Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care.
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING.

What blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps?
What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deeps
And seems to call me from my watery court?
What melody, what sounds of joy and sport,
Are convey'd hither from each night-born spring?
With what loud murmurs do the mountains ring,

Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand,

And, full of wonder, overlook the land?

Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright,

This golden people glancing in my sight?

Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise;

What load-star draweth us all eyes?

Am I awake, or have some dreams conspir'd

To mock my sense with what I most desir'd?

View I that living face, see I those looks,

Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks?

Do I behold that worth, that man divine,

This age's glory, by these banks of mine?

Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain;

My much-beloved prince is come again.

So unto them whose zenith is the pole,

When six black months are past, the sun does roll:

So after tempest to sea-tossed wights,

Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights:

So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods,

And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods :

The feather'd. sylvans, cloud-like by her fly,
And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky;
Nile marvels, Serap's priests entranced rave,
And in Mygdonian stone her shape engrave;
In lasting cedars they do mark the time
In which Apollo's bird came to their clime.

Let mother earth now deck'd with flowers be seen,
And sweet-breath'd zephyrs curl the meadows green:
Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower,
Such as on India's shores they use to pour:
Or with that golden storm the fields adorn

Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born.
May never hours the web of day outweave;
May never night rise from her sable cave!
Swell proud my billows, faint not to declare
Your joys as ample as their causes are:
For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp,
Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp;
And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair,
Strew all your springs and grots with lilies fair.
Some swiftest footed, get them hence, and pray
Our floods and lakes may keep this holyday;
Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run,
Which see the rising or the setting sun,

Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's snows:
Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne, tortoise-like, that flows;
The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spray,
Wild Severn, which doth see our longest day;

Ness, smoking sulphur, Leve, with mountains crown'd,
Strange Lomond for his floating isles renown'd,
The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr,

The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair,

The crystal-streaming Nith, loud-bellowing Clyde,
Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide;
Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curl'd streams,
The Esks, the Solway where they lose their names
To every one proclaim our joys and feasts,
Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests;
And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall,
Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival;
This day shall by our currents be renown'd:
Our hills about shall still this day resound:
Nay, that our love more to this day appear,
Let us with it henceforth begin our year.
To virgins flowers, to sun-burnt earth the rain,

To mariners fair winds amidst the main;

Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn,
Are not so pleasing as thy blest return,

That day, dear Prince.

;

ARTHUR JOHNSTON, the last of the poets of this period, was so celebrated as a writer of Latin verse, that he received the name of the Scottish Ovid, and even contested the supremacy in Latinity with Buchanan himself. He

was born at Caskieben, near Aberdeen, in 1587; and having first pursued collegiate studies in the university of Aberdeen, he afterward went to Rome, and thence to Padua, where he studied medicine, and took his doctor's degree in 1610. Being at this time only in the twenty-fourth year of his age, he resolved to acquire, before he entered upon his profession, those accomplishments which he well knew nothing but foreign travel could impart. With this view he made the tour of Italy, Germany, Denmark, Holland, and England, and finally settled in Paris, where he continued to practice his profession with uninterrupted success for nearly twenty years.

In 1632, Doctor Johnston returned to Scotland, and being introduced to Archbishop Laud, who was at that time in the north with Charles the First, he became, through the influence of that prelate, physician to the king. In this important relation to his majesty, he remained until 1641, when, being on a visit to a married daughter residing at Oxford, he was there seized with a serious illness of which he soon after died, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. Doctor Johnston was an extensive writer of Latin verse, and produced in that language a number of elegies, epigrams, a paraphrase of the Song of Solomon, a collection of short poems entitled Musa Aulice, and a complete Version of the Psalms of David, the last of which is his great performance. He also edited and contributed largely to the Delicice Poetarum Scotorum a collection of congratulatory poems by various authors, which reflected great honor on the taste and scholarship of Scotland at that time. The celebrity of Dr. Johnston's name throughout the learned world, requires this brief notice of his life; but we shall neither make any extracts, nor attempt any translations from his poems.

The following beautiful verses will afford an appropriate close to our present remarks. They are supposed to have been written by SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE, while he was confined in prison on account of his adherence to his unfortunate monarch, Charles the First.

LOYALTY CONFINED.

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;
Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility doth show

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though surely Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;
Then strike affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me:

While a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, while I wish'd to be retired,

Into this private room was turn'd;

As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

The salamander should be burn'd;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty,

The pelican her wilderness,

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus : Contentment can not smart, stoics we see Make torments easy to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm,

I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ankles warm,

I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lock'd up,

Like some high-prized margarite; Or like the great Mogul or Pope,

Am cloister'd up from public sight. Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late 's grown charitable sure;
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure:

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by th' event.

When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;

And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart

When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.

What though I can not see my king,

Neither in person, or in coin;

Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not, mine:
My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart.

Have you not seen the nightingale
A prisoner-like, coop'd in a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her narrow hermitage !

Even then her charming melody doth prove That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird whom they combine

Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corpse confine,

Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free:

And, though immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

My soul is free as ambient air,

Although my baser part 's immur'd;
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
T'accompany my solitude;

Although rebellion do my body bind,
My king alone can captivate my mind.