Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

And thou, heroick Lord, whose noblest name
The sacred Muses mention with delight,
And crown with girlands of eternal fame;
(The which with princely love do thou requite;)
That hast from thy great ancestors by right
The love of Poets for inheritance;
This shall pursue thy virtue to the height,
And lift thee up beyond the reach of chance:
That never Time shall rend, nor Envy spoil
The golden trophy of thy restless days;
But sweet endeavour of enduring toil
Shall still be crown'd with everlasting praise:
So clear Antiquity revives in thee,
The living Record of Nobility.

His Grace being descended from Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, Lord High Treasurer of England, whose tragedy of Gorboduc is very highly praised by Sir Philip Sidney.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD HOLLAND.

Most favour'd Lord, in whose pure intellect,
The temple of divine humanity,
Th' eternal Muses triumph, with affect
Of all, that lives above the lamping sky;
With what enlarged pinion shall I fly,
T' attain the glory of this argument.
That in thy rising wisdom can descry
The star, that shall enlight our firmament?
And there shall reign, amidst the sweet consent
Of all that honour magnanimity,
And in the rule of virtue find content:
Meanwhile, 'till that auspicious time shall be,
This portraiture of worth, by Sidney penn'd,
To thy most faultless judgment I commend.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF GRANARD.

Yet may I not my thankful labour cease,
'Till this sweet work in part I dedicate
To you, heroick Lord, in war and peace,
The equal grace and glory of the state;
So well the rugged virtues you abate
With the soft charm of affability,
And wisely in your lofty thoughts amate
Dread warfare with divine civility:
Then let this golden book for tribute be,
Which you, my Lord, may worthily accept;
Made by that man, that held the world in fee,
Yet early in heroick laurels slept;
Who slept, yet sits aloft, and smiles on you,
His kinsman in great birth, and glory too.

The Earl of Granard being descended from the Sidneys, through the great houses of Rawdon, Hastings, and Spencer.

A SONG TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

Spirit, whose bliss beyond this cloudy sphere
Is with the rising, and the setting light,
Who, far remov'd from all that grieves us here,
For ever happy, and for ever bright,
Yet lookest down with pity from on high,
'Midst airs of immortality:
O, with what pure and never-ending song,
Song, that uplift upon the wings of love,
May gain access to that celestial throng,
Shall I now soar above,
And in the silver flood of morning play,
And view thy face, and brighten into day?

Forgive me, then, O love-enlarged soul,
Or love itself in pure felicity,

If, questioning my nature's fast controul,
I slip my bonds, and wander unto thee;
But, ah! too well I know
That this may not be so,
'Till that prefixed doom from heav'n be spent:
Then for a little while,
If measure may beguile,
Let thy sweet deeds become my argument;
That all the wide hereafter may behold
Thy mind, more perfect than refined gold.

But this is to enlarge the liberal air,
And pour fresh light into the diamond,
To herald that the fragrant rose is fair,
And that the Sun in beauty doth abound;
So vain, and so excessful is the thought
To add to Sidney ought:
Yet cannot I forego the sweet delight,
More sweet to me than musick or the Spring,
Or than the starry beams of Summer's night,
Thy sweetest praise, O Astrophel, to sing;
'Till the wide woods, to which I teach the same,
Shall echo with thy name;

And ev'ry fount that in the valley flows,
Shall stay its fall, and murmur at the close.

Nor yet shall time, a thing not understood,
Nor weary space forbid me my desire;
The nimble mind can travel where it would,
More swift than winds, or than the greedy fire;
So shall my thoughts aspire
To that eternal seat, where thou art laid
In brightness without shade:
Thy golden locks, that in wide splendour flow,
Crowned with lilies, and with violets,
And amaranth, which that good Angel sets
With joy upon thy radiant head to blow;
(Soft flow'rs, unknown to woe,
That in the blissful meads of heav'n are found;)
The whilst full quires around
With silver hymns, and dulcet harmony,
Make laud unto the glorious throne of grace,
And fill thy ears with true felicity;
Such is the happy place,
Which thou by thy heroick toil hast won,
Such is the place, to which my sacred verses run.

Then I believe that at thy birth was set
Some purer planet in the lofty sky,
Which a sweet influence did on earth beget;
That all the shepherds, which on ground did lie,
Beholding there that unexampled light,
That made like day the night,
Were fill'd with hope, and great expectancy,
That Pan himself would on the earth appear,
To bless th' unbounded year.

[The Author did not finish this Poem.]