WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

SONNET TO SLEEP.

SLEEP, filence' child, fweet father of foft reft,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent hoft to fhepherds and to kings;

Sole comforter to minds with grief opprest.
Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie flumbering with forgetfulness poffeft;
And yet o'er me to fpread thy drowsy wings

Thou spares, alas! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, oh! come, but with that face, To inward light, which thou art wont to fhew, With feigned folace ease a true felt woe;

Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou will, and what thou wilt bequeathe, I long to kifs the image of my death.

TO HIS LUTE.

My lute, be as thou waft, when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith that dear voice which did thy founds approve,
Which used in fuch harmonious ftrains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

Thy pleafing notes be pleafing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stop a figh, each found draws forth a tear;
Be therefore filent as in woods before.

Or that if any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle ftill her lofs complain.

SONNET

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

DEAR quirifter, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn dare fhew her light, Such fad lamenting ftrains, that night attends

(Become all ear), ftars ftay to hear thy plight; If one, whose grief even reach of thought tranfcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune, who like cafe pretends, And feems to joy in woe, in woe's defpight; Tell me, (fo may thou fortune milder try,

And long, long fing!) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and fun in dappled sky Enamoured fmiles on woods and flow'ry plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings figh'd forth, I love, I love.

SONG.

PHOEBUS arife,

And paint the fable skies

With azure, white, and red:

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she may thy career with roses spread.
The nightingales thy coming each-where fing,
Making eternal spring,

Give life to this dark world that lieth dead.
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou waft wont before,
And, emperor like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair.

Chafe hence the ugly night,

Which ferves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear, and recompence my love!
Fair king, who all preferves,

But fhew thy blushing beams;

And thou two fweeter eyes

Shall fee, than those which by Penéus' ftreams

Did once thy heart furprise.

Now Flora decks herself in fairest guise.

If that, ye winds, would hear

A voice furpaffing far Amphion's lyre,

Your furious chiding ftay;
Let zephyr only breathe,
And with her treffes play.

The winds all filent are,

And Phoebus in his chair
Enfaffroning fea and air,
Makes vanish every ftar.
Night, like a drunkard, reels

Beyond the hills, to fhun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place,

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!

SONNE T.

THRICE happy he, who by fome fhady grove Far from the clamorous world doth live, his own; Though folitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more fweet is birds' harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse fobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And fighs embalm'd which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweeter ftreams than poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, flights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

SONNE T.

SWEET fpring, thou turn'ft, with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their fhow'rs.

Doft turn, sweet youth! but (ah!) my pleasant hours And happy days, with thee come not again!

The fad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to fours! Thou art the fame which still thou wert before;

Delicious, lufty, amiable, fair,

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

SONNET

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET bird, that fing'ft away the early hours,
Of winters paft, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights that present are;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, fweet-fmelling flow'rs:
To rocks, to fprings, to rills, from leafy bow'rs
Thou thy Creator's goodness doft declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare;
A ftain to human fenfe in fin that low'rs.