O Lord, in me there lieth naught,
But to Thy search revealèd lies:
For when I sit
Thou markest it:
No less than notest when I rise.
Yea, closest closet of my thought
Hath open windows to Thine eyes.
Thou walkest with me when I walk,
When to my bed for rest I go,
I find Thee there,
And everywhere;
Not youngest thought, in me doth grow,
No, not one word I cast to talk,
But yet unuttered, Thou dost know.
If forth I march, Thou goest before;
If back I turn, Thou comest behind
So forth nor back
Thy guard I lack,
Nay, on me, too, Thy hand I find.
Well I Thy wisdom may adore,
But never reach with earthly mind.
To shun Thy notice, leave Thine eye,
Oh, whither might I take my way?
To starry sphere?
Thy Throne is there.
To dead men's undelightsome stay?
There is Thy walk, and there to lie
Unknown, in vain I should essay.
O Sun, whom light nor flight can match,
Suppose thy lightful, flightful wings
Thou lend to me,
And I could flee
As far as thee the evening brings:
Even led to West, He would me catch,
Nor could I lurk with Western things.
Do thou thy best, O secret Night,
In sable veil to cover me;
Thy sable veil
Shall vainly fail:
With day unmasked my night shall be,
For night is day, and darkness light,
O Father of all Lights, to Thee.
While this brilliant translation of the Book of Psalms would itself
have sufficed to have made the reputation of the Countess of Pembroke
as a scholar and poet, her poetical work was not limited thereto. We
have also from her pen: "The Tragedie of Antonie: done into English by
the Countess of Pembroke," published 1595, and a "Pastoral dialogue in
praise of Astrea," published in Davidson's "Poetical Rapsody," in
1662, which is stated to have been made on the occasion of a visit
being paid by the Queen at the house of the Countess.
This learned lady also left in manuscript a poem of considerable
length entitled, "The Countess of Pembroke's Passion." It is only
during the present century that this work has been given to the
world. The poem is a touching lamentation over the sufferings of the
Saviour. The subject itself, and the way in which it is handled, show
how thoroughly the mind of the writer was impregnated with religious
thought, and her ever ready and tender sympathy. It is a poem of very
unequal merit, but some stanzas are sweet. Take the following:--
He placed all rust, and had no resting place;
He healed each pain, yet lived in sore distress;
Deserved all good, yet lived in great disgrace;
Gave all hearts joy, himself in heaviness;
Suffered them live, by whom himself was slain:
Lord, who can live to see such love again?
* * * * *
Where He that sits on the supernal throne,
In majesty most glorious to behold,
And holds the sceptre of the world alone,
Hath not his garments of imbroidered gold,
But he is clothed with truth and righteousness;
Where angels all do sing with joyfulness.
Where heavenly love is cause of holy life,
And holy life increaseth heavenly love;
Where peace established without fear or strife,
Doth prove the blessing of the soul's behove;
Where thirst nor hunger, grief nor sorrow dwelleth
Put peace in joy, and joy in peace excelleth.
The Countess of Pembroke was, throughout her life, an unselfish and
generous patron of letters. The noble old library at famous Wilton was
collected chiefly during her residence there. The poets of the time
seem to have vied with each other in speaking her praise, and in
bearing testimony to her learning and rare excellence of character.
Although it may be said that to some extent the many warm eulogies
passed upon her came from interested sources, and are of too
flattering a character to be invariably sincere, the lady whose
virtues and worth were so warmly and universally sung must have been
of nobly-souled and exalted nature. Churchyard, Daniel, Smart, and
others of the period, are not alone in their plaudits. None was more
enthusiastic than Spenser himself. His references to her are not
solitary. The following in "Colin Clout's come home again" may be
mentioned:--
They all [quoth he] me gracèd goodly well,
That all I praise: but in the highest place,
Urania, sister unto Astrophell,
In whose brave mind, as in a golden coffer,
All heavenly gifts and riches lockèd are;
More rich than pearls of Ind, or gold of Ophir,
And in her sex more wonderful and rare.
Her age was no less honoured than her youth. It has been said of her
that "when an old woman she could entrance the world by her sweet
beauty of her face, the gentleness of her womanly heart, the strength
and keenness of her wit, and the depth and breadth of her learning."
Her husband died in the month of January, 1602. She survived him
twenty years. By the marriage there were three children--William,
Philip, and a daughter named Anne, who died young. William, who on the
death of his father became Earl of Pembroke, was, according to
Clarendon, the most universally beloved and esteemed of any man of
that age. He is believed by some to have been the "W. H." of
Shakespeare's Sonnets, of whom that poet says:--
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
From the second son, Philip, who succeeded his elder brother to the
title, the present Earl of Pembroke is descended.
After having most truly lived her long life--a life faithful, devoted,
and true--the Countess of Pembroke died at her town house in
Aldersgate Street, on the 25th September, 1621. She was interred in
the vault of her husband's family in Salisbury Cathedral.
A noble life is its own monument. To have influenced such a life as
that of Philip Sidney; to have lived her own life--with its lasting
impress on the literature of England, and its beneficial lessons to
England's daughters--is to the subject of this sketch a more worthy
and lasting memorial than stateliest pile of finest marble. We are,
nevertheless, thankful for the familiar words of Ben Jonson:--
Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast killed another,
Fair and learned, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.