Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonisht lyke to those which red
Medusaes mazeful hed.

There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,
Regard of honour, and mild modesty.; -
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,
And giveth lawes alone,

The which the base affections doe obay,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,
And unrevealed pleasures,

Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,
That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,

Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behove,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She commeth in, before th' Almighties view;
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,

When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces :

Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make;
And let the roring Organs loudly play

The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,

The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,

That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne
Like crimsin dyde in grayne:

That even th' Angels, which continually
About the sacred Altare doe remaine,

Forget their service and about her fly,

Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,
The more they on it stare.

- But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsownd.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band!

Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,

That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe;

Bring home the triumph of our victory :

Bring home with you the glory of her gaine

With joyance bring her and with jollity.

Never had man more joyfull day then this,

Whom heaven would heape with blis,

Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;

This day for ever to me holy is.

Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,

Poure out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,

And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine;

And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,

For they can doo it best:

The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,

To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
With Barnaby the bright,

From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordained was,

To chose the longest day in all the yeare,
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:
Yet never day so long, but late would passe.
Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,
And bonefiers make all day;

And daunce about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home,
Within the Westerne fome :

Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.

- Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love!
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight

Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing,

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadful darknesse lend desired light;
And all ye powers which in the same remayne,
More then we men can fayne !

Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,

And happy influence upon us raine,

That we may raise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possesse
With lasting happinesse,

Up to your haughty pallaces may mount;
And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit,
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring!

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[PHILIP SIDNEY was the eldest son of the well-known Sir Henry Sidney, President of Wales and Lord Deputy of Ireland under Elizabeth, and through his mother, Lady Mary Dudley, grandson of the Duke of Northumberland executed in 1553, and nephew of Lord Leicester. He was born at Penshurst Nov. 29, 1554; he entered Shrewsbury School Oct. 17, 1564, on the same day as his friend and biographer Fulke Greville, afterwards Lord Brooke; and in 1568 he was sent to Christ Church, Oxford. From May 1572 to May 1575 Sidney was abroad, in France, Germany, and Italy; sheltered in Sir Francis Walsingham's house in Paris on the night of St. Bartholomew, and spending a considerable time at Frankfort with Hubert Languet the reformer, afterwards his constant correspondent. In 1575 he appeared at Elizabeth's Court, and took part in the Kenilworth progress. In 1577 he was sent as English ambassador to Rodolph II at Prague, returning the same year. He seems to have made acquaintance with Harvey and Spenser in 1578, and in 1580, while he was in retirement at Penshurst, after his letter of remonstrance to the Queen on the Anjou match, he and his sister, the well-known Countess of Pembroke, produced a joint poetical version of the Psalms, and the Arcadia was begun (published 1590). He returned to Court in the autumn of 1580, and the Astrophel and Stella sonnets (published 1591) probably date from the following year. The Apologie for Poetrie was written in or about 1581 (the first known edition is that of London 1595). Sidney was knighted in the same year. In 1583 he married Frances, daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and was for the second time a member of Parliament. In Nov. 1584 he was appointed governor of Flushing, and nearly two years later, on Sept. 22, 1586, received his fatal wound at the battle of Zutphen. A complete edition of Sidney's poems was published by the Rev. A. B. Grosart, London, 1877.]

The extraordinary effect produced by Sidney's personality upon English imagination has been in many respects very little weakened by time. His name is almost as suggestive now as it was to his own generation of a typical brilliancy and charm, clouded by premature death and scarcely to be matched again. This unique impression however with which the figure of 'Astrophel' is still charged, is to a large extent independent of the causes for it which influenced his contemporaries. We are for the most part moved by Sidney's life, by the romance of it or its political and historical interest. His youth, his love-story, his death,—these are what