1576-'77, which he afterward cancelled, and replaced by the translation we now have. He was personally and intimately acquainted with Sir Philip for a year or two earlier than 1579, and in that year published the 'Shepheards Calender,' a portion of which was written at Penshurst, Sidney's family seat, and dedicated it to Sir Philip. The 'Faerie Queene' was not published till 1589, three years after Sidney's death, though the three first books had been seen and applauded by him while it was in preparation. Those of Spenser's sonnets which are translations from Bellay and Petrarch, and which he suffered to remain uncancelled-except the eleven from Bellay written in 1569—were first published in 1591; and his own original sonnets, or 'Amoretti,' were written in 1591, 1592, and 1593, and published in 1595. The whole number of Spenser's sonnets, original and translated, was one hundred and eighty, and of these eighty-eight or ninety were original. In this estimate the seventeen sonnets are not included which are prefixed to the 'Faerie Queene,' and addressed by Spenser to several noblemen. If then we except the eleven sonnets of 1569 from Bellay, and the seven of the suppressed version of Petrarch's ‘Vision,' we may conclude with reasonable certainty that the great body of his sonnets were written after Sidney's death in 1586. If it is further considered that Sidney's phenomenal intellect matured earlier than Spenser's, notwithstanding the brilliant genius of the latter, I shall not err greatly if I assume though I wish you to understand that I do not do so dogmatically— that Sidney's sonnets, having been written by or before 1584, antedated Spenser's; from which, let me add, they differ in being almost entirely original compositions. Many of them are exquisitely conceived, and some of them have been pronounced by a modern critic, usually severe almost to surliness,' the finest

examples in this species of composition that the world can produce.' I am not prepared, however, to adopt this criticism without reserve, since it is impossible to conceal that Sidney, whom Raleigh styled' the English Petrarch,' did certainly derive many of his faults as well as graces from his too close study of the bard of Arezzo. Among these faults are to be reckoned his occasional tendency to classical pedantry, his proneness to conceit and antithesis, his exaggerated turns of expression, and his far-fetched allusions and incongruous metaphors. Still, after making every deduction for these unquestionable defects, the fact remains, as has been judiciously remarked by his accomplished critic and biographer, William Gray, Esq., that Sidney 'liberally compensated for his occasional aberrations from true taste by frequent displays of a degree of elegance and facility to which few of his contemporaries, in the same species of writing, have succeeded in establishing any claim. *** If his sonnets possessed no other merit, it is in them that his various feelings, as they arose in his heart, are distinctly to be traced, and that we learn the peculiarities by which his heroic character was discriminated and shaded.'"

"I am totally unprepared, Professor," I interposed, "to point. out the weak spots, if there be any, in your learned disquisition; nor do I regret my inability to do so, for I very cordially own that, like all the world besides, I have always loved to surrender myself implicitly to the tradition of Sidney's unparalleled accomplishments, and to contemplate him as the ideal model and exemplar of heroism, chivalry, courtesy, and excellence of every kind. Any praise you may lavish on this peerless hero, or any distinction you may assign to this mirror of knighthood-infinitely worthier than the Chevalier Bayard of the motto, 'Sans puer et sans reproche' will give me the

keenest pleasure. I am now in the mood for some examples of his handiwork; but I warn you that my expectations have been raised to a high pitch by the remembrance of his invocation to the moon, with which we brought our last afternoon to a fitting close."

"I hope Sir Philip may not disappoint your expectations, nor do I think he will. I shall present to you five strongly contrasted specimens of his workmanship: the first, discriminating between the influence of the study of books and of the heart to give tone and voice to the poetic faculty; the second, supplying an example of his amatory style; the third and fourth, exhibiting his reaction from the passion of love; and the last being a charming invocation to and description of Sleep. Listen to his changeful melody:

"Loving in truth, and fain in vers my love to show,

That shee (dear shee) might take some pleasure of my pain;
Pleasure might caus her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledg might pitie win, and pitie grace obtain :

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of wo,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitfull showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's childe, fled step-dame Studie's blows,
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.

Thus, great with childe to speak, and helpless in my throws,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
Fool! said my Muse to mee, look in thy heart, and write.'

"Stella! think not that I by vers seek fame,

Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;

Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history!

If thou prais not, all other prais is shame.

Nor so ambitious am I as to frame

A nest for my young prais in Laurel-tree:
In truth, I swear, I wish not there should bee
Grav'd in my epitaph a poet's name:

Ne if I would, I could just title make,

That any laud to mee thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others' wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,

Since all my words thy beautie doth endite,

And Love doth hold my hand, and makes mee write.'

"Thou blind man's mark; thou fool's self-chosen snare, Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought: Band of all evils; cradle of causeless care;

Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought;
Desire! Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare;
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire;
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire:

For virtue hath this better lesson taught,

Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring naught but how to kill Desire.'

"Leave me, O love! which reaches 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. O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide,

In this small course which birth draws out to death,

Sidney's Sonnet to Sleep.

And think how evil becometh him to slide

Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly birth.
Then farewell, world, thy uttermost I see,

Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.'

"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,
Th' 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 :
O 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 thy heavy grace, thou shalt, in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

51

"I am charmed, Professor, by the vigor and gracefulness of these lines. They seem to me to have every ingredient of genuine poetry—ease and elegance combined with strength and simplicity of diction, depth and variety of feeling, and a refined and active fancy. And I am amazed that I should have remained so long in ignorance of their hidden beauties, for in all beside his poetry my admiration of Sidney barely stops short of idolatry. Nor have I been unfamiliar with his writings. I have found many an hour of dreamy, tranquil pleasure, such as one experiences in listening to the rippling murmur of a summer brook, when reading his pastoral prose poem, the ‘Arcadia;' and I have read and re-read with increasing admiration his manly eulogy and criticism of poetry in his 'Defence of Poesy.' But his sonnets, I may as well confess, have repelled