And make the fainting Esk for fear look black
To keep that colour for her Henry's fake.

And how did he from black Benlomond bring
Old father Forth, to feast his lord and king?
With all thefe famous floods fo well attended,
(A train that Tiber envy'd, but commended)
And to his prince a panegyric fung,

That Mantua's mufe, and Afera's both had hung
Their heads for flame, his heavenly ftrains to hear;
For Po ne'er had a nymph that could come near
His high and hardy note, nor Helicon
A more majeftic mufe ne'er fat upon.

O how could he with more than mortal measure
Transport the foul into that height of pleasure?
In facred ecft'fy when he fung the wonders
Of him that fram'd the world, and forg'd the
thunders?

And foaring high on contemplation's wings,
Show how the earth below felf-ballanc'd hings,
By heaven alike embrac'd on every fide,
And fees here fnow, there fummer's painted pride?
Or when in raptures ravish'd he would rife
To reach a strain beyond the stars and skies,
In what tranfcendent terms could he fet forth
Heav'n's glory (though no words can weigh their
worth)

And of the choiceft flowers of Sion frame
For angels brows a fragrant anađem ?

How could his foul in facred filence steal
Into thefe bleffed bounds, and thence reveal
The ftate and fplendor of the court above,
So fweetly fhadow'd in his Cyprefs Grove?
Had he not had his Urany for guide,
Her holy ways to walk, her paths to tread?

Of vulgar wits, which could not value them
At half the worth, for few did find his aim;
And nothing had more handfomely been faid,
Than in thofe flashes when he freely play'd.
When old grey hairs began grave thoughts to fuits
Chafte Clio charm'd his fancies with her flute,
To leave the mountains, fields and flocks for fake,
And to a nobler tafk himself betake,

What heathen hath a heart fo hard, to hear His facred fong, and would not faint for fear? While he the fhadow of the judgment fings, That court of conscience, where the King of kings The wicked world shall from the four winds call, Before his throne, both rich, poor, great and small, To hear a happy or a horrid doom, Where, ah! too many never think to come, But dally out their days in vain delight, Delaying ftill, till death blows out their light, And darkness drown them in a dungeon deep,. Where damned ghofts ftill dying wail and weep.But when my foul with wonder and delight Thofe holy numbers weighs where ravish'd quite Beyond himself, above the heavens as far, As from earth's furface to old Saturn's ftar, He fings that fmooth hymn of the fairest fair, In fweet feraphic ftile, high fwelling rare, My thoughts tranfported in a trance outfly The reach of reafon and mortality; And humbly falling heaven's high throne before, With fighs and fear that Majefty adore, Whole glorious grandeur there he feeks to limn As bright as art can draw with eyes fo dim; (Though all her fkill come far far fhort alas!) As one would with a coal the fun-shine trace: Yet never mortal more divinely fung Thofe marvels that beft fuit an angel's tongue. His youthful fancies, though he term'd them

Soft shelter'd in his grove, wrapt in his gown,
Which with more glory might his name renown !
The Stuart's ftory was a fubject fit,

And both requir'd his pen, and crav'd his wit,
Thofe five great Janies's, to the world well known,
At home were ftrangers ftill unto their own:
And he must fet them on the ftage again,
To fpeak their country's language fmooth and
plain,

So fweetly flowing in a flourish'd phrafe,
That Tully's foul his style doth lead and raife;
And fuch remarks, wife fentences, advices,
Good counfels, precepts, his whole labour graces,
That on Parnaffus he may claim his feat
Next that great Roman, rich in rules of state.

Dear Damon! is it true that thou art dead?
And Lyfis lives a lothed life to lead?
My thoughts, alas! were always fet on thee,
With hope at laft thy long wifh'd look to fee,
That my poor muse might do thee homage due,
And, after abfence long, old love renew;
Which fince thou haft borne hence to heav'n with
thee

Thy Lysis still shall love thy memory,

And make both Maes and Rhine thy name refound,
As far as thepherds by their banks are found.
Ay, me why have not I old Ayton's vein?
Or great Alexis ftately tragic ftrain?
To found thy virtues, fing thine obfequies
In panegyrics and fad elegies?

