The Tale of Sir Philip Sidney

Now front to front th' embattled legions stand,
And chide the loit'ring trumpet's slowcommand;
Thy turrets, ZUTPHEN, the dread scene beheld,
Each toil, each horror of the desp'rate field,
When his stout bands, to hardy dangers bred,
Before thy walls courageous DUDLEY led,
To vindicate against imperious SPAIN
The power and honour of ELIZA's reign.

There fell the pride of fair BRITANNIA's host,
The scholar's, poet's, soldier's, statesman's boast.
There SIDNEY fell, while BERGEL's rolling flood
Dy'd Yssel's copious stream with noble blood;
There SIDNEY fell; whom Cam's and Isis' shore
Heard their learn'd sons in plaintive verse deplore;
Him PENSHURST still laments thro' all her groves,
And all her Graces mourn, and all her Loves;
And ev'ry shepherd, burthen'd with the tale,
With sighs of sorrow fills the passing gale.
Arcadia still, through all her beauties moans,
The lawns still sigh, and still the forest groans,
In murmurs soft the streams lament him still,
Each fount laments, and ev'ry rippling rill,
Each plant, each shrub, and ev'ryop'ning flow'r,
And ev'ry infant bud, that decks the bow'r;
The very genius of the place complains,
For him, their first, their last, their best of swains.

Say, Muse, when panting for the battle's heat,
First in each danger, and each glorious feat,
What palm was left for SIDNEY then to claim,
To shine superior in the lists of fame?
What wondrous mark was left, what sacred sign,
To prove his soul of origin divine?

At length the trumpet gives the dread command,
Forth rush the leaders of each adverse band;
Nearer and nearer now the troops advance,
Sword clashes sword, and lance engages lance;
And, side by side, o'er Zutphen's bloody plains,
Big horror strides, and death despotic reigns.

Keen hope of glory flashing from his eyes,
Forth to the hottest press brave SIDNEY flies;
The fiery steed, by the great chief bestrode,
Neighs, proudly conscious of his noble load.
Ah! what avails his strength, his martial strain,
His crested beauty, and wide-flowing mane?
The whirring bullet gives the deadly wound,
The proud beast falls, and shakes the echoing ground.
A second steed the rising hero tries,
A second steed in welt'ring slaughter lies.
A third is brought—but while, with active bound,
Th' undaunted warrior, vaulting, spurns the ground,
The thund'ring cannon deals its fellest stroke;
His thigh is torn; the strong-knit bone is broke;
Life's gushing stream its bursting cells forsakes,
The shatter'd splinters jar, the nerves relax.
The furious steed perceives the sclacken'd rein,
And wildly prances o'er the crimson plain.

Torn from his station'd rank, great SIDNEY's heart
Yet pants for fame, he scorns his body's smart,
Clings to his seat, fit bier to hold the brave,
And bear their relicts to the laurel'd grave.

His streaming wound, at length, bold DUDLEY spies,
And mourns his SIDNEY's fate with gushing eyes;
His sinking body the surrounding bands
Receive, obedient to their Lord's commands.
Faint with a waste of blood, on earth they lay
Their noble load, and mournful duty pay;
Friends weep aloud, and ev'n the pausing foe
Regrets the stroke, which laid that hero low.

The suff'rer thus—"O! thou, ally'd in worth,
"As join'd in blood to him that gave me birth,
"The blow is dealt, the fatal ball has sped,
"Which numbers SIDNEY with the hallow'd dead.
"For England's weal my life is nobly spent,
"For England's weal my latest pray'r is sent,
"Be she victorious, and I die content.

"One slender service I alone in treat,
"I faint, I sicken, with excess of heat;
"A burning fever rages thro' my veins,
"And scorching thirst each vital moisture drains.
"One cooling drop to my parch'd lips extend,
"The last sad kindness thou can'st shew thy friend."

A scanty portion the nigh-wasted spring
Alone supplies, the cask with speed they bring:
He sees, and blesses the approaching band,
And eager seizes it, with trembling hand—
When, straight before his view, sad soldiers bear
A dying comrade from the ranks of war,
Who, struggling in extremest torment, lies,
And views the sparkling draught with earnest eyes.

SIDNEY beholds the wretch, and inly grieves,
Th' untasted fluid from his lips he gives,
And thus—"The draught I willingly resign:
"Take it—thy wants are greater still than mine."

Ye, who luxuriate in unbounded store,
On penury unbounded comforts pour—
And ye, possess'd but of a slender share
Of Fortune's gifts, yet heed the poor man's pray'r:
From you more meritorious comes the dole,
Than from their hands who in abundance roll;
From out your scanty cup one drop bestow
On him who sinks in poverty and woe,
And say, like SIDNEY, with a soul benign,
"Take it, thy wants are greater still than mine."