rolling waves
The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance)
Of Dover cliffes. His sacred skirt about
The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,
The fruitfull Severne, with the rest are come
To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to see
The dolefull sight, and sad pomp funerall,
Of the dead corps passing through his kingdome.
And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown'd,
With wofull shrikes salute him great and small.
Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare
Narcissus, their last accents doth resownd.
COLIN. Phillisides is dead. O lucklesse age;
O widow world; O brookes and fountains cleere;
O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong
With his sweet caroling, which could asswage
The fiercest wrath of tygre or of beare:
Ye silvans, fawnes, and satyres, that emong
These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe;
Ye nymphs and nayades with golden heare,
That oft have left your purest cristall springs
To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe
Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts:
Alas! who now is left that like him sings?
When shall you heare againe like harmonie?
So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts?
Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives
The name of Stella in yonder bay tree.
Happie name! happie tree' faire may you grow,
And spred your sacred branch, which honor gives
To famous emperours, and poets crowne.
Unhappie flock that wander scattred now,
What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane,
Forsake your food, and hang your heads adowne!
For such a shepheard never shall you guide,
Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane.
LYCON. Phillisides is dead. O happie sprite,
That now in Heav'n with blessed soules doest bide:
Looke down a while from where thou sitst above,
And see how busie shepheards be to endite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrowes to declare,
And gratefull memory of their kynd love.
Behold my selfe with Colin, gentle swaine,
(Whose lerned Muse thou cherisht most whyleare)
Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease
The inward torment and tormenting paine,
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each others sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,
And withred grasse with cypres boughes be spred;
Behold these floures which on thy grave we strew;
Which, faded, shew the givers faded state,
(Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and pure)
Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose praiers importune shall the Heav'ns for ay,
That, to thy ashes, rest they may assure:
That learnedst shepheards honor may thy name
With yeerly praises, and the nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres;
And that for ever may endure thy fame. [steep
COLIN. The Sun (lo!) hastned hath his face to
In western waves; and th' aire with stormy showres
Warnes us to drive homewards our silly sheep:
Lycon, lett's rise, and take of them good keep.
Virtute summa: cætera fortuna.
FRIENDS PASSION, FOR HIS ASTROPHILL.
WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOUR OF
FLUSHING'.
As then, no winde at all there blew,
No swelling cloude accloid the aire;
The skie, like grasse [glasse] of watchet hew,
Reflected Phoebus golden haire;
This poem was written by Matthew Roydon, as we are informed in Nash's Preface to Greene's Arcadia, and in Engl. Parnassus, The Phoenix Nest, set foorth by R. S. of the Inner Temple, gentleman, 4to. 1593, commences also with "An Elegie, or friends passion, for his Astrophill, &c."
To the two following pieces I am unable to assign their authors: but no reader will imagine them the productions of Spenser. Todd.
The garnisht tree no pendant stird, No voice was heard of anie bird.
There might you see the burly beare,
The lion king, the elephant ;
The maiden unicorne was there,
So was Acteons horned plant,
And what of wilde or tame are found, Were coucht in order on the ground.
Alcides speckled poplar tree,
The palme that monarchs do obtaine, With love-iuice staind the mulberie, The fruit that dewes the poets braine; And Phillis philbert there away, Comparde with mirtle and the bay.
The tree that coffins doth adorne,
With stately height threatning the skie;
And for the bed of love forlorne,
The blacke and dolefull ebonie;
All in a circle compast were,
Like to an amphitheater.
Upon the branches of those trees,
The airie-winged people sat,
Distinguished in od degrees,
One sort is this, another that,
Here Philomell, that knowes full well
What force and wit in love doth dwell.
The skiebred eagle, roiall bird,
Percht there upon an oke above;
The turtle by him never stird,
Example of immortall love.
The swan that sings, about to dy,
Leaving Meander stood thereby.
And, that which was of woonder most,
The phoenix left sweet Arabie ;
And, on a cædar in this coast,
Built up her tombe of spicerie,
As I coniecture, by the same
Preparde to take her dying flame.
