SIR WILLIAM MURE.

Of which none idle, all on work are set:

By cous'ning miracles, some doe credite get;

To cristen bels, tosse beads, they some appoint;

Some crosse, some creepe, some sprinkle, some anoynt;
Some hallow candles, palmes, crisme, ashes, wax;

Some penitents admitt to kisse the Pax!

109

And of a different order, the following, at the opening

of the poem, seems strikingly expressed:

But muse I could not, how from time to time,

Man-but a masse of animated slime;

A cloud of dust, tos'd by vncertaine breath;

A wormeling weake, soone to stoupe downe to death!

It has been observed, this was the latest of our author's publications: his writings which remain in MS. seem fully as considerable, and certainly not inferior in merit. The most important of these are, an entire version of the Psalms, and a metrical translation of Virgil's Dido and Eneas. The latter, as formerly alluded to, he essayed at an unusually early time of life for such an undertaking. The following are his opening stanzas of this celebrated poem:

I sing Æneas' fortunes, while on fyr,

Of dying Troy he takes his last farewell;

Queen Dido's love, and cruell Juno's ire,

With equal fervor which he both doth [did] feel.
Path'd wayes I trace, as Theseus in his neid,
Conducted by a loyall virgin's threid.

But pardon, Maro, if myn infant muse

(To twyse two lustres scarce of yeirs attained),
Such task to treat (vnwisely bold) doth choose,
As thy sweet voyce hath earst divinly strained!

L

And in grave numbers of bewitching verse,

Ravisht with wonder all the vniverse.

But, ravisht with a vehement desyre,

Those paths to trace, which yeilds ane endles name! By thee to climb Parnassus I aspyre,

And by thy feathers to impen my fame, Nothing asham'd, thir colours to display, Vnder thy conduct, as my first assay.

Sacred Apollo! lend thy Cynthia light,

Which, by thy gloriows rayes, reflexe doth shyne, That I, partaking of thy purest spright, May grave, anew, on tyme's immortall shryne, In homely stile, those sweit delicious ayers, In which thy muse so admirable appears.

And ye, Pierian maids, ye sacred nyne!

Which haunt Parnassus and the Pegas spring, Infuse your furie in my weak ingyne,

That (mask'd with Maro) sweetly I may sing; And warble foorth this hero's changing state, Eliza's love, and last her tragick fate.

Now bloody warre (the mistres of debait,

Attendit still with discorde, death, dispair; The child of wrath, nurst by despightfull hait, With visage pale, stern lookes, and snaiky hair), By Grecian armes, old Troy had beatne downe, And rais'd the ten-yeirs siege from Priam's towne:

Whose brasen teeth her walls did shake asunder,
And staitly turrets levell'd with the ground:
Insulting Greeks, with fyre and sword did thunder;
And both alike the sone and syre confound,
The maid and matron: striving to compence
Fair Helen's rapt, and Paris' proud offence.

SIR WILLIAM MURE.

111

The same measure is continued throughout the whole three books into which this poem, consisting of 407 stanzas, is divided. This principal effort of the author's, the MS. of which is in the most beautiful preservation, and probably is unique, would form an advantageous separate publication; and, should encouragement offer, may yet be attempted.

The Psalms, of which several copies exist, appear to have been completed in the year 1639; about which time, the subject of an improved Psalmody seems to have occupied very general attention. Many superior passages of sacred poetry occur in this attempt of Sir William's; and it is said, the Committee of the General Assembly appointed to revise Mr. Rous', the version finally adopted, were instructed nevertheless to avail themselves of the help of Rowallan's." Mr. Muir has given some specimens of our author's Psalter, in the appendix to the family history, before alluded to.

From the poetical remains of Sir William Mure, we have selected the following varieties. They are all transcribed with the utmost fidelity and care, from his own original manuscripts, the orthography of part only, being altered to modern rule, whilst any thing emendatory attempted, is always separately noted. The following rubric appears in the author's own hand:

"Amorouse Essayes, passionatly exprest, contryved in a Poetical Rapsodie, Sigh'd forth by Ane Lower. In Elegies, Sonets, Songs, The comitragical history of Dido and Æneas, tracing ye steps of ye best of Latin Poets, wt. wthers smal works, being all ye Infant Labours and very furstlings of ye Authors Muse. Sr. W. Muire, Yo. of Rowalen."

By

BEAUTY'S TRIUMPH.

WHILE Beauty by a pleasant spring reposes,
With fairest ranks of trees o'ershadow'd under,
The cooling air with calmest blasts rejoices,

To sport her with her locks, o'ercome with wonder;
So then, admiring her most heavenly feature,
I marvell'd much if she was form'd by nature.

The smiling blinks sent from her wanton eyes,
Had force to rob proud Cupid of his darts;
Her shamefaced blushing smiles who ever sees,
Must part perforce, leaving behind their hearts:
I stood astonish'd, greedy to behold,
So rare perfection as cannot be told.

She then perceiving me in thought perplex'd,
With voice angelical did thus begin:
"Thy gesture doth bewray thy mind is vex'd,
With crosses compass'd, and environ'd in:
Show, then, if love, or what misfortune else,
Such signs of sorrow in thy soul compels."

"No cross at all, fair dame; no force in love
Can ought disquiet or perturb my mind;
The wonders now are present me doth move-
To see heaven's excellence in human kind."
"No! Cupid thee molests, cease to deny him."
"Fie! treacherous love, fond Cupid I defy him."

ROWALLAN'S POEMS.

113

Even at this time the blinded god arriv'd,

His bow bent in his hand ready to knock; But while he aim'd, of power quite depriv'd,

Himself he bound in his own flattering yoke: Feeding his eyes on beauty's tempting looks, His pain he thought to ease with baited hooks.

So boil'd with flames, vex'd both with fear and tears,
Out of the anguish of his heart did 'plain:
"Ah! matchless dame, whom all the world admires,
Pity, I pray, my never ceasing pain;

Do not thy rigour unto me extend,

Whom once no mortal durst presume t' offend.

"But now at last o'ercome, I humbly yield,

Save then, or slay a captive begging grace;
Receive in sign that thou hast won the field,

The bow, the shafts, the quiver, and the brace;
Once which I brook'd, but now without envy,
I yield to thee, more worthy them than I."

The homage ended, and the goddess arm'd,

With proud, presuming Cupid's conquer'd spoil;

He then remitted, fled away unharm'd,

But, woes me! left behind his torturing toil. She spying me, yet unacquaint in love,

Her new got darts, through my poor heart did rove.

"Sport now," she says, "with Cupid! boldly try him; In love, if any force, now prove, I pray;—

Too late, I fear, thou rue thou did espy him,
Thine insolence 'gainst him or he repay."