Earth's fartheft climates with thy worth should ring.
And worthip thee, where fame can ftretch a wing.
Yet with that vigour, my poor verfe can fly,
It fhall record to after-times that I

So dearly lov'd thy worth, thy name ador'd,
Thy friendship honour'd, and thy death deplor'd
That wherefoe'er the world my rhymes fhall read,
There Damon's love fhall live, when we're both
dead:

Nor fhall I fear antiquity to wrong,

With our own home-bred haunts to stuff my fong,'
And fay our Forth, which doth fo winding wander,
As famous is by thee, as old Meander :
Thy murmuring Efk and Ora's rushy hair,
With Mincius and old Tiber to compare?
And why shall I not freely venture then
To match with Helicon thy Hawthornden?
Thy grot, in which grim Saturn ftill remains,
Bound to the rock with mighty metal'd chains;
The fame prophetic fpirit doth infpire
That in Trophonus' cave fet fouls on fire;
And if the earth from hence a paffage yields,

It is the entry to th' Elyfian fields:
A fitter place the Fates could never find
To lay thy facred relics up enshrin'd;
There all the nymphs and fhepherd fwains can com¿*~
And yearly sing sad hymns before thy tomb,

Which on the marble cold thefe lines shall keep,
For pilgrims all to read, and parting weep,
That once thy care commanded should be cut
Upon thy grave, if I have not forgot,
Here Damon lies, whofe fongs did sometimes grace
The murmuring Efk, may rofes fbade the place.
But foft my forrow, now the fetting fun,
To Thetis' kind embrace doth posting run;
Good night, Alcydon, all good luck attend thee,
And what thy foul doth wifh, thy fortune fend thee.
This faid, they parted, and poor Lyfis' grief
So feiz'd his foul, which look'd for no relief,
'That while he careless and cross-armed went,
With flaggering fteps his lofs for to lament,
He often flood to figh, and at the name
Of Damon fainted: fo he lov'd his fame.
Sunt artibus arma decori.

G. LAUDER.

On the Report of the Death of the Author.

I that were true which whisper'd is by Fame,
That Damon's light no more on earth doth burn,
His patron Phabis' phyfic would difclaim,
And cloth'd in clouds as erft for Phaeton mourn.

Yea, Fame by this had got fo deep a wound,
That fearce the could have power to tell his death,
Her wings cut fhort; who could her trumpet found,
Whofe blaze of late was nurs'd but by his breath.

That fp'rit of his, which moft with mine was free,
By mutual traffic interchanging ftore,
If chas'd from him, it would have come to me,
Where it fo oft familiar was before.

Some fecret grief diftemp'ring firft my mind,
Had (though not knowing) made me feel this lofs;
A fympathy had fo our fouls combin'd,
That fuch a parting both at once would tofs.

Though fuch reports to others terror give,
Thy heavenly virtues who did never fpy,
I know thou, that canft make the dead to live,
Immortal art, and needs not fear to die.
SIR WILL. ALEXANDER.

Upon the incomparable Poems of Mr. William Drummond.

To praise these poems well, there doth require
The felf-fame fpirit, and that facred fire
That first infpir'd them; yet I cannot choose
But pay an admiration to a mufe

That fings fuch handfome things: never brake forth,
From climes fo near the Bear, fo bright a worth;
And I believe the Caledonian bowr's
Are full as pleafant and as rich in flow'rs
As Tempe e'er was fam'd, fince they have nourish'd
A wit the moft fublime that ever flourish'd;
There's nothing cold, or frozen, here contain'd,
Nothing that's harsh, unpolish'd, or conftrain'd,
But fuch an ardour as creates the spring,
And throws a cheerfulness on every thing;
Such a fweet calmnefs runs through every verse,
As fhows how he delighted to converfe

