It was too much for us to merit long;
Enough your smile, and your serenest eyes

That sacred joy inspired, and endless grace;
For beautiful no more were Paradise,
Could men but hear the angel in your song,
As they behold the angel in your face.

One day my lady at a balcony

R. H. S.

Alone was standing, when I chanced to stretch
My arm on hers; I straightway begged her pardon,
For I was fearful of offending her.

"Not by the placing of thy arm on mine,
But by withdrawing it, hast thou offended,"
She sweetly answered me. O happy words!

Dear little love-words, short, but sweet and courteous, Courteous as sweet, affectionate as courteous!

If it were true and certain what I heard,

I shall be always seeking not t' offend thee,
Repeating the great bliss; but, my sweet life,
By all my eagerness therein, remember,

Where no offence is, there must be no vengeance!

ΑΝΟΝ.

Three high-born dames it was my lot to see,

Not all alike in beauty, yet so fair,
And so akin in act, and look, and air,
That Nature seemed to say, "Sisters are we!"
I praised them all, but one of all the three

So charmed me, that I loved her, and became
Her bard, and sung my passion, and her name,

Till to the stars they soared past rivalry.
Her only I adored, and if my gaze

Was turned elsewhere, it was but to admire
Of her high beauty some far-scattered rays,
And worship her in idols, fond desire,
False incense hid; yet I repent my praise,

As rank idolatry 'gainst Love's true fire.

She, who, a maiden, taught me, Love, thy woes,
To-morrow may become a new-made bride,
Like, if I err not, a fresh-gathered rose,

Opening her bosom to the sun with pride:
But him, for whom thus flushed with joy it blows,
Whene'er I see, my blood will scarcely glide;
If jealousy my ice-bound heart should close,

Will any ray of pity thaw its tide? Thou only know'st. And now, alas! I haste

Where I must mark that snowy neck and breast By envied fingers played with and embraced:

How shall I live, or where find peace or rest,

If one kind look on me she will not waste,

To hint not vain my sighs, nor all unblest?

WILDE.

[This is the sonnet which Tasso sent to Leonora, from Casteldurante.]

Anger, a champion bold but warrior weak,

Led me with feeble armour to the field,

Against Love's bow and shafts blunt arms to wield,

And Freedom or Revenge in battle seek.
Fool that I was! what human arms avail

In conflict with that torch of heavenly fire,
Whose light alone turns anger to desire?
Peace, I implore, and own me rash and frail.
Mercy I beg, and my weak hands extend,

And kneel, and bow, and bare my humble breast;

If fight I must, pity her aid shall lend,

And win the palm for me, or death and rest : If with my blood some tears of hers should blend, Defeat is triumph, and I perish blest.

WILDE.

Wandering Ulysses on the storm-vexed shore
Lay amid wrecks, upon the sand scarce dry,
Naked and sad; hunger and thirst he bore,

And hopeless gazed upon the sea and sky;

Where there appeared-so willed the Fates on highA royal dame to terminate his woe:

"Sweet fruits," she said, "sun-tinged with every dye, My father's garden boasts; would'st taste them? Go!" For me, alas! though shivering in the blast

I perish, a more cruel shipwreck mine,
Who from the beach, where famishing I'm cast,
Will point to royal roofs, for which I pine,
If 'tis not thou,-moved by my prayers at last?
What shall I call thee? Goddess! by each sign.

WILDE.

A hell of torment is this life of mine;

My sighs are as the Furies breathing flame;
Desires around my heart like serpents twine,

A bold, fierce throng no skill or art may tame.
As the lost race to whom hope never came,

So am I now, for me all hope is o'er;

My tears are Styx, and my complaint and shame
The fires of Phlegethon but stir the more.
My voice is that of Cerberus, whose bark
Fills the abyss, and echoes frightfully

Over the stream, dull as my mind, and dark:
In this alone less hard my fate may be,
That there poor ghosts are of foul fiends the mark,

While here an earthly goddess tortures me.

WILDE.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

1503-1542.

IT is a disputed point among the biographers of Wyatt, whether his amatory poems were the result of a real attachment, or merely poetical exercises. Some maintain that they are Petrarchian studies; others consider them life-sketches, drawn from his heart, and coloured by his love for Anne Boleyn. The weight of proof should rest with the latter; but unfortunately there can be no proof in the case: there was none in the time of the parties themselves, and there can be none now. When Anne Boleyn fell into disfavour with her capricious and tyrannical husband, who was casting about for a way to elevate Jane Seymour in her place, she was charged with having been unfaithful to him, and it was whispered that she was guilty of criminal intercourse with Wyatt. So, at least, Hearne says, though no evidence of such a charge exists. It was not made at her trial, for Wyatt's name is said not to have been mentioned in it. Certain it is that Henry never for a moment believed it, for after her death, no man in England stood higher in his good graces than Wyatt. That Wyatt was intimate with Anne Boleyn, does not admit of a doubt. She was the cousin of his friend Surrey, and her brother, Lord Rochfort, and himself, were fast friends. He probably met her for the first time when she was maid of honour to Queen Katharine, and as they were both about the same age, with the same taste for music and poetry, it was natural that he should admire her, and write verses to her. That she admired him and his verses, even in her darkest days, is shown by the fragment of a letter, in the Cotton collection, written by Sir William Kingston, and containing an account of all that she said and did in the Tower. She retained Wyatt's sister about her person, as her favourite and confidential attendant, and shortly before laying her head on the block, gave her, as a memento, a little manuscript prayerbook, set in gold and black enamel. This relic was preserved for a long time in the Wyatt family, as was also the tradition of Wyatt's attachment to Anne Boleyn. They rebutted all aspersions on her character after her death, and one of them, in his younger years, gathered many particulars concerning her, to refute the slanders which were then afloat. All this proves nothing, I am aware; but weighed in connection with Wyatt's poems, by those who can read between the lines, it is pretty strong circumstantial evidence. For my own part, I believe that Wyatt, at one time, loved Anne Boleyn. My

friend Boker, I see, is of the same opinion, for in his touching tragedy, he puts the following lines in the mouth of Wyatt:

"ANNE BOLEYN,"

"O Anne, Anne,

The world may banish all regard for thee,

Mewing thy fame in frigid chronicles,

But every memory that haunts my mind

Shall cluster round thee still. I'll hide thy name

Under the coverture of even lines,

I'll hint it darkly in familiar songs,

I'll mix each melancholy thought of thee

Through all my numbers: so that heedless men

Shall hold my love for thee within their hearts,

Not knowing of the treasure."

Wyatt's poems were first published in 1557, fifteen years after his death, in a work called Tottel's Miscellany, the earliest collection of the kind in the language.

THE LOVER PRAYETH HIS OFFERED HEART TO BE RECEIVED.

How oft have I, my dear and cruel foe,
With my great pain to get some peace or truce,

Given you my heart; but you do not use

In so high things, to cast your mind so low.

If any other look for it, as you trow,

Their vain weak hope doth greatly them abuse:
And that I thus disdain, that you refuse;

It was once mine, it can no more be so.

If you it chafe, that it in you can find,

In this exile, no manner of comfort,

Nor live alone, nor where he is called resort;

He may wander from his natural kind.

So shall it be great hurt unto us twain,
And yours the loss, and mine the deadly pain.

THE LOVER FORSAKETH HIS UNKIND LOVE.

My heart I gave thee, not to do it pain,
But to preserve, lo, it to thee was taken.

I served thee, not that I should be forsaken;