WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

SONNETS.

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;
Sole comforter to minds with grief opprest.
Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumbering with forgetfulness possest;
And yet o'er me to spread 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 shew,
With feigned solace 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 kiss the image of my death.

To his Lute.

MY lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow

With thy green mother in some shady grové,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which used in such harmonious strains to flow,1
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
Be therefore silent as in woods before.

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

SONNETS.

To the Nightingale.

DEAR quirister, who from those shadows sends,

Ere that the blushing morn dare shew her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends (Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight; If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune, who like case pretends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight; Tell me, (so may thou fortune milder try,

And long, long sing !) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky

Enamoured smiles on woods and flow'ry plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I love.

THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove
Far from the clamorous world doth live, his 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,
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 sighs embalm'd which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweeter streams than poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

SONNETS.

SWEET spring, thou turn'st, 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 show'rs.

Dost turn, 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 to sours!
Thou art the same which still thou wert before;
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair,

But she whose 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.

To the Nightingale.

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours,

Of winters past, or coming, void of care,

Well pleased with delights that present are;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow'rs:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bow'rs
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 low'rs.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driv'n
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heav'n?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

SONNETS.

TRUST not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow;
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow;
Nor snow of cheeks, with tyrian grain enroll'd:
Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my woe
When first I did their azure rays behold;

Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the thracian harper have been told.
Look to this dying lily, fading rose;

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice;
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes!
The cruel tyrant, that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once, Ah me! not spare that Spring of your's.

SWEET Soul! which in the April of thy years,

For to enrich the Heaven, mad'st poor this round; And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most blest abid'st above the sphere of spheres! If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe, that all upbears; If ruth and pity there above be found; O! deign to lend a look unto these tears, Do not disdain, dear Ghost! this sacrifice. And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take; let this for me suffice, My heart a living pyramid I raise!

And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thineshall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.*

This lady was the daughter of a Mr. Cunningham, of Barnes. According to the information respecting her to be gleaned from the praises of her lover, she was not only royally descended, but, with the most animating personal attractions, possessed a highly intelligent mind, a voice of melody, and was constitutionally cheerful. His addresses, fervently offered, being at last accepted, the day was appointed for the celebration of their nuptials; when the expected bride was suddenly seized with a fever, which in a short time terminated her life, in the bloom and "April of her Years!" This shock, that must have seriously affected even an ordinary mind, Drummond never properly recovered.

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.
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing,
Making eternal spring,

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

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

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair.

Chase hence the ugly night,

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!
Fair king, who all preserves,

But shew thy blushing beams;

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shall see, than those which by Penéus' streams

Did once thy heart surprise.

Now Flora decks herself in fairest guise.

If that, ye winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;

Let zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play.
The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star.
Night, like a drunkard, reels

Beyond the hills, to shun 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!