Or where fhall I unfold my inward paine,
That my enriven heart may find reliefe !
Shall I unto the heavenly powres it show?
Or unto earthly men that dwell below?

To heavens? ah! they alas! the authors were,
And workers of my unremédied wo:
For they foresee what to us happens here,
And they forefaw, yet fuffred this be fo.

5

10

From them comes good, from them comes alfo il, That which they made, who can them warne to fpill!

To men? ah! they alas like wretched bee,
And fubiect to the heavens ordinance:

Bound to abide what ever they decree,

Their best redreffe, is their best sufferance.

15

How then can they, like wretched, comfort mee, The which no leffe need comforted to bee?

Then to my felfe will I my forrow mourne,
Sith none alive like forrowfull remaines :
And to my felfe my plaints fhall back retourne,
To pay their ufury with doubled paines.

The woods, the hills, the rivers, shall refound
The mournfull accent of my forrowes ground.

Woods, hills, and rivers, now are defolate,
Sith he is gone the which them all did grace:
And all the fields do waile their widow state,
Sith death their faireft flowre did late deface,

20

25

The fairest flowre in field that ever grew,
Was Aftrophel; that was, we all may rew.

30

What cruell hand of curfed foe unknowne,
Hath cropt the ftalke which bore fo faire a flowre?
Untimely cropt, before it well were growne,
And cleane defaced in untimely howre.

Great loffe to all that ever him did fee,
Great loffe to all, but greateft loffe to mee!

35

Breake now your gyrlonds, O ye fhepheards laffes,
Sith the faire flowre, which them adornd, is gon:
The flowre, which them adornd, is gone to ashes,
Never againe let laffe put gyrlond on.

In ftead of gyrlond, weare fad Cypres nowe,
And bitter Elder, broken from the bowe.

Ne ever fing the love-layes which he made,
Who ever made fuch layes of love as hee?
Ne ever read the riddles, which he fayd
Unto your felves, to make you mery glee.
Your mery glee is now laid all abed,
Your mery maker now alaffe! is dead.

Death, the devourer of all worlds delight,
Hath robbed you, and reft fro me my ioy:
Both you and me, and all the world he quight
Hath robd of ioyance, and left fad annoy.

40

45

50

Ioy of the world, and fhepheards pride was hee!

Shepheards, hope never like againe to fee!

Oh Death! that haft us of fuch riches reft,
Tell us at leaft, what haft thou with it done?
What is become of him who'

Is but the fhadow of his like

vre here left

gone?

55

Scarfe like the fhadow of that which he was, Nought like, but that he like a shade did pas. 60

But that immortall fpirit, which was deckt
With all the dowries of celeftiall grace,

By foveraine choyce from th' hevenly quires felect,
And lineally deriv'd from Angels race,
O! what is now of it become aread.
Ay me, can fo divine a thing be dead?

Ah! no it is not dead, ne can it die,
But lives for aie, in blisfull Paradise :

Where like a new-borne babe it soft doth lie,
In bed of lillies wrapt in tender wife;

And compast all about with roses sweet,
And daintie violets from head to feet.

There thousand birds all of celestiall brood,
To him do fweetly caroll day and night;

65

70

And with straunge notes, of him well understood, 75
Lull him a sleep in ángelick delight;

Whileft in fweet dreame to him prefented bee
Immortall beauties, which no eye may fee.

But he them fees and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their divine afpects, appearing plaine,
And kindling love in him above all measure,
Sweet love ftill ioyous, never feeling paine.

80

For what fo goodly forme he there doth fee,
He may enioy from iealous rancor free.

There liveth he in everlasting blis,
Sweet Spirit never fearing more to die:
Ne dreading harme from any foes of his,
Ne fearing falvage beafts more crueltie.

85

Whileft we here, wretches, waile his private lack, And with vaine vowes do often call him back. 90

But live thou there, ftill happie, happie Spirit,
And give us leave thee here thus to lament!
Not thee that doest thy heavens ioy inherit,
But our owne felves that here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and waile, and wear our eies,
Mourning, in others, our owne miferies.

96

WHICH when the ended had, another fwaine
Of gentle wit and daintie fweet device,
Whom Aftrophel full deare did entertaine,
Whileft here he liv'd, and held in paffing price,
Hight Theftylis, began his mournfull tourne: 5
And made the Mufes in his fong to mourne.

And after him full many

other moe,

As everie one in order lov'd him beft,

Gan dight themselves t' expreffe their inward

woe,

With dolefull layes unto the time addrest.

VOL. VIII.

F

The which I here in order will rehearse,

As fitteft flowres to deck his mournfull hearse. 12

THE

MOURNING MUSE OF THESTYLIS*.

COME forth, ye Nymphes, come forth, forsake

your watry bowres,

Forfake your moffy caves, and help me to lament: Help me to tune my dolefull notes to gurgling found Of Liffies tumbling ftreames: Come, let falt teares

of ours,

Mix with his waters fresh. O come, let one confent Ioyne us to mourne with wailfull plaints the deadly

wound

6

Which fatall clap hath made; decreed by higher

powres.

The dreery day in which they have from us yrent The nobleft plant that might from East to Weft be found.

Mourne, mourn, great Phillips fall, mourn we his

wofull end,

-10

In 1587 the following licence, among others, was granted by the Stationers' Company to John Wolf, printer, viz. "The mourning Mufes of Lod. Bryfket vpon the death of the most noble Sir Phillip Sydney knight &c." And, in a manufcript copy of this poem, preferved in the Archiepifcopal library at Lambeth Palace, the following poem is exprefsly given to Bryf. kett. Mr. Warton has fuppofed it, but clearly without authority, to be Spenfer's. See his Obfervations on the Faer. Qu. vol. i. p. 223. Bryfkett, as I have fhewn in the Life of the poet, was Spenfer's friend. TODD.