With filence, and his muse, among those shades
Which care, nor busy tamult e'er invades ;
There would he oft, the adventures of his loves
Relate unto the fountains, and the groves,
In fuch a ftrain as Laura had admir'd
Her Petrarch more, had he been so inspir'd.
S me Phaus gives a smooth and ftreaming vein,
A great and happy fancy fome attain,
Others unto a foaring height he lifts;
But here he hath fo crowded all his gifts,
As if he had design'd in one to try,
To what a pitch he could bring poetry;
For every grace fhould he receive a crown,
There were not bays enough in Helicon :
Fame courts his verfe, and with immortal wings
Hovers about his monument, and brings
A deathlefs trophy to his memory;

Who, for fuch honour, would not wish to die?
Never could any times afford a story

Of one fo match'd unto great Sidney's glory;
Or fame fo well divided, as between
Penshurst's renowned fhades, and Hawthornden.
EDW. PHILLIPS.

Sir George Mackenzie, bis Majify's Advocate, being in Hawthornden's Clofet, wrote down this Elegy of bim.

HERE liv'd that poet, whofe immortal name
Was crown'd by laurels, and adorn'd by fame;
Whom every man next to himself did love;
Who durft be loyal, and, what's more, reprove
The vices of that base rebellious age;
His was a poet's, theirs a tyrant's rage.
Each man him then his neighbour wish'd to be,
And we now grieve that we did not him fee.
They did his wit, we do his works admire,
And each young fpark dees kindle at his fire:
Or, which is more, he poems can beget
On my old mufe, though now much past the date.

To the Memory of William Drummond of Hawthornán,
HE who endeavours Damon's worth to raise,
Does not the hards, but his own merit praise
Here our's, and England's wits, in vain have ftrove
To write his merit, and exprefs their love.
For poets now to found enflave their fenfe,
And gild, where they should paint true excellence;
And who in dulier profe can hope to show,
What's to his name or to his labours due?
I own no art can Drummond's worth proclaim;
So vaft his merit, and fo loud his fame.
DAVID CRAWFORD OF DRUMSOT,

THE love Alexis did to Damon bear,
Shall witness'd be to all the woods and plains
As fingular, renown'd by neighbouring swains,
That to our relics time may trophies rear.
Thofe madrigals we fung amidit our flocks,
With garlands guarded from Apollo's beams,
On Ochils whiles, whiles near Bodotrian streams,
The echo's did refound them from the rocks;
Of foreign fhepherds bent to try the states
Though I (world's gueft) a vagabond do stray,
Thou may that ftore which I efteem furvey,
As beft acquainted with my foul's conceits.

Whatever fate heavens have for me defign'd,
I trust thee with the treasure of my mind.
SIR WILL. ALEXANDER.

Chlorus.

SWAN, which fo sweetly fings,
By Afka's banks, and pitifully plains,
That old Meander never heard fuch strains,
Eternal fame thou to thy country brings:
And now our Caledon

Is by thy fongs made a new Helicon.
Her mountains, woods, and fprings,

While mountains, woods, fprings be, fhall found thy praise :

And though fierce Boreas oft make pale her bays, And kill thefe myrtles with enraged breath, Which should thy brows inwreath;

Her floods have pearls, feas amber do fend forth, Her heaven hath golden stars to crown thy worth.

SIR WILL. ALEXANDER, Moeris.

