Under the rigour of his judgment just;

His seat is Truth, to which the faithful trust,
From whence proceed her beams so pure and bright
That all about him sheddeth glorious light.

Ah, then, my hungry soul! which long hast fed
On idle fancies of thy foolish thought,

And, with false beauty's flattering bait misled,
Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought,

Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought
But late repentance through thy follies' prief1;
Ah! cease to gaze on matter of thy grief:

And look at last up to that Sovereign Light,
From whose pure beams all perfect beauty springs,
That kindleth love in every godly spright
Even the love of God; which loathing brings
Of this vile world and these gay-seeming things;
With whose sweet pleasures being so possessed,
Thy straying thoughts henceforth forever rest.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (?).

(1552-1618.)

Most of the poems which pass under the name of Raleigh, like Pilgrim to Pilgrim, are of quite uncertain ascription. His career as author began about 1576. Even Such is Time is said by Oldys to have been written by Raleigh on the eve of his execution. His poems are included in the volume of Courtly Poets, edited by Rev. J. Hannah (Aldine Poets, 1870).

S

PILGRIM TO PILGRIM.

As you came from the holy land

Met

Of Walsinghame,

you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
1 1 proof trial.

How should I know your true love,

That have met many one,

As I came from the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?

She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;

There is none hath a form so divine

On the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,

Such an angelic face,

Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear,

By her gait, by her grace.

She hath left me here all alone,

All alone, as unknown,

Who sometimes did me lead with herself,

And me loved as her own.

What's the cause that she leaves you alone,

And a new way doth take,

Who loved you once as her own,
And her joy did you make?

I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see:
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.

Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.

His desire is a dureless content,

And a trustless joy;

He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.

Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abused,

Under which many childish desires

And conceits are excused.

But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.

EVEN SUCH IS TIME.

EVEN such is time, that takes in trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

(1554-1586.)

Sidney's Lyrics are gathered into a volume in the series of Rhys' Lyric Poets. The first selection below is found in the early editions of the Arcadia among other poems of Sidney's not germane to that work. Dr. Grosart ascribes it positively to the "Astrophel and Stella" series. The second occurs in the Arcadia, 1590, written 1580, although it first appears in slightly different form as quoted in Puttenham's Arte of English Poesie, 1589. The sonnets of the "Astrophel and Stella" series were written probably before 1582, and appeared in 1591. Dr. Grosart's editions of Sidney's Complete Poems are the standard modern editions.

PHILOMELA.

THE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,

While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making,
And mournfully bewailing,

Her throat in tunes expresseth

What grief her breast oppresseth,

For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

HEART-EXCHANGE.

MY true-love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound receivèd from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

TO THE MOON.

WITH 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!
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 languisht grace,

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
That, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd 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?

LOVE IS ENOUGH.

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 o'ercharged with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,

Nor do aspire to Cæsar's 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.

INSPIRATION.

I

NEVER drank of Aganippe well,

Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,

And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell
Poor layman 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 pick-purse of another's wit.

How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease