Chapter 12

The carrion crow, that loathsome beast, Which cries against the rain, Both for her hue, and for the rest, The devil resembleth plain: And as with guns we kill the crow, For spoiling our relief, The devil so must we o'erthrow, With gunshot of belief.

The little birds which sing so sweet, Are like the angels' voice, Which renders God His praises meet, And teach[1] us to rejoice: And as they more esteem that mirth, Than dread the night's annoy, So much we deem our days on earth But hell to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain, God grant us all His grace, And send us, after worldly pain, In heaven to have a place, When we may still enjoy that light, Which never shall decay: Lord, for thy mercy lend us might, To see that joyful day.

[1] 'Teach:' _for_ teacheth.

GOOD-NIGHT.

When thou hast spent the ling'ring day In pleasure and delight, Or after toil and weary way, Dost seek to rest at night; Unto thy pains or pleasures past, Add this one labour yet, Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast, Do not thy God forget,

But search within thy secret thoughts, What deeds did thee befall, And if thou find amiss in aught, To God for mercy call. Yea, though thou findest nought amiss Which thou canst call to mind, Yet evermore remember this, There is the more behind:

And think how well soe'er it be That thou hast spent the day, It came of God, and not of thee, So to direct thy way. Thus if thou try thy daily deeds, And pleasure in this pain, Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds, And thine shall be the gain:

But if thy sinful, sluggish eye, Will venture for to wink, Before thy wading will may try How far thy soul may sink, Beware and wake,[1] for else thy bed, Which soft and smooth is made, May heap more harm upon thy head Than blows of en'my's blade.

Thus if this pain procure thine ease, In bed as thou dost lie, Perhaps it shall not God displease, To sing thus soberly: 'I see that sleep is lent me here, To ease my weary bones, As death at last shall eke appear, To ease my grievous groans.

'My daily sports, my paunch full fed, Have caused my drowsy eye, As careless life, in quiet led, Might cause my soul to die: The stretching arms, the yawning breath, Which I to bedward use, Are patterns of the pangs of death, When life will me refuse;

'And of my bed each sundry part, In shadows, doth resemble The sundry shapes of death, whose dart Shall make my flesh to tremble. My bed it safe is, like the grave, My sheets the winding-sheet, My clothes the mould which I must have, To cover me most meet.

'The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh, To worms I can compare, Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh, And leave the bones full bare: The waking cock that early crows, To wear the night away, Puts in my mind the trump that blows Before the latter day.

'And as I rise up lustily, When sluggish sleep is past, So hope I to rise joyfully, To judgment at the last. Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep, Thus will I hope to rise, Thus will I neither wail nor weep, But sing in godly wise.

'My bones shall in this bed remain My soul in God shall trust, By whom I hope to rise again From, death and earthly dust.'

[1] 'Wake:' watch.

THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET.

This was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1527. He was educated and became distinguished at both the universities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of 'Gorboduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. Sackville was elected to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his 'Mirrour for Magistrates,' a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the illustrious unfortunates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glendower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VI., Jack Cade, the Duke of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be spoken by the characters them- selves, and with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the English 'Decameron' of doom, and the part of it extant is truly called by Campbell 'a bold and gloomy landscape, on which the sun never shines.' Sackville had coadjutors in the work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first edition of the 'Mirrour for Magistrates' appeared in 1559, and was wholly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second, which was issued in 1563, appeared the 'Induction and Legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham' from Sackville's own pen. He lays the scene in hell, and descends there under the guidance of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, for instance, of 'Old Age:'--

'Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, _His wither'd fist still knocking at Deaths door;_ Fumbling and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief--the shape and messenger of Death.'

Politics diverted Sackville from poetry. This is deeply to be regretted, as his poetic gift was of a very rare order. In 1566, on the death of his father, he was promoted to the title of Lord Buckhurst. In the fourteenth year of Elizabeth's reign he was employed by her in an embassy to Charles IX. of France. In 1587 he went as an ambassador to the United Provinces. He was subsequently made Knight of the Garter and Chancellor of Oxford. On the death of Lord Burleigh he became Lord High Treasurer of England. In March 1604 he was created Earl of Dorset by James I., but died suddenly soon after, at the council table, of a disease of the brain. He was, as a statesman, almost immaculate in reputation. Like Burke and Canning, in later days, he carried taste and literary exactitude into his political functions, and, on account of his eloquence, was called 'the Bell of the Star-Chamber.' Even in that Augustan age of our history, and in that most brilliantly intellectual Court, it may be doubted if, with the sole exception of Lord Bacon, there was a man to be compared to Thomas Sackville for genius.

ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES.

And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain:

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear, Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there; Benumb'd with speech; and, with a ghastly look, Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, His cap borne up with staring of his hair; 'Stoin'd and amaz'd at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need.

And next, within the entry of this lake, Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire; Devising means how she may vengeance take; Never in rest, till she have her desire; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or Veng'd by death to be.

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another set we met; When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Ruing, alas! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight:

His face was lean, and some deal pined away And eke his hands consumed to the bone; But what his body was I cannot say, For on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast:

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, With tender ruth on him, and on his feres, In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers; His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:

The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, But he is up, and to his work yrun; But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath; Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on, Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown, but, as a living death, So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travel's ease, the still night's fere was he, And of our life in earth the better part; Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be; Without respect, esteeming equally King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.

And next in order sad, Old Age we found: His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind; With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, As on the place where nature him assign'd To rest, when that the sisters had untwined His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life:

There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint. Rue with himself his end approaching fast, And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek!

But, an the cruel fates so fixed be That time forepast cannot return again, This one request of Jove yet prayed he That in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain, As eld, accompanied with her loathsome train, Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, He might a while yet linger forth his life,

And not so soon descend into the pit; Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, With reckless hand in grave doth cover it: Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain, In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, As he had ne'er into the world been brought:

But who had seen him sobbing how he stood Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast--as though it wrought him good To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone-- He would have mused, and marvell'd much whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain, And knows full well life doth but length his pain:

Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed; Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled,[1] and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door; Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.

And fast by him pale Malady was placed: Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone; Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone; Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one Abhorring her; her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see! We turn'd our look, and on the other side A grisly shape of Famine might we see: With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; Her body thin and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the case alone.

And that, alas! was gnawen everywhere, All full of holes; that I ne might refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade Than any substance of a creature made:

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay: Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, But eats herself as she that hath no law; Gnawing, alas! her carcase all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.

On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes, That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise As made hell-gates to shiver with the might; Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death Enthirling[2] it, to rieve her of her breath:

And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, Heavy and cold, the shape of Death aright, That daunts all earthly creatures to his law, Against whose force in vain it is to fight; No peers, nor princes, nor no mortal wight, No towns, nor realms, cities, nor strongest tower, But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:

His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took, And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook, That most of all my fears affrayed me; His body dight with nought but bones, pardy; The naked shape of man there saw I plain, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued: In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all:

Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, Consumed, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceased, Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd: His face forhew'd with wounds; and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

[1] 'Piled:' bare. [2] 'Enthirling:' piercing.

HENRY DUKE OP BUCKINGHAM IN THE INFERNAL REGIONS.

Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, His cloak of black all piled,[1] and quite forlorn, Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which of a duke had made him now her scorn; With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, Oft spread his arms, stretch'd hands he joins as fast With rueful cheer, and vapour'd eyes upcast.

His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat; His hair all torn, about the place it lain: My heart so molt to see his grief so great, As feelingly, methought, it dropp'd away: His eyes they whirl'd about withouten stay: With stormy sighs the place did so complain, As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale, And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice; At each of which he shrieked so withal, As though the heavens rived with the noise; Till at the last, recovering of his voice, Supping the tears that all his breast berain'd, On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plain'd.

[1] 'Piled:' bare.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

Of Harrington we know only that he was born in 1534 and died in 1582; that he was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth; and after the accession of the latter to the throne, was favoured and promoted by her; and that he has written some pretty verses of an amatory kind.

SONNET ON ISABELLA MARKHAM,

WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOW, IN GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED TO DIVERS IN THE COURT-YARD.

Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, ''Tis Cupid's fire;' Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek Yet not a heart to save my pain; O Venus, take thy gifts again; Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own.

VERSES ON A MOST STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO DID SORELY BEGUILE THE NOBLE KNIGHT, MY TRUE FRIEND.

I.

Why didst thou raise such woeful wail, And waste in briny tears thy days? 'Cause she that wont to flout and rail, At last gave proof of woman's ways; She did, in sooth, display the heart That might have wrought thee greater smart.

II.

Why, thank her then, not weep or moan; Let others guard their careless heart, And praise the day that thus made known The faithless hold on woman's art; Their lips can gloze and gain such root, That gentle youth hath hope of fruit.

