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Waller, Ayton, Cowley, Milton.
Byrd, Chamberlayne. Herbert, Denham, Marve Dryden,
Addison, Pore, Parnell, Thomson,
DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORN
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 clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours!
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;
But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
What doth it serve to see sun's burning face?
And all the glory of that starry place?
The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace;
The sport of floods which would themselves embrace?
The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains,
For what doth serve all that this world contains,
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,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
HABINGTON'S poem on The Firmament opens with these grand
When I survey the bright celestial sphere,
My soul her wings doth spread,
The Almighty's mysteries to read
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!
Our new-born light
Attains to full-aged noon!
And this-how soon to gray-haired night!
And what's a life? A weary pilgrimage,
False world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend
Thy favours cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight!
Thy morning's pleasures make an end
Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
Here are some of his lines, gilded with a little more sunshine :
As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,