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1633, the king created him, by letters patent, Earl of Stirling. He continued to fill the important office which he had so long held, for seven years after this last honor was conferred upon him, and died in his own castle, on the twelfth of February, 1640, in his sixty-first year.

The Earl of Stirling published in 1637, a complete edition of his works under the title of Recreations with the Muses, embracing, in addition to the productions already mentioned, a heroic poem entitled Jonathan, and an address to Prince Henry. 'Julius Cæsar,' one of the Earl's tragedies, contains several passages resembling parts of Shakspeare's tragedy of the same name; but it can not be ascertained which was first published. The genius of Shakspeare did not disdain to gather hints and expressions from comparatively obscure authors-the lesser lights of the age-and a famous passage in the "Tempest' is supposed to have been also derived from the Earl of Stirling. In the play of Darius, occurs the following reflection:

Let greatness of her glassy sceptres vaunt,

Not sceptres, no, but reeds, soon bruised, soon broken:]
And let this worldly pomp our wits enchant,

All fades, and scarcely leaves behind a token.

The lines of Shakspeare will, of course, instantly suggest themselvesAnd like this insubstantial pageant, faded,

Leave not a wreck behind.

None of the productions of the Earl of Stirling, touch the heart or entrance the imagination. He has nothing of the humble, but genuine inspiration of Alexander Hume; yet he was a calm aad elegant poet, with considerable fancy, and an ear for refined metrical harmony. The following is one of his best sonnets:

TO AURORA.

I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes,

And by those golden locks, whose lock none slips,

And by the coral of thy rosy lips,

And by the naked snows which beauty dyes;

I swear by all the jewels of thy mind,
Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought,
Thy solid judgment, and thy generous thought,
Which in this darken'd age have clearly shin'd;
I swear by those, and by my spotless love,
And by my secret, yet most fervent fires,
That I have never nurst but chaste desires,

And such as modesty might well approve.

Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee,

Should'st thou not love this virtuous mind in me?

WILLIAM DRUMMOND, a contemporary of the Earl of Stirling, and a poet of greatly superior genius, was born at Hawthornden, on the thirteenth of November, 1585. His father, Sir John Drummond, was gentleman usher to James the Sixth, and the future poet received his education, first at the uni

versity of Edinburgh, and afterward in France. In 1606 he commenced the study of the civil law, with the intention of following the legal profession; but in 1611, on the death of his father, he succeeded to an independent estate, and immediately took up his residence at Hawthornden. 'If beautiful

and romantic scenery,' remarks a writer of that period, 'could create or nurse the genius of a poet, Drummond was peculiarly blessed with the means of inspiration. In all Scotland, there is no spot more finely varied— more rich, graceful, or luxuriant-than the cliffs, caves, and wooded banks of the river Esk, and the classic shades of Hawthornden. In the immediate neighbourhood is Roslin Castle, one of the most interesting of Gothic ruins; and the whole course of the stream and the narrow glen is like the groundwork of some fairy dream.'

Drummond had been in the habit of relieving the oppressive weight of his legal studies in France by occasionally courting the muse; but it was not until after he was established at Hawthornden that he assumed a distinct position as an author. His first publication was a volume of miscellaneous poems; to which soon after succeeded a moral treatise in prose, entitled, the Cypress Grove, and another poetical work termed the Flowers of Zion. The death, which occurred about this time, of the young lady to whom he was betrothed, affected him so deeply that he sought relief in change of scene and the excitement of foreign travel. He first visited Paris, and thence passed to Rome, spending, between those two cities, and the intermediate countries, Germany and Switzerland, nearly eight years. He embraced the opportunity also, thus afforded, of making a large collection of the choicest works to be obtained in the Greek, the Latin, the French, and the Italian languages; and enriched with the literary lore of both the ancient and the modern world, he returned to Scotland, and resumed his abode at Hawthornden. On his way thither, he met, by accident, a young lady named Logan, who bore so strong a resemblance to the former object of his affections, that he solicited and obtained her hand in marriage. From this period Drummond passed many years in his delightful retreat at Hawthornden, relieving the sameness of a retired abode by occasional visits to his brother bards of England, and receiving visits in return from Ben Jonson, Drayton, and others, at his hospitable home.

Drummond inherited from his father, the deepest reverence for royalty, and the trial and execution of Charles the First, is said to have so deeply affected him as to hasten his own death, which occurred in the latter part of the same year 1649, and in the sixty-fifth year of his age.

The poetry of Drummond has singular sweetness and harmony of versification. His Tears on the Death of Mocliades, or Prince Henry, was written in 1612; his Wandering Muses, or The River of Forth Feasting, a congratulatory poem to King James The First on his revisiting Scotland, appeared in 1617, and placed him among the greatest poets of the age. His sonnets are of a still higher cast, have fewer conceits, and more natural feeling, elevation of sentiment, and grace of expression. The general purity

of his language, the harmony of his verse, and the play of fancy in all his principal productions, are his distinguishing characteristics. With more energy and force of mind he would have been a greater favorite both with his contemporaries and with posterity. We shall close our notice of this eminent Scottish poet with a few of his Sonnets, and an extract from the River of Forth Feasting.

EPITATH ON PRINCE HENRY.

Stay, passenger, see where inclosed lies

The paragon of Princes, fairest frame
Time, nature, place, could show to mortal eyes,
In worth, wit, virtue, miracle of fame:

At least that part the earth of him could claim
This marble holds (hard like the Destinies):
For as to his brave spirit, and glorious name,
The one the world, the other fills the skies.
Th' immortal amaranthus, princely rose,
Sad violet, and that sweet flower that bears
In sanguine spots the tenor of our woes,1
Spread on this stone, and wash it with your tears;
Then go and tell from Gades unto Ind

You saw where Earth's perfections were confin'd.

TO HIS LUTE.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage2 did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

Is reft from earth to tune the 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 stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:

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

THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.
Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,

1 Milton has copied this image in his Lycidas:

'Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe.'

2 Warbling: from ramage, French.

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

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