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WILLIAM DRUMMOND, the son of Sir John Drummond, gentleman usher to James the Sixth, was born at Hawthornden, in Mid Lothian, on the 13th of December, 1585; and, having received his early education at the High School of Edinburgh, took his degree in the university of that city. From 1606 to 1610, he studied civil law at Bourges; after which he returned to his native country, and dwelt in his beautiful and romantic residence on the banks of the Eske-"a sweet and solitary seat and very fit and proper for the Muses," cultivating his taste for literature, and occupying himself in the composition of the Cypress Grove-a prose work, containing reflections on the vanity of human hopes and wishes - and the Flowers of Sion. The happy and tranquil course of his life, however, did not continue long unbroken; for, having successfully wooed a young and lovely lady, she died soon after the marriage day was fixed. This sad event, to which he frequently alludes in his poems, produced such deep despondency of mind that he was induced to seek relief by travel. The eight years that followed he spent in visiting most of the European countries; and, on his return to Scotland, married Elizabeth Logan-because of her striking resemblance to his first love. During the remainder of his life, he continued to reside at Hawthornden. He was a zealous and unflinching Loyalist; "being reputed a malignant, he was extremely harassed by the prevailing party, and for his verses and discourses frequently summoned before their circular tables." It is said, indeed, that his mind was so affected by intelligence of the execution of Charles the First, that his own deathwarrant was "signed thereupon." He died on the 4th December, 1649. He is described as of "a goodly aspect;" an accomplished gentleman, of manners amiable and polite; careful in discharging the duties of public and private life; a sincere friend and an agreeable companion; possessing piety, fervent and unaffected; a true lover of his native land; and as the friend or correspondent of all the more excellent and distinguished of his contemporaries.

The visit of Ben Jonson to Hawthornden has been the subject of much bitter remark. In the year 1618, the great Poet of England walked to Scotland- to spend, it is said, a few weeks with his brother of the North. It is, however, by no means certain that this interview was the sole or even an important object of his excursion. But unhappily the result of it has been prejudicial to the memories of both. It appears that Drummond took notes of the wittiest, if not the wisest, sayings of old Ben, whom he describes "as eaten up with fancies; a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest ; a bragger of some good that he wanteth; jealous, especially after drinke,-one of the elements on which he liveth;" and, to sum up all, "for any religion." Probably Drummond never intended publicly to exhibit this picture; but it has led to much comment on the brutality of the guest and the perfidy of the host. The "malice" of Drummond has been traced to the "faint praise" of Jonson, who could find but a word of cold compliment for one of his friend's poems-the Forth Feasting-and that only because its gross flattery must have "pleased the king." It is to be regretted that the one, in the fullness of his heart, or during moments of unthinking hilarity, should have said much that was not exactly wise; and that the other should have been so unable to appreciate his guest's real character as to have noted down his petty jealousies and absurdities. The personal acquaintance of the two poets lasted only a few weeks-not long enough perhaps to exhibit, at least to Drummond, the virtues of "Rare Ben Jonson."

The principal poems of Drummond are the "Flowers of Sion," short pieces upon sacred subjects, and a variety of songs and sonnets. Among them are several of great beauty; the versification is easy and elegant-to an astonishing degree, indeed, when we bear in mind the age in which he wrote, and that he preceded Waller and others whom we are taught to consider as the fathers of "smoothness" in our English tongue. Although he had studied deeply, and derived much advantage from his knowledge of the poets of Italy, France and Spain, his learning is never unpleasantly intruded upon the reader. His thoughts are naturally and gracefully expressed; - both his ideas and his language are remarkably free from the affectations so conspicuous in his contemporaries; he rarely indulges in the crude conceits by which their writings are deformed; and appears to have felt and acknowledged (at times with intenseness) the influence of nature.

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TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bayes,
Skie-threatning arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious layes,
Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in bloud do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantall frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders webs are made the sport of daies,
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floting world beneath the moone;
Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place,
Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

SONNETS.

I KNOW that all beneath the Moon decaies,
And what by mortalls in this world is brought,
In Time's great periods shall returne to noughte;
That fairest states have fatal nights and daies.
I know that all the Muses heavenly layes,
With toyle of spright, which are so dearely bought,
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought,
That there is nothing lighter than vaine praise.
I know fraile beauty like the purple floure,
To which one morne oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of minds accords,

Where sense and will bring under Reason's power:
Know what I list, all this cannot me move,
But that, (alas!) I both must write, and love.

SLEEP, silence, child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepheards and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;
Loe, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulnesse possest,
And yet o're me to spread thy drowsie wings
Thou spar'st, (alas!) who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With faigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deafe god, thou do deny that grace,

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

TRUST not, sweet soule, those curled waves of gold
With gentle tides that on your temples flow,
Nor temples spred with flakes of virgin snow,
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian graine enrol'd.

Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their azure raies behold,

Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show, Than of the Thracian harper have been told:

Look to this dying lilly, fading rose,

Dark hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grasse rejoyce,
And thinke how little is 'twixt life's extreames;
The cruell tyrant that did kill those flow'rs,

Shall once, aye me, not spare that spring of yours.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that deare voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious straines to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheares above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans wailings to the fainting eare,

Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a teare,
For which be silent as in woods before:

Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne,
Like widow'd turtle still her losse complaine.

A PASSING glance, a light'ning 'long the skies,
Which ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight,
A sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise,
Thus drown'd is in th' huge depths of day and night:
Is this small trifle, life, held in such price,

Of blinded wights, who ne're judge aught aright?
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight,
As life, that wastes itselfe, and living dies.
Ah! what is humane greatness, valour, wit!
What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise?
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit,
Thrall earth's vaste round, triumphall arches raise?
That's all a dreame, learne in this prince's fall,
In whom, save death, nought mortall was at all.

Y

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 eternall love:

O how more sweet is birds harmonious moane,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings neer a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtfull, do the evill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streames to poyson dranke in gold!
The world is full of horrours, troubles, slights;
Woods harmlesse shades have only true delights.

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the earely houres,
Of winters past, or comming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding spraies, sweet-smelling flow'rs:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs,
Thou thy Creator's goodnesse dost declare,
And what deare gifts on thee he did not spare,
A staine to humane sense in sin that low'rs.
What soule can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetnesse) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoiles, spights and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?

Sweet, artlesse songster, thou my mind doest raise
To ayres of spheares, yes, and to angels layes.

SWEET Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly traine,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plaine,
The clouds for joy in pearls weepe down their show'rs.
Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not againe;

The sad memorials only of my paine

Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.

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