Chapter 17 SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY

SYDNEYS 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 Commonwealthsman. 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 thename 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 mature years. Those of Sydney, which I am about to produce, were written in the very hey-day of his blood. They are stuck full of amorous fancies -- far-fetched conceits, befitting his occupation; for True Love thinks no labor 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 praecordia frigins, must not have so damped our faculties, as to take away our recovery 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 Sydney love to express its fancies by. serve for the lov es of Tibullus, or the dear Author of the Schoolmistress; for passions that creep and whine in Elegies and Pastoral Ballads. I am sure Milton 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 apostrophise a singing-girl: --

Angelus unicuique suus (sic credit gentes) Obtigit aetheriis ales ab ordinibus. Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major, Nam tua praesentem vox sonat ipsa Deum? Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia coeli, Per tua secreto guttura serpit agens; Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda Sensim immortal assescere posse sono. QUOD SI CUNCTA QUIDEM DEUS EST, PER CUNCTAQUE FUSUS, IN TE UNA LOQUITUR, CAETERA 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.

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst 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? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feels a lovers case; I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descriptions. 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? The last line of this poem is a little obscured by transposition. He means, Do they call ungratefulness there a virtue? Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoners 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 sweet 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 thinner by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stellas image see. III The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes, When those same fumes of melancholy rise, With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess. Some, that know how my spring I did address, Deem that my muse some fruit of knowledge plies, Others, because the prince my service tries Think, that I think state errors to redress, But harder judges judge, ambitions rage,

Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place Holds my young brain captivated in gold cage. O fools, or over-wise! alas, the race Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start, But only Stellas eyes, and Stellas heart. IV Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry, To them that would make speech of speech arise, They deem, and of their doom the rumor flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others do despise, Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,

Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass: But one worse fault -- Ambition -- I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Unseen, unheard, -- while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stellas grace. V Having this day, my horse, my hand, my lance, Guided so well that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy -- France, Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Townsfolk my strength, a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;

Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them, who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is, STELLA looked on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. VI In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address, While with the peoples shouts (I must confess) Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my veins with pride -- When Cupid, having me (his slave) described In Marss livery, prancing in the press, "What now, Sir Fool!" said he; "I would no less:

Look here, I say." I looked, and STELLA spied, Who hard by made a window send forth light. My heart then quakd, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule, that other to fight; Nor trumpets sound I heard, nor friendly cries. My foe came on, and beat the air for me -- Till that her blush made me my shame to see. VII No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; O give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk oer-charged with brain against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps, but of lost labor, trace;

Let all the earth with scorn recount my case -- But do not will me from my love to fly. I do not envy Aristotles wit, Nor do aspire to Caesars bleeding fame; Nor aught do care, though some above me sit; Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. VIII Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is, Schooled only by his mothers tender eye; What wonder then, if he his lesson miss, When for so soft a rod dear play he try? And yet my STAR, because a sugar kiss In sport I sucked, while she slept did lie, Doth lour, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I. But no `scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear In beauty's throne -- see now, who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain? O heavnly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That angers self I needs must kiss again. IX I never drank of Aganippe well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; Poor lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit. Some do I hear of Poets fury tell, But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it; And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, I am no pickpurse of anothers wit. How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? Guess me the cause -- what is it thus ? -- fye, no. Or so ? -- much less. How then ? sure thus it is, My lips are sweet, inspired with STELLAs kiss. 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 -- Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame. Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sires revenge, join with a kingdoms gain; And, and by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame, That balance weighed what Sword did late obtain. Nor that he made the Floure-de-luce so `fraid, Though strongly hedged of bloody Lions paws That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause -- But only, for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown rather than fail his love. XI O happy Thames, that didst my STELLA bear, I saw myself, with many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, Joys livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine; The boat for joy could not to dance for bear, While wanton winds, with beauty so divine Ravishd, stayd not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine. And fain those Aeols youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so disheveld, blushd; from window I With sight thereof cried out, O fair disgrace, Let honors self to thee grant highest place! XII Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be; And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses feet, More soft than to a chamber melody, -- Now blessed You bear onward blessed Me To Her, where I my heart safe left shall meet, My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honored by public heed, By no encroachment wrongd, nor time forgot; Nor blamd for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed. And that you know, I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, Hundreds of years you STELLAS feet may kiss. Of the forthcoming, the first, the second, and the last sonnet, are my favourites. But the general beauty of them all is, that they are so perfectly characteristic. 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 "trampling horses feet." They abound in felicitous phrases - - O heavnly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy lips 8th Sonnet -------Sweet pillows, sweetest bed; A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; A rosy garland, and a weary head. 2nd Sonnet -------That sweet enemy, -- France -- 5th Sonnet, But they are not rich in words only, in vague and unlocalized feelings -- the failing too much of some poetry of the present day they are full, material, and circumstantiated. Time and place appropriates every one of them. It is not a fever of passion wasting itself upon a thin diet of dainty words, but a transcendent passion pervading and illuminating action, pursuits, studies, feats of arms, the opinions of contemporaries and his judgment of them. date to them; marks the when and where they were written. I have dwelled the longer upon what I conceive the merit of these poems, because I have been hurt by the wantonness (I wish I could treat it by a gentler name) with which WH takes every occasion of insulting the memory of Sir Philip Sydney. But the decisions of the Author of Table Talk, &c., (most profound and subtle where they are, as for the most part, just) are more safely to be relied upon, on subjects and authors he has a partiality for, than on such as he has conceived an accidental prejudice against. Milton wrote Sonnets, and was a kinghater; and it was congenial perhaps to sacrifice a courtier to a patron. But I was unwilling to lose a fine idea from my mind. , sentiments, and poetical delicacies of character, scattered all over the Arcadia (spite of some stiffness and encumberment), justify to me the character which his contemporaries have left us of the writer. I cannot think with the Critic, that Sir Philip Sydney was that opprobious thing which a f oolish nobleman in his insolent hostility chose to term him. I call to mind the epitaph made on him, to guide me to juster thoughts of him; and I repose upon the beautiful lines in the "Friends Passion for his Astrophel," printed with the Elegies of Spenser and others. You knew -- who knew not Astrophel? (That I should live to say I knew, And have not in possession still!) -- Things known permit me to renew -- Of him you know his merit such, I cannot Say -- you hear -- too much. 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, That taught him sing, to write, and say. When he descended down the mount, His personality seemed most divine: A thousand graces one might count Upon his lovely lovely 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 comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books -- I trow that countnance cannot lye, Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. ***** Above all others this is he, Which erst approved in his song, That love and honor 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 Poets brain with finer store. He wrote of Love with high conceit, And beauty reared above her height. Or let any one read the deeper sorrows (grief running into rage) in the Poem, -- the last in the collection accompanying the above, -- which from internal testimony I believe to be Lord Brookes, -- beginning with "Silence augmenteth grief , "and then seriously ask himself, whether the subject of such absorbing and confound regrets could have been that thing which Lord Oxford termed him.