And shall not we of Cambrie coast salt brinish teares distill;

And for our Sidney's late deceasse, toull forth our dolefull knill?

Yes, doubtless yes; both yong and old, rich, poore, both weake and strong, Both great and small, of Sidney's death soundes foorth their mornefull song.

And would with trubling hrilling teares their Phenix death lament;

But that from cinders his they hope an other will be sent :

Who both in forme, in shape in shew, in grace, in faith, and fame;

In

pompe, in
in power in gifts and glee,

will raise his father's name.

And therefore Death was foule dcceiv'd, and mist his purpose quite ;

In seeking to suppresse his name,
by darking of his light.

For as the man, whom Jason strake
in bosome with his knife,
Brake his enpostume, and for death
did lengthen long his life;

So Mors, in minde through envie's hate to darken Sidney's name,

Hath now, by vomiting of his spite,

enlarged much his fame.

And as Calisto, to a beare

being turn'd through Immo's* spight,

*Alias Juno's.

Was plac'd by Jove in azurde skies. to be a starre most bright;

So Sidney's corps, by death subdued, and rest of vitall breath,

In sprite doth peerce the cristall clowdes, and live to conquere death;

And, Virbius-like, again revives, like fame abroad doth reepe; His noble offspring in each point their father's course doo keepe.

Our Sidney therefore he is safe,

though death thy force were showne, Thou nought of his, save bones, retainst, his sp'rit to skies is flowne.

As much of him as smelt of earth,

so much in earth he left;

The rest, ordained to endlesse blisse,

Jehova to him reft.

Hence, therefore, Death! go shake thine eares,

and triumph in thy trash;

Thy power, thy force, thy shaft, thy dart,

our Sidney downe doth dash:

And if thou hast none other meane to plague whom thou dost spight, Then, Death, let Sidney's happy lot upon our shoulders light.

Make us remaine where Sidney raignes;

for that a life well led

Importes and happie blissful state,

when as the corps is dead.

Our Sidney therefore, living well, most vertuous, just and pure;

No doubt but that in heaven's blisse
he hath his seat most sure.

Which state God graunt to all the imps,
that beares our Sidney's name!

And whiles that in this vale they dwell,

they gaine no lesser fame.

WILLIAM GRuffith."

The postscript of Lady Sidney is omitted here, as it will be found under the article of Mary Countess of Pembroke, in the forth-coming edition of Lord Orford's Royal and Noble Authors.

T. P.

ART. LXXVII. Complaints, containing sundrie small poemes of the World's Vanitie, whereof the next page maketh mention. By Ed. Sp. London: Imprinted for William Ponsonbie, dwelling in Paules Churchyard at the signe of the Bishop's Head, 1591, 4to. 92 leaves.

HERBERT'S Copy wanted the title. A full account of the work may be found in Mr. Todd's edition of Spenser, 1805. This place gives an opportunity of noticing T. Warton's lines, "sent to Mr. Upton, on his edition of the Fairie Queene," on account of the different shapes in which they were printed. That edition appears to have been first published in 1758; but the following variation of the same lines was inserted in the London Magazine for May 1755. "Verses written in a blank leaf of Mr. T. Warton's Observations on Spenser's Fairy Queen.

"As oft on Camus rushy turf reclin'd,

I joy'd to trace old Spenser's mystic page;

And fed with fancy's feast my musing mind,
A feast that could delight Eliza's age;

Much would I grieve, that o'er a page so pure,
All-envying time had cast his dim disguise;
As April show'rs, by gloomy fits, obscure

The noon-tide radiance of the smiling skies,
Lo! Warton came-1
-from every fretted tale

To clear the rust that canker'd all around; His skilful hand unlocks each fairy vale,

And opes each flow'ry forest's magic bound.

Thus never knight advent'rous dar'd invade,

Of Busyrane th' impervious castle drear;
Till Britomart* each secret bow'r display'd,
And burst the mighty spell with golden spear.

Th' heroic maid with haughty step explor'd
Each room array'd in glorious imag'ry,
And thro' th' enchanted chamber richly stor'd,
Saw Cupid's stately maske come sweeping by.
At this (where'er by pearl-pav'd fount, I ween,
They rove at large amid the myrtle rows;)
Reviving Una lifts her princely mien,

And Florimel's fair wreath more freshly glows.

At this, long drooping in forlorn despair,

Her painted wings Imagination plumes,

Pleas'd that her page, by Warton's classic care,
Its native charm, and genuine grace resumes."t

ART. LXXVIII. The Lamentation of Troy for the death of Hector. Whereunto is annexed an

* F. Q. Book iii. Canto 2, St. 25.

In truth, these lines seem to have been addressed by Warton to himself, and afterwards, for modesty's sake, applied to Upton !

Olde Woman's Tale in hir solitarie cell. Omne gerendum leve est. London, printed by Peter Short for William Mattes, 1594, 4to. 32 leaves.

THIS Volume is inscribed to Sir Peregrine Bertie, Knt. Lord Willoughby of Eresby, who distinguished himself at the battle of Zutphen in 1586, and is styled by this poet (I. O.) the "only Hector of Albion, and therefore most worthy to protect Hector." The principal poem is written somewhat after the plan of those in the "Mirror for Magistrates;" at which the author seems to glance sarcastically in the following

stanza:

Sweet sacred Muses! you whose gentle eares

Are wont to listen to the humble praier
Of plaining poets, and to lend your teares
From your faire eies unto a woe-displayer;
Now rest yourselves: your ayde I not implore,
For in my selfe I find aboundant store.

In a prologue to this poem, he makes Troy's Ghost

declare

Yet had she rather Spencer would have told them; For him she calde, that he would helpe t' unfold them. And in the poem itself he thus apostrophises our great allegorical bard:

O then, good Spencer, th' only Homer living, Deign for to write with thy fame-quikninge quill : And though poore Troy due thanks can not be giving, The gods are just, and they that give them will. Write then, O Spencer, in thy Muse so trim, That he in thee, and thou maiest live in him!

T. P.