rary taste and feeling, Drummond soared above a mere local or provincial fame, and was associated in friendship and genius with his great English contemporaries. His father, Sir John Drummond, was gentleman-usher to King James; and the poet seems to have inherited his reverence for royalty. No author of any note, excepting, perhaps, Dryden, has been so lavish of adulation as Drummond. Having studied civil law for four years in France, the poet succeeded, in 1610, to an independent estate, and took up his residence at Hawthornden. If beautiful and romantic scenery could create or nurse the genius of a poet, Drummond was peculiarly blessed with means of inspiration. In all Scotland, there is no spot more finely varied-more rich, graceful, or luxuriant--than the cliffs, caves, and wooded banks of the river Esk, and the classic shades of Hawthornden. In the immediate neighbourhood is Roslin Chapel, one of the most interesting of ruins; and the whole course of the stream and the narrow glen is like the groundwork of some fairy dream. The first publication of Drummond was in 1613, Tears on the Death of Mæliades,' or Henry, Prince of Wales. In 1616 appeared a volume of Poems,' of various kinds, but chiefly of love and sorrow. The death of a lady to whom he was betrothed affected him deeply, and he sought relief in change of scene and the excitement of foreign travel. On his return, after an absence of some years, he happened to meet a young lady named Logan, who bore so strong a resemblance to the former object of his affections, that he solicited and obtained her hand in marriage. Drummond's feelings were so intense on the side of the royalists, that the execution of Charles is said to have hastened his death, which took place at the close of the same year, December, 1649. Drummond was intimate with Ben Jonson and Drayton; and his acquaintance with the former has been rendered memorable by a visit paid to him at Hawthornden, by Jonson, in the autumn or winter of 1618. On the 25th of September of that year, the magistrates of Edinburgh conterred the freedom of the city on Jonson, and on the 26th of October following he was entertained by the civic authorities to a banquet, which, as appears from the treasurer's accounts, cost £221, 6s. 4d. Scots money. During Jonson's stay at Hawthornden, the Scottish poet kept notes of the opinions expressed by the great dramatist, and chronicled some of his personal failings. For this his memory has been keenly attacked and traduced. It should be remembered that his notes were private memoranda, never published by himself; and, while their truth has been partly confirmed from other sources, there seems no malignity or meanness in recording faithfully his impressions of one of his most distinguished contemporaries. In 1617 was published Drummond's finest poem, Forth Feasting, a Panegyric to the king's Most Excellent Majesty,' congratulating James on his revisiting his native country of Scotland. The poetry of Drummond has singular sweetness and harmony of verification. He was of the school of Spenser, but less ethereal in thought and imagination. He excelled in the heroic couplet, afterwards the most popular of English measures. His sonnets are of a still higher cast, have fewer conceits, and more natural feeling, elevation of sentiment, and grace of expression. Drummond wrote a number of madrigals, epigrams, and other short pieces, some of which are coarse and licentious. The general purity of his language, the harmony of his verse, and the play of fancy, in all his principal productions, are his distinguishing characteristics. With more energy and force of mind, he would have been a greater favourite with Ben Jonson-and with posterity. Drummond wrote several pieces in prose, the chief of which are The History of the Five Jameses,' and 'A Cypress Grove'—the latter not unlike the works of Jeremy Taylor in style and imagery. The River of Forth Feasting. What blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps ? Are conveyed hither from each night-born spring? And, full of wonder, overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright, Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise? What loadstar draweth us all eyes? Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired To mock my sense with what I most desired? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks? This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what I long wished in vain; My much-beloved prince is come again. So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun does roll: Fair Helen's brothers shew their clearing lights: And sweet-breathed zephyrs curl the meadows green: Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower, Such as on India's shores they used to pour; Or with that golden storm the fields adorn Which Jove rained when his blue-eyed maid was born. May never Night rise from her sable cave! Swell proud, my billows; faint not to declare Your joys as ample as their causes are: And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair, Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's snows: Ness, smoking sulphur; Leve, with mountains crowned; The suaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nith, loud-bellowing Clyde; ; To virgins, flowers; to sun-burnt carth, the rain; Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, That day, dear Prince. Epitaph on Prince Henry. Stay, passenger; see where inclosed lies Time, nature, place, could shew to mortal eyes, In worth, wit, virtue, miracle of fame: At least that part the earth of him could claim To his Lute. My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow, * Milton has copied this image in his Lycidas: Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 1 Warbling (from ramage, French). Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; The Praise of a Solitary Life. Thrice happy he who, by some shady grove, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious inoan, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throng, Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours Sonnets. In Mind's pure glass when I myself behold, And what by mortals in this world is brought Where sense and will bring under reason's power: SIR ROBERT AYTON. SIR ROBERT AYTON, a Scottish courtier and poet (1570-1638), enjoyed, like Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel and acquaintance with English poets. The few pieces of his composition are in pure English, and evince a smoothness and delicacy of fancy that have rarely been surpassed. The poet was a native of Fifeshire, son of Ayton of Kinaldie. James I. appointed him one of the gentlemen of the bed-chamber, and private secretary to his queen, besides conferring upon him the honour of knighthood. Ben Jonson seemed proud of his friendship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him (Jonson) dearly. On Woman's Inconstancy. I loved thee once, I'll love no more; He that can love unloved again, Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, And then how could I but disdain When new desires had conquered thee, Yet do thou glory in thy choice, The height of my disdain shall be, The Forsaken Mistress. I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee; As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find Thy favours are but like the wind, |