The daughter of debate, Shall reap no gain where former rule No foreign banished wight Our realm it brooks no stranger's force; Our rusty sword with rest To poll their tops that seek such change, IX. THREE SONNETS FROM THE WORKS OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. (Born 1554; died 1586.) I.1 ITH 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? Gray's "Miscellaneous Works of Sidney," p. 87, from "Astrophel and Stella." The first two lines adapted by Wordsworth, "Miscellaneous Sonnets," No. 3. Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? II. 1 COME, sleep; O sleep! the certain knot of peace, I will good tribute pay if thou do so. And if these things, as being thine by right, III.2 LEAVE me, O love! which reachest but to dust, Gray's" Miscellaneous Works of Sidney," p. 92, ; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust: To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light; That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. O take fast hold! Let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out to death; And think how evil becometh him to slide Who seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see: X. PSALM LXIX.1 (From the translation of the Psalms by Sir Philip Sidney and his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.) ROUBLOUS seas my soul surround: From the edition of 1823, p. 120. This Psalm belongs to the part which is generally ascribed to the Countess of Pembroke. Dim and dry in me are found Wrongly set to work my woe, Bettering still, in me impairs. Mighty Lord! let not my case Blank the rest that hope in Thee! Let not Jacob's God deface All His friends in blush of me! Thine it is, Thine only quarrel Dights me thus in shame's apparel: Mote nor spot nor least disgrace, But for Thee, could taint my face. Το my kin a stranger quite, Most uncared for, most unknown. With Thy temple's zeal out-eaten, With Thy slanders' scourges beaten, While the shot of piercing spite, Bent at Thee, on me doth light. Unto Thee what needs be told My reproach, my blot, my blame? Sith both these Thou didst behold, And canst all my haters name. Whiles afflicted, whiles heart-broken, Comfort? nay, not seen before, When for drink my thirst did call. Sightless most, yet mightless more! Down upon them fury rain! Lighten indignation down! Turn to waste and desert plain House and palace, field and town! Let not one be left abiding Where such rancour had residing! * |