THE fifter nymphs which haunt the Thespian fprings,

More lib'rally their gifts ne'er did bequeath
To them who on their hills fucks facred breath,
Than unto thee, by which thou fweetly fings,
Ne'er did Apollo raife on Pegafe wings
A mufe more near himself, more far from earth,
Than thine; whether thou weep thy lady's death,
Or fing those sweet four pangs that paffion brings.
To write our thoughts in verfe doth merit praise,
But thus the verfe to gild in fiction's ore,
Bright, rich, delightful, doth deserve much more,
As thou haft done these thy melodious lays :
No doubt thy mufes fair morn doth bewray
The swift approach of a more glift'ring day.
SIR WILL. ALEXANDER,

Upon the Tears on the Death of Maliades. IN waves of woe thy fighs my foul do tofs, And make run out the flood-gates of my tears, Whofe rankling wound no smoothing balm long

bears,

But freely bleeds when ought upbraids my lofs.
'Tis thou fo fweetly forrow makest to sing,
And troubled paffions doft fo well accord,
That more delight thy anguish doth afford,
Than other joys can fatisfaction bring.
What facred wits, (when ravish'd) do affect,
To force affections, metamorphofe minds,
Whilft numerous power the foul in fecret binds,
Thou haft perform'd, transforming in effect.
For never plaints did greater pity move,
The beft applause that can such notes approve.
SIR WILL, ALEXANDER,
Rrj

1. Sonnet.

In my first prime, when childish humours fed
My wanton wit, ere I did know the blifs
Lies in a loving eye, or amorous kifs,
Or with what fighs a lover warms his bed;
By the fweet Thespian fifters error led,

I had more mind to read, than lov'd to write,
And fo to praise a perfect red and white;
But (God wot) knew not what was in my head. -
Love fmil'd to fee me take fo great delight,
To turn thofe antiques of the age of gold,
And that I might more myfteries behold,
He fet fo fair a volume to my fight,,

That I Ephemerides laid afide

Glad on this blushing book my death to read.
II. Sonnet.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time's great periods fhall return to nought,
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the mufes heavenly lays,
With toil of fp'rit, which are fo dearly bought,
As idle founds, of few, or none are fought,
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of minds accords,
Where fenfe and will bring under Reafon's power:
Know what I lift, all this cannot me move,
But that, alas! I both muft write and love.
III. Sonnet.

YE who fo curiously do paint your thoughts,
Enlight'ning ev'ry line in fuch a guife,
That they feem rather to have fal'n from skies,
Than of a human hand by mortal draughts.
In one part forrow fo tormented lies,
As it his life at ev'ry figh would part:
Love here blindfolded ftands with bow and dart,
There Hope looks pale, Defpair with flaming eyes:
Of my rude pencil look not for fuch art,
My wit I find too little to devise

So high conceptions to exprefs my smart,
And fome fay love is feign'd that's too too wife.

Thefe troubled words and lines confus'd you find,
Are like unto the model, my fick mind.
IV. Sonnet.

Ar, me! and I am now the man whofe mufe
In happier times was wont to laugh at love,
And thofe who fuff'red that blind boy abufe
The noble gifts were given them from above.
What metamorphofe strange is this I prove?
Myfelf now scarce I find myself to be,
And think no fable Circe's tyranny,
And all the tales are told of changed Jove;
Virtue hath taught with her philofophy
My mind into a better courfe to move;
Reafon may chide her fill, and oft reprove
Affection's power, but what is that to me?

Who ever think, and never think on ought
But that bright cherubim which thralls my
thought.

V. Sonnet.
How that vaft heaven intitl'd first is roll'd,
If any glancing tow'rs beyond it be
And people living in eternity,

Or effence pure that doth this all uphold:
What motion have thofe fixed fparks of gold,
The wand'ring carbuncles which fhine from high,
By fp'rite, or bodies crofs-ways in the sky,
If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold.
How fun pofts heaven about, how night's pale quees
With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round,
What caufe fair Iris hath, and monfters feen
In air's large fields of light, and feas profound,
Did hold my wand'ring thoughts, when thy

[weet eye

Bade me leave all, and only think on thee.
VI. Sonnet.

FAIR is my yoke, though grievous be my pains,
Sweet are my wounds, although they deeply fmart
My bit is gold, though shortened be the reins,
My bondage brave, though I may not depart,
Although I burn, the fire which doth impart
Thofe flames, fo fweet reviving force contains,
That, like Arabia's bird, my wasted heart
Made quick by death, more lively still remains.