The daughter of debate,
That eke discord doth sow,

Shall reap no gain where former rule
Hath taught still peace to grow.

No foreign banished wight
Shall anchor in this port;

Our realm it brooks no stranger's force;
Let them elsewhere resort.

Our rusty sword with rest
Shall first his edge employ,

To poll their tops that seek such change,
And gape for future joy.

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
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case.
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace.
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O moon! tell me

Is constant love deemed 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?

II. 1

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
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 smooth 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.2

LEAVE me, O love! which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!

Gray's" Miscellaneous Works of Sidney," p. 92,
Sidney's "Arcadia," p. 539, edit. 1674.

;

Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might

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:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
Splendidis longum valedico nugis.

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:
Save, O God! my sinking soul,—
Sinking where it feels no ground,
In this gulf, this whirling hole:
Waiting aid, with earnest eying,
Calling God with bootless crying;

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
Eye to see and throat to sound,

Wrongly set to work my woe,
Haters have I more than hairs:
Force in my afflicting foe

Bettering still, in me impairs.
Thus to pay and leese constrained
What I never ought or gained,
Yet say I, Thou God dost know
How my faults and follies go.

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,
Quite an alien am I grown;
In my very brethren's sight

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,
Waiting yet some friendship's token,
Some I looked would me uphold,—
Looked, but found all comfort cold.

Comfort? nay, not seen before,
Needing food they set me gall;
Vinegar they filled me store,

When for drink my thirst did call.
O then snare them in their pleasures!
Make them trapt even in their treasures!
Gladly sad, and richly poor,

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!
Whom Thou painest, more they pain;
Hurt by Thee, by them is slain.

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