In midst and center of this plot,
I saw one groveling on the grasse:
A man or stone, I knew not that;
No stone; of man the figure was,
And yet I could not count him one,
More than the image made of stone.
At length I might perceive him reare
His bodie on his elbow end:
Earthly and pale with ghastly cheare,
Upon his knees he upward tend,
Seeming like one in uncouth stound,
To be ascending out the ground.
A grievous sigh forthwith he throwes,
As might have torne the vitall strings ;
Then down his cheeks the teares so flows,
As doth the streame of many springs.
So thunder rends the cloud in twaine,
And makes a passage for the raine.
Incontinent, with trembling sound,
He wofully gan to complaine;
Such were the accents as might wound,
And teare a diamond rocke in twaine:
After his throbs did somewhat stay,
Thus heavenly he gan to say:
"O Sunne!" said he, seeing the Sunne,
"On wretched me why dost thou shine,
My star is falne, my comfort done,
Out is the apple of my eine;
Shine upon those possesse delight,
And let me live in endlesse night.
"O griefe that liest upon my soule,
As heavie as a mount of lead,
The remnant of my life controll,
Consort me quickly with the dead;
Halfe of this hart, this sprite, and will,
Di'de in the brest of Astrophill.
"And you, compassionate of my wo,
Gentle birds, beasts, and shadie trees,
I am assurde ye long to kno
What be the sorrowes me agreev's ;
Listen ye then to that insu'th,
And heare a tale of teares and ruthe.
"You knew, who knew not Astrophill?
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possessions still ')
Things knowne permit me to renew,
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say, you heare, too much.
"Within these woods of Arcadie,
He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke,
And on the mountaine Parthenie,
Upon the chrystall liquid brooke,
The Muses met him ev'ry day,
That taught him sing, to write, and say.
"When he descended downe to the mount,
His personage seemed most divine,
A thousand graces one might count,
Upon his lovely cheerfull eine;
To heare him speake and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.
"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face,
The lineaments of gospell bookes,
I trowe that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.
"Was never eie did see that face
Was never eare did heare that tong,
Was never minde did minde his grace,
That ever thought the travell long;
But eies, and eares, and ev'ry thought,
Were with his sweete perfections caught.
"O God, that such a worthy man,
In whom so rare desarts did raigne,
Desired thus, must leave us than,
And we to wish for him in vaine!
O could the stars, that bred that wit,
In force no longer fixed sit!
"Then being fild with learned dew, The Muses willed him to love; That instrument can aptly shew, How finely our conceits will move;
Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more.
And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising Sun hath sought,
With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.
Drawne was thy race aright from princely line, Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that Nature gave, The common mother that all creatures have) Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.
A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde,
That God thee gave, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine.
Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth;
The Heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.
Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence,
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!
Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.
There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might: Thy rising day saw never wofull night,
But past with praise from off this worldly stage.
Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought,
First thine owne death, and after thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame,
Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught.
What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon?
Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure
Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure;
O! happie race with so great praises run.
England doth hold thy lims that bred the same,
Flaunders thy valure where it last was tried,
The campe thy sorrow where thy bodie died,
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame.
Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love; Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come; In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe; Thy soule and spright enrich the Heavens above.
Thy liberall hart imbaland in gratefull teares,
Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy
Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall, [fall;
Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares.
That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell,
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time!
Whose vertues, wounded by my worthelesse rime,
Let angels speake, and Heaven thy praises tell.
ANOTHER OF THE SAME.
SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage, Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, the wonder of our age,
Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, [know not how. Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigors teares abound, [she found ; And Envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault Knowledge her light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her knight; [delight. Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds
Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride, [spring tide:" Time crieth out, "My ebbe is come; his life was my Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her [dry sorts. Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sun
Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreames; [beames! Farewell sometimes enioyed, ioy; eclipsed are thy Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth; [minds of woorth. And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting
And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes, And all sports, which, for lives restore, varietie assignes;
Let all, that sweete is, voyd; in me no mirth may dwell, [farewell! Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content,
Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill, [not how to kill, And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde, [good a minde. Salute the stones, that keep the lims that held se
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