SWEET Soul, which in the April of thy years, For to enrich the heaven madest poor this round, And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most bless'd abides 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'll raise :

And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be

seen.

DRUMMOND.

SWEET Spring, thou comest with all thy goodly train, [flowers, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their [hours Sweet Spring, thou comest-but, ah! my pleasant And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain

showers.

[sours.

Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to
Thou art the same that still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome

Is gone; nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

[air

DRUMMOND,

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds ap-
prove,

Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
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 orphans' wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a
For which be silent as in woods before.

[tear;

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

DRUMMOND.

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past or coming void of care,

Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet smelling flowers;

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers
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 lours!
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs

(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,

And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yea, and to angel's lays.

DRUMMOND.

As when it happeneth that some lovely town
Unto a barbarous besieger falls,

Who both by sword and flame himself instals, And shameless it in tears and blood doth drown; Her beauty spoiled, her citizens made thralls, His spite yet cannot so her all throw down, But that some statue, pillar of renown,

Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls; So after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck

That time, the world, and death could bring combined,

Amidst that mass of ruins they did make,

Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind: From this so high transcendent rapture springs That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.

Written for Galatea.

DRUMMOND.

STREPHON, in vain thou bring'st thy rhymes and songs, [flowers; Deck'd with grave Pindar's old and wither'd In vain thou count'st the fair Europa's wrongs, And her whom Jove deceived in golden showers, Thou hast slept never under myrtle's shed;

Or if that passion hath thy soul oppress'd, It is but for some Grecian mistress dead;

Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy breast! How can true love with fables hold a place?

Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love, Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove: Thou suest for grace, in scorn more to disgrace. I cannot think thou wert charm'd by my looks, O no! thou learn'st thy love in lovers' books.

VOL. III.

TT

DRUMMOND.

CARE-CHARMING Sleep, son of the sable night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Destroy my languish ere the day be light,
With dark forgetting of my care's return;
And let the day be long enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth;
Let watery eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the troubles of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, fond image of my fond desires,
To model forth the passions of to-morrow;
Let never rising sun approve your tears,

To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow!
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

DRUMMOND.

To Sir William Alexander.

THOUGH I have twice been at the doors of Death, And twice found shut those gates which ever

mourn,

This but a lightning is, truce ta'en to breathe,

For late-born sorrows augur fleet return. Amidst thy sacred cares and courtly toils,

Alexis, when thou shalt hear wandering Fame Tell, Death has triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils, And that on earth I am but a sad name; If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love,

By all that bliss, those joys Heaven here us I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove, [gave, To grave this short remembrance on my grave— 'Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace The murmuring Esk:-may roses shade the place.'

DRUMMOND.

MORE oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear,
'Grave what thou hear'st in diamond and gold;
I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear,
Who have in dust their far stretch'd pride up-
roll'd.

All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere;
And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold:
This, not believed, experience true thee told,
By danger late when I to thee came near.
As bugbear then my visage I did show,

That of my horrors thou right use mightst make,
And a more sacred path of living take:
Now still walk armed for my ruthless blow;
Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past,
And live each day as if it were thy last.'

DRUMMOND.

WHAT hapless hap had I for to be born
In these unhappy times, and dying days,
Of this now doting world, when good decays
Love's quite extinct, and virtue held a scorn!
When such are only prized by wretched ways
Who with a golden fleece can them adorn;

When avarice and lust are counted praise,
And bravest minds live, orphanlike, forlorn!
Why was I not born in that golden age,

[arts

When gold was not yet known, and those black By which base worldlings vilely play their parts, With horrid acts staining Earth's stately stage? To have been then, O Heaven! 't had been my

bliss;

But bless me now, and take me soon from this.

DRUMMOND.