Mine eies see ought that may content them, since thy grave
My onely treasure hides, the joyes of my poore hart?
As here with thee on earth I liv’d, even so equall 115
Methinkes it were with thee in heav’n I did abide:
And as our troubles all we here on earth did part,
So reason would that there of thy most happie state
I had my share. Alas! if thou my trustie guide
Were wont to be, how canst thou leave me thus alone 120
In darknesse and astray, weake, wearie, desolate,
Plung’d in a world of woe, refusing for to take
Me with thee to the place of rest where thou art gone?’
This said, she held her peace, for sorrow tide her toong;
And insteed of more words, seemd that her eies a lake 125
Of teares had bene, they flow’d so plenteously therefro:
And with her sobs and sighs th’ aire round about her roong.
If Venus, when she waild her deare Adonis slaine,
Ought moov’d in thy fiers hart compassion of her woe,
His noble sisters plaints, her sighes and teares emong, 130
Would sure have made thee milde, and inly rue her paine.
Aurora halfe so faire her selfe did never show,
When from old Tithons bed shee weeping did arise.
The blinded archer-boy, like larke in showre of raine,
Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend 135
Under those cristall drops which fell from her faire eies,
And at their brightest beames him proynd in lovely wise.
Yet sorie for her grief, which he could not amend,
The gentle boy gan wipe her eies, and clear those lights,
Those lights through which his glory and his conquests shine. 140
The Graces tuckt her hair, which hung like threds of gold,
Along her yvorie brest, the treasure of delights.
All things with her to weep, it seemed, did encline,
The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold.
The aire did help them mourne, with dark clouds, raine, and mist, 145
Forbearing many a day to cleare it selfe againe;
Which made them eftsoones feare the daies of Pirrha shold
Of creatures spoile the earth, their fatall threds untwist.
For Phœbus gladsome raies were wished for in vaine,
And with her quivering light Latonas daughter faire, 150
And Charles-waine eke refus’d to be the shipmans guide.
On Neptune warre was made by Aeolus and his traine,
Who, letting loose the winds, tost and tormented th’ aire,
So that on ev’ry coast men shipwrack did abide,
Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves, 155
And such as came to shoare were beaten with despaire.
The Medwaies silver streames, that wont so still to slide,
Were troubled now and wrothe: whose hidden hollow caves
Along his banks, with fog then shrowded from mans eye,
Ay ‘Phillip!’ did resownd, aie ‘Phillip!’ they did crie. 160
His nimphs were seen no more (thogh custom stil it craves)
With haire spred to the wynd themselves to bath or sport,
Or with the hooke or net, barefooted wantonly,
The pleasant daintie fish to entangle or deceive.
The shepheards left their wonted places of resort; 165
Their bagpipes now were still; their loving mery layes
Were quite forgot; and now their flocks men might perceive
To wander and to straie, all carelesly neglect:
And in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and dayes
Nought els was to be heard, but woes, complaints, and mone. 170
But thou (O blessed soule) doest haply not respect
These teares we shead, though full of loving pure affect,
Having affixt thine eyes on that most glorious throne,
Where full of majestie the High Creator reignes:
In whose bright shining face thy joyes are all complete; 175
Whose love kindles thy spright; where, happie alwaies one,
Thou liv’st in blis that earthly passion never staines;
Where from the purest spring the sacred nectar sweete
Is thy continuall drinke; where thou doest gather now
Of well emploied life th’ inestimable gaines. 180
There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place,
And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy vertue bow,
And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most.
In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace,
A chaire of gold he setts to thee, and there doth tell 185
Thy noble acts arew, whereby even they that boast
Themselves of auncient fame, as Pirrhus, Hanniball,
Scipio, and Cæsar, with the rest that did excell
In martiall prowesse, high thy glorie do admire.
All haile, therefore, O worthie Phillip immortall, 190
The flowre of Sydneyes race, the honour of thy name!
