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itabington. Quarles,

Waller, Ayton, Cowley, Milton.

Byrd, Chamberlayne. Herbert, Denham, Marve Dryden,

Addison, Pore, Parnell, Thomson,

ollins, Shenstone,




DEN, the singular sweetness and harmony of whose poetry reminds us of Spenser,-wrote some touching sonnets in memory of his

lost love, whose sudden death occurred just prior to their appointed nuptials. The poet was of noble lineage, and lived amidst the most romantic scenery, at his fine castle on the banks of the Esk. The following are his beautiful sonnets on Spring :

Sweet Spring! thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers
Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but, ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours!
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,

Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;

But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems her can restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot, lie closed in a tomb!

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face?
And skies enamell'd with both Indies' gold?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll❜d,

And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold,

The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace;
The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of floods which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs,

The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?

For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Sith she, for whom these once to me were dear,
No part of them can have now with me here?

Hazlitt thought Drummond's sonnets approached as near almost as any others to the perfection of this kind of writing. Here is his Address to the Nightingale :


Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winter's 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 reverent eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays.

HABINGTON'S poem on The Firmament opens with these grand

When I survey the bright celestial sphere,
So rich with jewels hung, that night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;

My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward flies,


The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.


grave and eccentric QUARLES has written some remarkable poems, equally quaint in conceit and curious in structure: for example :


How short a span

Was long enough of old

To measure out the life of man :

In those well-tempered days, his time was then

Surveyed, cast-up, and found-but threescore years and ten!

How soon

Our new-born light

Attains to full-aged noon!


And this-how soon to gray-haired night!
We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast:-
Ere we can count our days-our days they flee so fast!

And what's a life? A weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in the day doth fill the stage-
With childhood, manhood, and decrepid age.
And what's a life? The flourishing array
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day-
Wears her green plush-and is to-morrow-hay!

False world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend
The least delight:

Thy favours cannot gain a friend,

They are so slight!

Thy morning's pleasures make an end
To please at night :

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heaven! Fond earth, thou boast'st-false world, thou ly'st!

Here are some of his lines, gilded with a little more sunshine :

As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,
Picks here a pink, and there a gilly-flower,
Now plucks a violet from her purple bed,
And then a primrose,—the year's maidenhead;
There nips the brier, here the lover's pansy,
Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy;

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