A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret, passion :
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

MY PILGRIMAGE.

Supposed to have been written by Raleigh in 1603, in the interval between his condemnation and his temporary respite. It manifests great mental excitement; and alternates in rising to sublimity and sinking to bathos. There are several different versions of this extraordinary production.

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,

My staff of faith to walk upon ; My scrip of joy, immortal diet;

My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory, hope's true gauge,
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!
Blood must be my body's balmer,

No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;
Over the silver mountains

Where spring the nectar fountains:
There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,

And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy, blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them first

To quench their thirst,

And taste of nectar's suckets

At those clear wells

Where sweetness dwells

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blessed paths we'll travel,
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly doors.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless' hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;

1 Alluding to the common custom of bribery. Raleigh had himself given and taken bribes.

No conscience molten into gold,

No forged accuser,' bought or sold,
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,—
For there Christ is the King's Attorney;2
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees;

And when the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,

'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,-
Not with a bribéd lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea:
That since my flesh must die so soon,

And want a head to dine next noon,*

Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head!
Then am I, like a palmer, fit

To tread those blest paths which before I writ:
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

Sir Philip Sidney.

Sidney (1554-1586) was born at Penshurst, in Kent. He takes his rank in English literary history rather as a prose writer than as a poet. The high repute in which his verses were held among his contemporaries was due chiefly to what was esteemed their scholarly style; but in these days we should call it artificial. Some of his sonnets, however, are graceful in expression and noble in thought. "The best of them," says Charles Lamb, "are among the very best of their sort. The verse runs off swiftly and gallantly, and might have been tuned to the trumpet." In 1586 Sidney took a command in the War in the Netherlands. His death occurred in the autumn of the same year, from wounds received at the assault of Zutphen. He was then only thirty-two years of age.

ON DYING.

Since Nature's works be good, and death doth serve As Nature's work, why should we fear to die? Since fear is vain but when it may preserve, Why should we fear that which we cannot fly? Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears, Disarming human minds of native might;

1 Like Lord Cobham, at his trial in re Arabella Stuart.

2 Unlike Coke, the King's attorney in Raleigh's trial.

3 Angel-a play upon the word, alluding to the coin called an "angel."

Alluding to his impending execution.

While each conceit an ugly figure bears,

Which were not evil, well viewed in reason's light.
Our only eyes, which dimmed with passion be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day-
Let them be cleared, and now begin to see
Our life is but a step in dusty way:
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind;
Since this we feel, great loss we cannot find.

TRUE BEAUTY VIRTUE IS.

It is most true that eyes are formed to serve
The inward light, and that the heavenly part
Ought to be King, from whose rules who do

swerve,

Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart.

It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart

An image is, which for ourselves we carve,
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart,

Till that good god make church and churchmen

starve.

True, that True Beauty Virtue is indeed, Whereof this Beauty can be but a shade Which elements with mortal mixture breed. True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move: True; and yet true-that I must Stella love.

17

And of some sent from the 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
Shot forth the beams that made so fair my race.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

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'
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw;
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease;

I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth 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 thine by right,
Move not thine heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

ETERNAL LOVE.

Leave me, O Love which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my Mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see!
Oh, take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death;
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy Life in me!

A DITTY.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me 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:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

ON OBTAINING A PRIZE AT A TOURNAMENT.

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

Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke.

Greville (1554-1628) was born at Alcaster, in Warwickshire. He was the school-mate and intimate friend of Sir Philip Sidney, and a court favorite during the reigns of Elizabeth, James, and Charles I. At the age of seven

1 Press, crowd.

ty-four he was assassinated by a crazy servant. Southey calls Greville "the most difficult" of English poets, and says: "No other writer of this or any other country appears to have reflected more deeply on momentous subjects." Charles Lamb says of his verse: "Whether we look into his plays, or his most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect." His eulogy on Philip Sidney is a noble tribute, full of condensed thought.

REALITY OF A TRUE RELIGION.
FROM THE "TREATISE OF RELIGION."

For sure in all kinds of hypocrisy

No bodies yet are found of constant being;
No uniform, no stable mystery,

No inward nature, but an outward seeming;
No solid truth, no virtue, holiness,

But types of these, which time makes more or less.