Whose worthie praise to sing my Muses not aspire,
But sorrowfull and sad these teares to thee let fall,
Yet wish their verses might so farre and wide thy fame
Extend, that envies rage, nor time, might end the same. 195
A Pastorall Aeglogue upon the Death of Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight, &c.
[By Lodowick Bryskett.]
LYCON. COLIN.
COLIN, well fits thy sad cheare this sad stownd,
This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine
This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres.
Hear’st thou the Orown? how with hollow sownd
He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine, 5
And seemes to say unto the fading flowres
Along his bankes, unto the bared trees,
‘Phillisides is dead’? Up, jolly swaine,
Thou that with skill canst tune a dolefull lay,
Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth freese, 10
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I beare, though rude: but as I may,
With sobs and sighes I second will thy song,
And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.
Colin. Ah, Lycon, Lycon! what need skill, to teach 15
A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints? How long
Hath the pore turtle gon to school (weenest thou)
To learne to mourne her lost make? No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to waile.
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now? 20
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile
With hanging head to shew a heavie cheare.
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes
Himselfe of late? Did any cheerfull note 25
Come to thine eares, or gladsome sight appeare
Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre?
Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing teares?
Sith, then, it seemeth each thing, to his powre, 30
Doth us invite to make a sad consort,
Come, let us joyne our mournfull song with theirs.
Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce
Thy voice, and Eccho will our words report.
Lycon. Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses frame, 35
That others farre excell, yet will I force
My selfe to answere thee the best I can,
And honor my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit
In secret shade or cave, vouchsafe (O Pan) 40
To pardon me, and here this h
ard constraint
With patience while I sing, and pittie it.
And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell
In these wilde woods, if ever piteous plaint
We did endite, or taught a wofull minde 45
With words of pure affect his griefe to tell,
Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on,
And I will follow thee, though farre behinde.
Colin. Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death,
O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion, 50
When shalt thou see emong thy shepheards all,
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath
Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;
Curteous, valiant, and liberall.
Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire 55
Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hill,
And her faire face bent sadly downe, doth send
A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the heav’ns despightfull, envious,
Cruell his fate, that made so short an end 60
Of that same life, well worthie to have bene
Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.
The Nymphs and Oreades her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene,
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests, 65
Accuse the direfull dart that Death sent out
To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame,
That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their cristall springs, where they wont frame 70
Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,
To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.
And now the hollow caves, where horror darke
Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire,
They seeke; and there in mourning spend their time 75
With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and barke,
And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.
Lycon. Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme!
Why should my toong expresse thee? Who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint, 80
Lycon unfortunate? What spitefull fate,
What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort, of thy onely stay?
Where is become thy wonted happie state,
(Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale, 85
Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne way,
Along the bankes of many silver streames,
Thou with him yodest, and with him didst scale
The craggie rocks of th’ Alpes and Appenine,
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames 90
Of vertue kindled in his noble brest,
Which after did so gloriously forth shine?
But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are
All suddeinly, and death hath them opprest.
Loe Father Neptune, with sad countenance, 95
How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare,
Yonder, where th’ Ocean with his rolling waves
The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance)
Of Dover cliffes. His sacred skirt about
The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves 100
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,
The fruitfull Severne with the rest are come
To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to see
The dolefull sight, and sad pomp funerall 105
Of the dead corps passing through his kingdome.
And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown’d,
With wofull shrikes salute him, great and small.
Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare
Narcissus, their last accents doth resownd. 110
Colin. Phillisides is dead. O lucklesse age,
O widow world! O brookes and fountains cleere,
O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong
With his sweet caroling, which could asswage
The fiercest wrath of tygre or of beare; 115
Ye Silvans, Fawnes, and Satyres, that emong
These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe;
Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden heare,
That oft have left your purest cristall springs
To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe 120
Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts:
Alas! who now is left that like him sings?
When shall you heare againe like harmonie?
So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts?
Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives 125
The name of Stella, in yonder bay tree.
Happie name, happie tree! faire may you grow,
And spred your sacred branch, which honor gives
To famous emperours, and poets crowne.
