We may well believe that the Queen found somewhat to wipe from her cheek when the tale came of the death of “my Philip,” the pride of her court. Leicester, too, must have minded it sorely: and of a surety Spenser in his far home of Kilcolman; writing there, maybe—by the Mulla shore—his apostrophe to Sidney’s soul, so full of his sweetness and of his wonderful word-craft:—
“Ah me, can so Divine a thing be dead?
Ah no: it is not dead, nor can it die
But lives for aye in Blissful Paradise:
Where, like a new-born Babe, it soft doth lie
In bed of Lilies, wrapped in tender wise
And compassed all about with Roses sweet
And dainty violets, from head to feet.
There—thousand birds, all of celestial brood
To him do sweetly carol, day and night