the glorious vanities, and graceful hyperboles, of the passion.  The images which lie before our feet (though by some accounted the only natural) are least natural for the high Sydnean love to express its fancies by.  They may serve for the loves of Tibullus, or the dear Author of the Schoolmistress; for passions that creep and whine in Elegies and Pastoral Ballads.  I am sure Milton never loved at this rate.  I am afraid some of his addresses (ad Leonoram I mean) have rather erred on the farther side; and that the poet came not much short of a religious indecorum, when he could thus apostrophise a singing-girl:—­

  Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes)
    Obtigit aetheriis ales ab ordinibus. 
  Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major,
    Nam tua praesentem vox sonat ipsa Deum? 
  Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia coeli,
    Per tua secreto guttura serpit agens;
  Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda
    Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono. 
  QUOD SI CUNCTA QUIDEM DEUS EST, PER CUNCTAQUE FUSUS,
    IN TE UNA LOQUITUR, CAETERA MUTUS HABET.

This is loving in a strange fashion; and it requires some candour of construction (besides the slight darkening of a dead language) to cast a veil over the ugly appearance of something very like blasphemy in the last two verses.  I think the Lover would have been staggered, if he had gone about to express the same thought in English.  I am sure, Sydney has no nights like this.  His extravaganzas do not strike at the sky, though he takes leave to adopt the pale Dian into a fellowship with his mortal passions.

  I

  With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies;
  How silently; and with how wan a face! 
  What! may it be, that even in heavenly place
  That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? 
  Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
  Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case;
  I read it in thy looks; thy languish! grace
  To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
  Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
  Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit? 
  Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 
  Do they above love to be loved, and yet
  Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? 
  Do they call virtue there—­ungratefulness!

The last line of this poem is a little obscured by transposition.  He means, Do they call ungratefulness there a virtue?

  II

  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,
  The indifferent judge between the high and low;
  With shield of proof shield me from out the prease[1]
  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.