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FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

A CHARM.

[From his Poems, 1640.)

Sleep, old man ! let silence charm thee; · Dreaming slumbers overtake thee: Quiet thoughts, and darkness arm thee,

That no creaking do awake thee!

Phæbe hath put out her light,

All her shadows closing : Phæbe lends her horns to-night

To thy head's disposing.

Let no fatal bell or clock,

Pierce the hollow of thine ear! Tongueless be the early cock,

Or what else may add a fear.

Let no rat, nor silly mouse,

Move the senseless rushes ; Nor a cough disturb this house

Till Aurora blushes!

Come, my sweet Corinna, come,

Laugh, and leave thy late deploring, Sable midnight makes all dumb,

But thy jealous husband's snoring.

And with thy sweet perfumed kisses,

Entertain a stranger:
Love's delight and sweetest bliss, is

Got with greatest danger.

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. Elin. 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, deal gou, 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 NIGHTINGALE.

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,

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