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. Edin. 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; 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, deaf god, 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 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. DEAR quirister, who from those shadows sends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight; Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I love. PHOEBUS arise, SONG. And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she may thy career with roses spread. Give life to this dark world which lieth dead! In larger locks than thou wast wont before, With diadem of pearl thy temples fair. Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. * * * * This is the morn should bring unto this grove My love, to hear, and recompence my love! But shew thy blushing beams; And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see, than those which by Penéus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Now Flora deck thyself in fairest guise, If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Let zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play. The winds all silent are, Makes vanish every star. Night, like a drunkard, reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. And nothing wanting is, save she, alas! SONNET. THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove, own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve! |