. SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. SYDNEY'S Sonnets-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 compositions of a similar structure. They are, in truth, what Milton, censuring 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 confesses 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 commonwealths-man. But Milton was a courtier when he wrote the Masque at Ludlow Castle, and still more a courtier when he composed the Arcades. When the national struggle was to begin, he becomingly 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 princes. The times did not call him to the scaffold. The sonnets which we oftenest call to mind of Milton were the compositions of his maturest years. Those of Sydney, which I am about to produce, were written in the very heyday of his blood. They are stuck full of amorous fancies-far-fetched conceits, befitting his occupation; for true love thinks no labour to send out thoughts upon the vast, and more than Indian voyages, to bring home rich pearls, outlandish wealth, gums, jewels, spicery, to sacrifice in 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 præcordia frigus, must not have so damped our faculties as to take away our recollection that we were once so-before we can duly appreciate the glorious vanities and graceful hyperboles of the passion. The images which lie before our feet (though by some accounted 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 Schoolmistress; for passions that creep and whine in elegies and pastoral ballads. I am sure Mil ton 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 indecorum when he could thus apostrophize a singing-girl : Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes) Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major, Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono. QUOD SI CUNCTA QUIDEM DEUS EST, PER CUNCTAQUE FUSUS, IN TE UNA LOQUITUR, CETERA MUTUS HABET.' This is loving in a strange fashion; and it requires some candour of construction (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. I. "With how sad steps, oh moon, thou climb'st the skies; What! may it be, that even in heavenly place Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? The last line of this poem is a little obscured by transpo sition. He means, Do they call ungratefulness there a virtue II. "Come, Sleep, oh Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, With shield of proof shield me from out the prease* Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw; * Press. Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed; And if these things, as being thine by right, III. "The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start, IV. "Because I oft in dark abstracted guise With dearth of words, or answers quite awry, V. "Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance, How far they shot awry! the true cause is, STELLA look'd on, and from her heavenly face VI. "In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address, While with the people's shouts (I must confess) Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride When Cupid having me (his slave) descried 'What now, Sir Fool! said he: I would no less: VII. "No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame; VIII. "LOVE still a boy, and oft a wanton, is, But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear IX. "I never drank of Aganippe well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, And muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; Some do I hear of poet's fury tell, But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it; I am no pick-purse of another's wit. How falls it, then, that with so smooth an ease 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- XI. "Oh happy Thames, that didst my STELLA bear, XII. "Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be; By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot; Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, Of the foregoing, the first, the second, and the last sonnet are my favourites. But the general beauty of them all is, nat they are so perfectly characteristical. The spirit of "learning and of chivalry"—of which union Spenser has entitled Sydney to have been the "president"-shines through them. I confess I can see nothing of the "jejune" or "frigid" 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 tuned to the trumpet; or tempered (as himself expresses it) to "tramp ling horses' feet." They abound in felicitous phrases |