in Pembrokeshire, is still locally pronounced Carey, the Welsh name being Caerau, which signifies "fortified walls." Caeru is the verb to "wall or fortify."

MARY COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Mary Sydney was the daughter of Sir Henry Sydney, Lord President of Wales and Lord Deputy of Ireland, and of his wife, the Lady Mary Dudley, eldest daughter of John Duke of Northumberland, and sister of Lord Guilford Dudley, of Ambrose Earl of Warwick, and of Robert Earl of Leicester.

Mary Sydney's eldest brother was the admirable Sir Philip, whose intellectual pursuits she shared, and for whom she cherished the most tender affection. She had three sisters, and two younger brothers, Sir Robert and Sir Thomas. Sir Robert, having done good services to his Sovereign and to the State, and being one of the most accomplished men of his time, was, some years after the death of his maternal uncle and godfather, created Earl of Leicester.†

In the year 1576, she became the third wife of Henry Herbert, second Earl of Pembroke. They had two sons, who successively inherited the earldom. Her husband died January 19, 1601. The countess died September 25, 1621, at her house in Aldersgate-street, London, and was buried in the chancel of Salisbury Cathedral.

She translated from the original French Philip Mornay's 'Discourse of Life and Death,' and 'The Tragedy of Antony; the former in May, 1590, and the latter in the November of the same year. Both these translations were published during her life. She assisted Sir Philip Sydney

* See Spurrell's or any other Welsh Dictionary.
+ See Collins's 'Memoirs of the Sydneys,' pp. 96-97.

in his version of the Psalms, wrote A Pastoral Dialogue in Praise of Astrea' (Queen Elizabeth), which was published in Davison's Poetical Rhapsody,' 1602; and other pieces, of which the Elegy on her favourite brother's death is the most remarkable. He was killed at Zutphen in 1585.

In the Preface to his celebrated pastoral Sir Philip dedicates it to her as to "a principal ornament of the family of the Sydneys," and the name he gave it—‘The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia-is her imperishable monument. It was probably thus designated by way of contradistinction from the Arcadia of the Italian poet Sannazaro, which in sweetness and languid grace it evidently resembles. The chorus to the tragedy of Antonius,' and the Dialogue between Two Shepherds,' from the 'Astrea,' given in Park's Walpole's 'Catalogue,' indicate a highly cultivated and vigorous mind, and great skill in versification.

Her merits are eulogized by Daniel in his 'Delia,' in the Astrophel' of Spenser, and in the Epitaph' by Ben Jonson.

Spenser, after thirty-five stanzas of monody on Sir Philip Sydney, thus introduces, in his thirty-sixth, the elegy written by Lady Pembroke:

"But first his sister, that Clarinda hight,

That gentlest shepherdess that lives this day,
And most resembling, both in shape and sprite,
Her brother dear, began this doleful lay.
Which, lest I mar the sweetness of the verse,
In sort as she it sung, I will rehearse."

The Arcadian style of the composition accords with the taste of the deceased, and is well sustained; but it mars the genuine utterance of sisterly affection and of exalted faith, and hope, and love, by the adoption of artificial circumstances and heathen accessories.

In flowing sweetness, in delicacy and elegance, both of thought and expression, this elegy is worthy of its place; engrafted, like a white rose, among the deeply-tinted and odorous flowers of Spenser's genius.

"Ay me! to whom shall I my case complain,

That may compassion my impatient grief?
Or where shall I unfold my inward pain,

That my enriven heart may find relief?
Shall I unto the heavenly powers it show?
Or unto earthly men that dwell below?
To heavens? ah they, alas! the authors were,
And workers of my unremedied woe;
For they foresee what to us happens here,

And they foresaw, yet suffered this be so.

From them comes good, from them comes also ill,

That which they made, who can them warn to spill?

To men? ah they, alas! like wretched be,

And subject to the heavens' ordinance,
Bound to abide whatever they devise;

Their best redress is their best sufferance.

How then can they, like wretched, comfort me?
The which no less need comforted to be.

Then to myself will I my sorrow mourn,
Sith none alive like sorrowful remains,
And to myself my plaints shall back return,
To pay their usury with double pains.
The woods, the hills, the rivers shall resound
The mournful accent of my sorrow's ground.
Woods, hills, and rivers now are desolate,

Sith he is gone the which them all did grace,
And all the fields do wail their widowed state,
Sith death their fairest flower did late deface.
The fairest flower in field that ever grew
Was Astrophel; that was we all may rue.

What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown

Hath cropt the stalk which bore so fair a flower,
Untimely cropt, before it well were grown,

And clean defaced in untimely hour.
Great loss to all that ever him did see,
Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me.

Break now your girlonds, Oh ye shepherds' lasses,
Sith the fair flower wich them adorn'd is gone.
The flower which them adorned is gone to ashes.
Never again let lass put girlond on.
Instead of girlond, wear sad cypress now,
And bitter elder, broken from the bough.

Ne ever sing the love layes wich he made.
Who ever made such layes of love as he?
Ne ever read the riddles wich he said

Unto your selves, to make you merry glee.
Your merry glee is now laid all abed,
Your merry-maker now, alas, is dead.
Death, the devourer of all world's delight,

Hath robbed you, and reft from me my joy.
Both you and me, and all the world he quite
Hath robb'd of joyance, and left sad annoy.
Joy of the world and shepherds' pride was he,
Shepherds hope never like again to see.
Oh, death, that hath us of such riches reft,

Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done?
What is become of him whose flower here left
Is but the shadow of his likeness gone?
Scarce like the shadow of that which he was;
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass.
But that immortal spirit, which was deckt

With all the dowries of celestial grace;

By sovereign choice from th' heavenly quires select,
And lineally derived from angels' race;

Oh! what is now of it become aread :
Ay, me! can so divine a thing be dead?
Ah, no! it is not dead, ne 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 compast 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;
And with strange notes, of him well understood,
Lull him asleep in angel-like delight;
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented be
Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.
But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their divine aspects, appearing plain,
And kindling love in him above all measure;
Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain.
For what so goodly form he there doth see,
He may enjoy, from jealous rancor free.
There liveth he in everlasting bliss,

Sweet spirit! never fearing more to die;
Ne dreading harm from any foe of his ;

Ne fearing savage beasts' more cruelty ; Whilst we hear wretches wail his private lack, And with vain vows do often call him back.

But live thou there still happy, happy spirit!
And give us leave thee here thus to lament:
Not thee, that doest thy heaven's joy inherit,

But our own selves, who here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes,
Mourning in others our own miseries."

No impartial critic, who compares this elegy with the verses of Queen Elizabeth, can for an instant hesitate in awarding the palm of victory to Lady Pembroke.

Ben Jonson's Epitaph upon the Countess of Pembroke has acquired perhaps a higher reputation than it de

Of these twelve lines it may be observed, that the two first make a false assertion, for Lady Pembroke was not in any sense "the subject of all verse."

The third line justly recounts it as a privilege that she was "Sydney's sister;" but the fact that she was "Pembroke's mother" tended neither to her happiness when living, nor to her honour when dead. The reason assigned in the six closing lines why no "marble piles" should be raised to her name is extravagantly absurd; and the real merit of the epitaph dwells exclusively in the fourth, fifth, and sixth lines, which are of exquisite beauty :

"Death! ere thou hast killed another,

Fair, and learned, and good as she,

Time shall throw a dart at thee."

Granger mentions two engravings of her; in one of them