rary taste and feeling, Drummond soared above a mere local or provincial fame, and was associated in friendship and genius with his great English contemporaries. His father, Sir John Drummond, was gentleman-usher to King James; and the poet seems to have inherited his reverence for royalty. No author of any note, excepting, perhaps, Dryden, has been so lavish of adulation as Drummond. Having studied civil law for four years in France, the poet succeeded, in 1610, to an independent estate, and took up his residence at Hawthornden. If beautiful and romantic scenery could create or nurse the genius of a poet, Drummond was peculiarly blessed with 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 Chapel, one of the most interesting of ruins; and the whole course of the stream and the narrow glen is like the groundwork of some fairy dream. The first publication of Drummond was in 1613, Tears on the Death of Mæliades,' or Henry, Prince of Wales. In 1616 appeared a volume of Poems,' of various kinds, but chiefly of love and sorrow. The death of a lady to whom he was betrothed affected him deeply, and he sought relief in change of scene and the excitement of foreign travel. On his return, after an absence of some years, he happened to meet 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. Drummond's feelings were so intense on the side of the royalists, that the execution of Charles is said to have hastened his death, which took place at the close of the same year, December, 1649. Drummond was intimate with Ben Jonson and Drayton; and his acquaintance with the former has been rendered memorable by a visit paid to him at Hawthornden, by Jonson, in the autumn or winter of 1618. On the 25th of September of that year, the magistrates of Edinburgh conterred the freedom of the city on Jonson, and on the 26th of October following he was entertained by the civic authorities to a banquet, which, as appears from the treasurer's accounts, cost £221, 6s. 4d. Scots money. During Jonson's stay at Hawthornden, the Scottish poet kept notes of the opinions expressed by the great dramatist, and chronicled some of his personal failings. For this his memory has been keenly attacked and traduced. It should be remembered that his notes were private memoranda, never published by himself; and, while their truth has been partly confirmed from other sources, there seems no malignity or meanness in recording faithfully his impressions of one of his most distinguished contemporaries. In 1617 was published Drummond's finest poem, Forth Feasting, a Panegyric to the king's Most Excellent Majesty,' congratulating James on his revisiting his native country of Scotland. The poetry of Drummond has singular sweetness and harmony of verification. He was of the school of Spenser, but less ethereal in

thought and imagination. He excelled in the heroic couplet, afterwards the most popular of English measures. His sonnets are of a still higher cast, have fewer conceits, and more natural feeling, elevation of sentiment, and grace of expression. Drummond wrote a number of madrigals, epigrams, and other short pieces, some of which are coarse and licentious. 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 favourite with Ben Jonson-and with posterity. Drummond wrote several pieces in prose, the chief of which are The History of the Five Jameses,' and 'A Cypress Grove'—the latter not unlike the works of Jeremy Taylor in style and imagery.

The River of Forth Feasting.

What blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps ?
What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deeps,
And seem to call me from my watery court?
What melody, what sounds of joy and sport,

Are conveyed 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 loadstar draweth us all eyes?

Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired

To mock my sense with what I most desired?

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 I long wished 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 sca-tossed wights,

Fair Helen's brothers shew their clearing lights:
So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods,
And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods;
The feathered 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 decked with flowers be seen,

And sweet-breathed zephyrs curl the meadows green:

Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower,

Such as on India's shores they used to pour;

Or with that golden storm the fields adorn

Which Jove rained 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 holiday;
Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run,
Which sce 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 Spey;
Wild Severn, which doth see our longest day;

Ness, smoking sulphur; Leve, with mountains crowned;
Strange Lomond, for his floating isles renowned;
The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr,

The suaky 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 curled 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 renowned
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 carth, 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.

Epitaph on Prince Henry.

Stay, passenger; see where inclosed lies
The paragon of Princes, fairest frame

Time, nature, place, could shew 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 Destinics-
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,*
Spread on this stone, and wash it with your tears;
Then go and tell from Gades unto Inde
You saw where Earth's perfections were confined.

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 ramage (1) did on thee bestow.

* Milton has copied this image in his Lycidas:

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

1 Warbling (from ramage, French).

Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont 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 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 widowed 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 inoan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throng,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed 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 horrors, 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 lowers.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs-
Attired 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.

Sonnets.

In Mind's pure glass when I myself behold,
And lively see how my best days are spent,
What clouds of care above my head are rolled,
What coming ill, which I cannot prevent:
My course begun, I, wearied, do repent,
And would embrace what reason oft hath told;
But scarce thus think I, when love hath controlled
All the best reasons reason could invent.
Though sure I know my labour's end is grief,
The more I strive, that I the more shall pine,
That only death shall be my last relief:
Yet when I think upon that face divine,
Like one with arrow shot, in laughter's place,
Maugre my heart, I joy in my disgrace.
I know that all beneath the moon decays,

And what by mortals in this world is brought
In Time's great periods, shall return to nought;
The fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty's like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of mind's 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.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

SIR ROBERT AYTON, a Scottish courtier and poet (1570-1638), enjoyed, like Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel and acquaintance with English poets. The few pieces of his composition are in pure English, and evince a smoothness and delicacy of fancy that have rarely been surpassed. The poet was a native of Fifeshire, son of Ayton of Kinaldie. James I. appointed him one of the gentlemen of the bed-chamber, and private secretary to his queen, besides conferring upon him the honour of knighthood. Ben Jonson seemed proud of his friendship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him (Jonson) dearly.

On Woman's Inconstancy.

I loved thee once, I'll love no more;
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?

He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own.
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom did recall,
That it thou mightst elsewhere en-
thral;

And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain ?

When new desires had conquered thee,
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so,
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good-fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,
To see him gain what I have lost;

The height of my disdain shall be,
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A begging at a beggar's door.

The Forsaken Mistress.

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee;

Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak had power to move thee;
But I can let thee now alone,

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,

Thy favours are but like the wind,