Unhappie flock, that wander scattred now, 130
What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane,
Forsake your food, and hang your heads adowne?
For such a shepheard never shall you guide,
Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane.
Lycon. Phillisides is dead. O happie sprite, 135
That now in heav’n with blessed soules doest bide,
Looke down a while from where thou sitst above,
And see how busie shepheards be to endite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrowes to declare,
And gratefull memory of their kynd love. 140
Behold my selfe with Colin, gentle swaine,
(Whose lerned muse thou cherisht most whyleare)
Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease
The inward torment and tormenting paine,
That thy departure to us both hath bred; 145
Ne can each others sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,
And withred grasse with cypres boughes bespred;
Behold these floures which on thy grave we strew;
Which, faded, shew the givers faded state, 150
(Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and pure)
Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose praiers importune shall the heav’ns for ay,
That to thy ashes rest they may assure;
That learnedst shepheards honor may thy name 155
With yeerly praises, and the Nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres;
And that for ever may endure thy fame.
Colin. The sun (lo!) hastned hath his face to steep
In western waves; and th’ aire with stormy showres 160
Warnes us to drive homewards our silly sheep.
Lycon, lett ‘s rise, and take of them good keep.
Virtute summa: cætera fortuna.
L. B.
An Elegie, or Friends Passion, for His Astrophill
WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOUR OF FLUSHING
[By Matthew Roydon.]
AS then, no winde at all there blew,
No swelling cloude accloid the aire;
The skie, like glasse of watchet hew,
Reflected Phœbus golden haire;
The garnisht tree no pendant stird, 5
No voice was heard of anie bird.
There might you see the burly beare,
The lion king, the elephant;
The maiden unicorne was there,
So was Acteons horned plant, 10
And what of wilde or tame are found
Were coucht in order on the ground.
Alcides speckled poplar tree,
The palme that monarchs do obtaine,
With love juice staind, the mulberie, 15
The fruit that dewes the po
ets braine,
And Phillis philbert there away,
Comparde with mirtle and the bay,
The tree that coffins doth adorne,
With stately height threatning the skie, 20
And for the bed of love forlorne,
The blacke and dolefull ebonie,
All in a circle compast were,
Like to an amphitheater.
Upon the branches of those trees 25
The airie winged people sat,
Distinguished in od degrees,
One sort is this, another that.
Here Philomell, that knowes full well
What force and wit in love doth dwell. 30
The skiebred egle, roiall bird,
Percht there upon an oke above;
The turtle by him never stird,
Example of immortall love;
The swan that sings about to dy, 35
Leaving Meander, stood thereby.
And that which was of woonder most,
The phœnix left sweet Arabie,
And on a cædar in this coast
Built up her tombe of spicerie, 40
As I conjecture by the same,
Preparde to take her dying flame.
In midst and center of this plot,
I saw one groveling on the grasse:
A man or stone, I knew not that: 45
No stone; of man the figure was,
And yet I could not count him one,
More than the image made of stone.
At length I might perceive him reare
His bodie on his elbow end: 50
Earthly and pale with gastly cheare,
Upon his knees he upward tend,
Seeming like one in uncouth stound,
To be ascending out the ground.
A grievous sigh forthwith he throwes, 55
As might have torne the vitall strings;
Then down his cheeks the teares so flows,
As doth the streame of many springs.
So thunder rends the cloud in twaine,
And makes a passage for the raine. 60
Incontinent, with trembling sound
He wofully gan to complaine;
Such were the accents as might wound,
And teare a diamond rocke in twaine:
After his throbs did somewhat stay, 65
Thus heavily he gan to say.
‘O sunne,’ said he, seeing the sunne,
‘On wretched me why dost thou shine?
My star is falne, my comfort done,
Out is the apple of my eine: 70
Shine upon those possesse delight,
And let me live in endlesse night.
‘O griefe that liest upon my soule,
As heavie as a mount of lead,
The remnant of my life controll, 75
Consort me quickly with the dead;
Complete Works of Edmund Spenser Page 152