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WILLIAM DRUMMOND,

Of Hawthornden, born in 1585, died in 1649. Mr. Pinkerton

considers him, and justly, as the second of all the Scotish poets, being only inferior to Dunbar. His “ Poems” appeared in 4to. Edin. 1616; his “ Flowres of Sion,” Edin. 1630: and both are contained, though with some variations in the text, in the 8vo. edition of London, 1656, with a curious head by Gaywood. The collection of his works, printed by Watson (Edinburgh, 1711), is also esteemed; but a correct edition of this charming poet is much wanted, and, as it is said, may be soon expected from Dr. Anderson,

SONNET TO SLEEP,

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals

brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings ;
Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest!
Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumbering with forgetfulness possest;
And yet o’er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar’st, alas ! who cannot be thy guest,

Since I am thine, oh! come, but with that face,
To inward light, which thou art wont to shew,
With feigned solace ease a true felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,
I long to kiss the image of my death.

- SONNET TO HIS LUTE.

My lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which us’d in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
Be therefore silent as in woods before.

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALJ.

DEAR quirister, who from those shadows sends,
Ere that the blushing morn dare shew her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends
(Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight;
If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune, who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight;
Tell me, (so. may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing !) for what thou thus com-

plains, . Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky Enamoured smiles on woods and flow’ry plains !

The bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sigh’d forth, I love, I love.

SONG.

Phoebus arise,
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red :
Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,

That she may thy career with roses spread.
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing,
Make an eternal spring;
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead !
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And, emperor-like, decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair.
Chase hence the ugly night,
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My love, to hear, and recompence my love!
Fair king, who all preserves,
But shew thy blushing beams;
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see, than those which by Penéus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise.

Now Flora deck thyself in fairest guise,
If that ye, winds, would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;
Let zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play.

* * * *

The winds all silent are,
And Phæbus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star.
Night, like a drunkard, reels
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; .
Here is the pleasant place,
And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!

SONNET.

THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live, his

own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's

throne, Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve! O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flow’rs unfold,

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