WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

BORN 1585; DIED 1649.

DRUMMOND-of Hawthornden, as he is commonly styledunited in an eminent degree the characters of poet and historian. He wrote the history of his country during the reigns of the five first Jameses: his poems consist of Sonnets, Epigrams, Epitaphs, and some larger pieces; of which many are on moral and sacred subjects. In the latter, genuine feeling and a natural sweetness and simplicity maintain a successful struggle with the artificial manner fashionable in his time. His sonnets have received the highest praise from critics of distinguished taste and judgment; who have ranked them among the most perfect specimens of this kind of composition.

Drummond maintained, in his retreat at Hawthornden, a friendly correspondence with some eminent English poets; in particular, with Jonson; among the best-known occurrences of whose life is his journey on foot into Scotland, to visit his friend, in 1618. He was a good man, a sound patriot, and a sincere Christian.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

SONNETS.

I.

O! IT is not to me, bright lamp of day,
That in the east thou show'st thy golden face;
O! it is not to me thou leav'st that sea,
And in those azure lists beginn'st thy race.
Thou shin'st not to the dead in any place;
And I dead from this world am past away,
Or if I seem, a shadow, yet to stay,
It is a while but to bewail my case.
My mirth is lost, my comforts are dismay'd,
And unto sad mishaps their place do yield;
My knowledge represents a bloody field,
Where I my hopes and helps see prostrate laid.
So plaintful is life's course which I have run,
That I do wish it never had begun.

II.

TRIUMPHING chariots, statutes, crowns of bays, Sky-treat'ning arches, the rewards of worth,

Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays, Which men divine unto the world set forth : States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise, From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange, Gigantic frames, held wonders rarely strange, Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days: Nothing is constant but inconstant change; What's done still is undone, and when undone Into some other fashion doth it range:

Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon; Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

III.

Too long I followed have my fond desire,
And too long painted on the ocean streams,
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joys which to my soul are blames.
Ah, when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of life's delights the last extremes,
I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier,
A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams.
Henceforth on thee, my only good, I'll think,
For only thou canst grant what I do crave:
Thy nail my pen shall be; thy blood mine ink;
Thy winding-sheet my paper; study, grave:

And till my soul forth of this body flee,
No hope I'll have, but only, only thee.

IV.

To spread the azure canopy of heaven,
And spangle it all with sparks of burning gold,