And from these springs strange inundations flow,
To drown the sea-marks of humanity,
With massacres, conspiracy, treason, woe,
By sects and schisms profaning Deity:

Besides, with furies, fiends, earth, air, and hell,
They fit, and teach confusion to rebel.

But, as there lives a true God in the heaven,
So is there true religion here on earth:
By nature? No, by grace; not got, but given;
Inspired, not taught; from God a second birth;
God dwelleth near about us, even within,
Working the goodness, censuring the sin.

Such as we are to him, to us is he;
Without God there was no man ever good;
Divine the author and the matter be,

Where goodness must be wrought in flesh and blood:

Religion stands not in corrupted things,

But virtues that descend have heavenly wings.

FROM "LINES ON THE DEATH OF PHILIP SIDNEY."

Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Stalled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age,

Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,

Euraged I write I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigor's tears abound, And Envy strangely rues his end in whom no fault she found;

Knowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slain her knight,

Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight.

He was-wo worth that word!-to each well-thinking mind

A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined,

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking

dreams!

Farewell, sometimes enjoyéd joy, eclipséd are thy

beams!

Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts which quietness brings forth!

And farewell, friendship's sacred league, uniting minds of worth!

And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds,

And all sports which for life's restore variety assigns;

Let all that sweet is, void! In me no mirth may dwell!

Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell!

George Chapman.

Chapman (1557-1634) wrote translations, plays, and poems. His translation of Homer, in fourteen-syllable rhymed measure, is a remarkable production. From Lord Houghton's edition of the Poetical Works of John Keats, we learn that the fine folio edition of Chapman's translation of Homer had been lent to Mr. Charles Cowden Clarke, and he and Keats sat up till daylight over their new acquisition; Keats shouting with delight as some passage of especial energy struck his imagination. At ten o'clock the next morning, Mr. Clarke found this sonnet by Keats on his breakfast-table.

"Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told,
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle ey23
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien."

In his youth Chapman had for contemporaries and fellow-workers Spenser, Sidney, Shakspeare, Daniel, and Marlowe. He regarded poesy as a "divine discipline," rather than as a pastime, and in his most elevated mood he appears dignified, self-reliant, reflective, and, above all, conspicuously honest.

OF SUDDEN DEATH.

What action wouldst thou wish to have in hand
If sudden death should come for his command?
I would be doing good to most good men
That most did need, or to their children,
And in advice (to make them their true heirs)
I would be giving up my soul to theirs.
To which effect if Death should find me given,
I would, with both my hands held up to heaven,
Make these my last words to my Deity:
"Those faculties Thou hast bestowed on me
To understand Thy government and will,
I have, in all fit actions, offered still
To Thy divine acceptance; and, as far
As I had influence from Thy bounty's star,
I have made good Thy form infused in me;
The anticipations given me naturally

I have, with all my study, art, aud prayer,
Fitted to every object and affair

My life presented and my knowledge taught.
My poor sail, as it hath been ever fraught
With Thy free goodness, hath been ballast too
With all my gratitude. What is to do,
Supply it, sacred Saviour; Thy high grace
In my poor gifts, receive again, and place
Where it shall please Thee; Thy gifts never die,
But, having brought one to felicity,
Descend again, and help another up."

GIVE ME A SPIRIT.

19

Give me a Spirit that on life's rough sea
Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind,
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack,
And his rapt ship run on her side so low
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air:
There is no danger to a man that knows
What life and death is; there's not any law
Exceeds his knowledge, neither is it needful
That he should stoop to any other law:
He goes before them, and commands them all,
That to himself is a law rational.

Robert Greene.

If only for one stanza that he wrote, Robert Greene (1560-1592), playwright and poet, deserves a mention. He was born in Norfolk, got a degree at Cambridge in 1578, travelled in Italy and Spain, and wasted his patrimony in dissipation. Returning home, he betook himself to literature as a means of livelihood. He died in great poverty and friendlessness. From his last book, "The Groat's-worth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance," we quote the following:

THE HIGHEST STANDARD.

Thou must not undervalue what thou hast,
In weighing it with that which more is graced.
The worth that weigheth inward should not long
For outward prices. This should make thee strong
In thy close value: naught so good can be
As that which lasts good betwixt God and thee.
Remember thine own verse: Should heaven turn hell
For deeds well done, I would do ever well.