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Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham,
His cloak of black all piled,' 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.


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

1 Piled:' bare.

promoted by her; and that he has written some pretty verses of an amatory kind.


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 rind,
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.



Why didst thou raise such woeful wai),
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.

Hun her then, not weep or moan; Houard their careless heart, wwise the day that thus made known

uniess hold on woman's art; din ips can gloze and gain such root, siti gentle youth hath hope of fruit.


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.

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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.


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 7, 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 eyepleasing 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

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