III.

But, ere the blossom fair doth rise, To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, Creepeth disdain in canker-wise, And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast: There is no hope of all our toil; There is no fruit from such a soil.

IV.

Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er; She might have poison'd all thy life; Such wayward mind had bred thee more Of sorrow, had she proved thy wife: Leave her to meet all hopeless meed, And bless thyself that so art freed.

V.

No youth shall sue such one to win. Unmark'd by all the shining fair, Save for her pride and scorn, such sin As heart of love can never bear; Like leafless plant in blasted shade, So liveth she--a barren maid.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

All hail to Sidney!--the pink of chivalry--the hero of Zutphen--the author of the 'Arcadia,'--the gifted, courteous, genial and noble-minded man! He was born November 29, 1554, at Penshurst, Kent. His father's name was Henry. He studied at Shrewsbury, at Trinity College, Cambridge, and at Christ Church, Oxford. At the age of eighteen he set out on his travels, and, in the course of three years, visited France, Flanders, Germany, Hungary, and Italy. On his return he was introduced at Court, and became a favourite with Queen Elizabeth, who sent him on an embassy to Germany. He returned home, and shortly after had a quarrel at a tournament with Lord Oxford. But for the interference of the Queen, a duel would have taken place. Sidney was displeased at the issue of the affair, and retired, in 1580, to Wilton, in Wiltshire, where he wrote his famous 'Arcadia,'--that true prose-poem, and a work which, with all its faults, no mere sulky and spoiled child (as some have called him in the matter of this retreat) could ever have produced. This production, written as an outflow of his mind in its self-sought solitude, was never meant for publication, and did not appear till after its author's death. As it was written partly for his sister's amusement, he entitled it 'The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia.' In 1581, Sidney reappeared in Court, and distinguished himself in the jousts and tournaments celebrated in honour of the Duke of Anjou; and on the return of that prince to the Continent, he accompanied him to Antwerp. In 1583 he received the honour of knighthood. He published about this time a tract entitled 'The Defence of Poesy,' which abounds in the element the praise of which it celebrates, and which is, besides, distinguished by acuteness of argument and felicity of expression. In 1585 he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland; but Queen Elizabeth, afraid of 'losing the jewel of her times,' prevented him from accepting this honour, and prevented him also from accompanying Sir Francis Drake on an expedition against the Spanish settlements in America. In the same year, however, she made him Governor of Flushing, and subsequently General of the Cavalry, under his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, who commanded the troops sent to assist the oppressed Dutch Protestants against the Spaniards. Here our hero greatly distinguished himself, particularly when capturing, in 1586, the town of Axel. His career, however, was destined to be short. On the 22d of September of the same year he accidentally encountered a convoy of the enemy marching toward Zutphen. In the engagement which followed, his party triumphed; but their brave commander received a shot in the thigh, which shattered the bone. As he was carried from the field, overcome with thirst, he called for water, but while about to apply it to his lips, he saw a wounded soldier carried by who was eagerly eyeing the cup. Sidney, perceiving this, instantly delivered to him the water, saying, in words which would have made an ordinary man immortal, but which give Sir Philip a twofold immortality, 'Thy necessity is greater than mine.' He was carried to Arnheim, and lingered on till October 17, when he died. He was only thirty-two years of age. His death was an earthquake at home. All England wore mourning for him. Queen Elizabeth ordered his remains to be carried to London, and to receive a public funeral in St Paul's. He was identified with the land's Poetry, Politeness, and Protestantism; and all who admired any of the three, sorrowed for Sidney.

Sidney's 'Sonnets and other Poems' contain much that is quaint, but also much that is beautiful and true; yet they are the least poetical of his works. His 'Arcadia' is a glorious unfinished and unpolished wilderness of fancy. It is a vineyard, the scattered clusters of which are so heavy, that, like the grapes of Eshcol of old, they must be carried on a staff. Here is one of those rich clusters:--

'There were hills, which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so, too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; _here a shepherd's boy, piping as though he should never be old;_ there a young shepherdess, knitting and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'

From 'The Defence of Poesy' we could cull, did space permit, a hundred passages even superior to the above, full of dexterous reasoning, splendid rhetoric, and subtle fancy, and substantiating all that has been said in favour of Sir Philip Sidney's accomplishments, chivalric earnestness, and richly-endowed genius.

TO SLEEP.

FROM THE 'ARCADIA.'

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[1] Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so.