ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Sir Philip Sidney
Anonymous, in "Eglogue. Made long since upon the Death of Sir Phillip Sidney" 1587 ca.; Poetical Rapsody (1602)
Sir Philip Sidney:
1584: Dr. Thomas Lodge
1586: Geoffrey Whitney
1587: George Whetstone
1587 ca.: Anonymous
1587: B. W. Esquire
1598: Rev. Francis Meres
1605: Joshua Sylvester
1606: Rev. Nathaniel Baxter
1606: William Harbert
1612: John Owen
1616: William Browne of Tavistock
1627: Michael Drayton
1633: George Wither
1639: Thomas Bancroft
1650 ca.: Anne Bradstreet
1651: Samuel Sheppard
1660: E. B.
1675: Edward Phillips
1690: Sir William Temple
1690: Anthony Wood
1705: Sir Richard Blackmore
1750 ca.: Francis Coventry
1762: Rev. John Langhorne
1769: Rev. James Granger
1769: Daniel Hayes
1778: William Hayley
1782: U, C, J, B
1788: Charlotte Smith
1793: W. D.
1795: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1801: George Ellis
1803: Richard Alfred Davenport
1804: Robert Southey
1804: Robert Southey
1804: Anna Laetitia Barbauld
1805: Rev. Henry John Todd
1806: Robert Southey
1810: Edward Thurlow
1810: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1813: Rev. William Cameron
1819: Thomas Campbell
1820: William Hazlitt
1823: William Hayley
1823: Charles Lamb
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825: Bryan Waller Procter
1826: Richard Ryan
1827: Bernard Barton
1827: William Goodhugh
1830: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1835: L. L.
1843: John Holland
1845: Edward Farr
1852: Mary Russell Mitford
1860: George Gilfillan
1880: Mary A. Ward
1882: Epes Sargent
Ye Shepheards Boyes that leade your flocks a field,
The whilst your sheepe feede safely round about,
Breake me your Pipes that pleasant sound did yeeld,
Sing now no more the Songs of Collin Clout:
Lament the end of all our joy,
Lament the source of all annoy:
WILLY is dead,
That wont to leade
Our flockes and us in mirth and Shepheards glee:
Wel could he sing,
Wel dance, and spring;
Of all the Shepheards was none such as hee.
How often hath his skill in pleasant Song
Drawn al the water-nimphs from out their bowers?
How have they laine the tender grasse along,
And made him Garlands gay of smelling flowers?
Phoebus himselfe that conquer'd Pan,
Striving with Willy, nothing wan.
Ne thinkes I see,
The time when hee
Pluckt from his golden lockes the Laurell crowne;
And so to raise
Our Willies praise,
Bedeckt his head, and softly set him downe.
The learned Muses flockt to heare his skill,
And quite forgot their water, wood, and mount;
They thought his Songs were done too quickly stil,
Of none but Willies Pipe they made account.
Hee sung; they seemd in joy to flowe:
He ceast; they seemd to weep for woe;
The Rurall rout,
All round about,
Like Bees came swarming thicke, to heare him sing
Ne could they thinke,
On meate or drinke,
While Willies musicke in their eares did ring.
But now (alas) such pleasant mirth is past,
Apollo weepes, the Muses rend their haire.
No joy on earth that any time can last,
See where his breathlesse corps lies on the beare.
That selfe same hand that reft his life,
Hath turned Shepheards peace to strife.
Our joy is fled,
Our life is dead,
Our hope, our help, our glory all is gone:
Our Poets praise,
Our happy dayes,
And nothing left but griefe, to thinke thereon.