Such wat'ry orbicles young boyes doe blowe
Out from their sopy shells, and much admire
The swimming world, which tenderly they rowe
With easie breath till it be waved higher:
But if they chaunce but roughly once aspire,
The painted bubble instantly doth fall.

Here when she came, she 'gan for musique call, And sung this wooing song, to welcome him withall:

"Love is the blossome where thear blowes

Every thing that lives or growes:

Love doth make the Heav'ns to move,

And the Sun doth burne in love:

Love the strong and weake doth yoke,
And makes the yvie climbe the oke;
Under whose shadowes lions wilde,
Soften'd by love, growe tame and mild:
Love no med'cine can appease,

He burnes the fishes in the seas;
Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench:
Love did make the bloody spear

Once a levie coat to wear,

While in his leaves thear shrouded lay
Sweete birds, for love that sing and play :
And of all love's joyfull flame,

I the bud and blossome am.

Onely bend thy knee to me,

Thy wooeing shall thy winning be.

"See, see the flowers that belowe,

Now as fresh as morning blowe,

And of all, the virgin rose,

That as bright Aurora showes:
How they all unleaved die,
Losing their virginitie;

Like unto a summer-shade,

But now borne, and now they fade.

Every thing doth passe away,

Thear is danger in delay:

Come, come, gather then the rose,

Gather it, or it you lose.

All the sande of Tagus' shore
Into my bosome casts his ore:

All the valleys' swimming corne
To my house is yerely borne:
Every grape of every vine

Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud,
To carry up my traine have bow'd,
And a world of ladies send me

In

my chambers to attend me.
All the starres in Heav'n that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine:
Onely bend thy knee to mee,

Thy wooing shall thy winning bee."

Thus sought the dire enchauntress in his minde
Her guileful bayt to have embosomed:
But he her charmes dispersed into winde,
And her of insolence admonished,

And all her optique glasses shattered.

So with her syre to Hell shee tooke her flight,
(The starting ayre flew from the damned spright)

Whear deeply both aggriev'd, plunged themselves in night.

But to their Lord, now musing in his thought,

A heavenly volie of light angels flew,

And from his Father him a banquet brought,
Through the fine element; for well they knew,
After his Lenten fast, he hungrie grew:

And as he fed, the holy quires combine

To sing a hymne of the celestiall Trine;

All thought to passe, and each was past all thought divine.

The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joyes,

Attemper'd to the layes angelicall;

And to the birds the winds attune their noyse;
And to the winds the waters hoarcely call,

And eccho back againe revoyced all;

That the whole valley rung with victorie.

But now our Lord to rest doth homewards flie:

See how the night comes stealing from the mountains high.

only because its gross flattery must have "pleased the king." It is to be regretted that the one, in the fullness of his heart, or during moments of unthinking hilarity, should have said much that was not exactly wise; and that the other should have been so unable to appreciate his guest's real character as to have noted down his petty jealousies and absurdities. The personal acquaintance of the two poets lasted only a few weeks-not long enough perhaps to exhibit, at least to Drummond, the virtues of "Rare Ben Jonson."

The principal poems of Drummond are the "Flowers of Sion," short pieces upon sacred subjects, and a variety of songs and sonnets. Among them are several of great beauty; the versification is easy and elegant-to an astonishing degree, indeed, when we bear in mind the age in which he wrote, and that he preceded Waller and others whom we are taught to consider as the fathers of "smoothness" in our English tongue. Although he had studied deeply, and derived much advantage from his knowledge of the poets of Italy, France and Spain, his learning is never unpleasantly intruded upon the reader. His thoughts are naturally and gracefully expressed;-both his ideas and his language are remarkably free from the affectations so conspicuous in his contemporaries; he rarely indulges in the crude conceits by which their writings are deformed; and appears to have felt and acknowledged (at times with intenseness) the influence of nature.

TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bayes,
Skie-threatning arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious layes,
Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in bloud do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantall frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders webs are made the sport of daies,
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floting world beneath the moone;
Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place,
Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND, the son of Sir John Drummond, gentleman usher to James the Sixth, was born at Hawthornden, in Mid Lothian, on the 13th of December, 1585; and, having received his early education at the High School of Edinburgh, took his degree in the university of that city. From 1606 to 1610, he studied civil law at Bourges; after which he returned to his native country, and dwelt in his beautiful and romantic residence on the banks of the Eske-"a sweet and solitary seat and very fit and proper for the Muses," cultivating his taste for literature, and occupying himself in the composition of the Cypress Grove-a prose work, containing reflections on the vanity of human hopes and wishes-and the Flowers of Sion. The happy and tranquil course of his life, however, did not continue long unbroken; for, having successfully wooed a young and lovely lady, she died soon after the marriage day was fixed. This sad event, to which he frequently alludes in his poems, produced such deep despondency of mind that he was induced to seek relief by travel. The eight years that followed he spent in visiting most of the European countries; and, on his return to Scotland, married Elizabeth Logan-because of her striking resemblance to his first love. During the remainder of his life, he continued to reside at Hawthornden. He was a zealous and unflinching Loyalist; "being reputed a malignant, he was extremely harassed by the prevailing party, and for his verses and discourses frequently summoned before their circular tables." It is said, indeed, that his mind was so affected by intelligence of the execution of Charles the First, that his own deathwarrant was "signed thereupon." He died on the 4th December, 1649. He is described as of "a goodly aspect;" an accomplished gentleman, of manners amiable and polite; careful in discharging the duties of public and private life; a sincere friend and an agreeable companion; possessing piety, fervent and unaffected; a true lover of his native land; and as the friend or correspondent of all the more excellent and distinguished of his contemporaries.

The visit of Ben Jonson to Hawthornden has been the subject of much bitter remark. In the year 1618, the great Poet of England walked to Scotland- to spend, it is said, a few weeks with his brother of the North. It is, however, by no means certain that this interview was the sole or even an important object of his excursion. But unhappily the result of it has been prejudicial to the memories of both. It appears that Drummond took notes of the wittiest, if not the wisest, sayings of old Ben, whom he describes "as eaten up with fancies; a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; a bragger of some good that he wanteth; jealous, especially after drinke,-one of the elements on which he liveth;" and, to sum up all, "for any religion." Probably Drummond never intended publicly to exhibit this picture; but it has led to much comment on the brutality of the guest and the perfidy of the host. The "malice" of Drummond has been traced to the "faint praise" of Jonson, who could find but a word of cold compliment for one of his friend's poems-the Forth Feasting-and that only because its gross flattery must have "pleased the king." It is to be regretted that the one, in the fullness of his heart, or during moments of unthinking hilarity, should have said much that was not exactly wise; and that the other should have been so unable to appreciate his guest's real character as to have noted down his petty jealousies and absurdities. The personal acquaintance of the two poets lasted only a few weeks-not long enough perhaps to exhibit, at least to Drummond, the virtues of "Rare Ben Jonson."

The principal poems of Drummond are the "Flowers of Sion," short pieces upon sacred subjects, and a variety of songs and sonnets. Among them are several of great beauty; the versification is easy and elegant-to an astonishing degree, indeed, when we bear in mind the age in which he wrote, and that he preceded Waller and others whom we are taught to consider as the fathers of "smoothness" in our English tongue. Although he had studied deeply, and derived much advantage from his knowledge of the poets of Italy, France and Spain, his learning is never unpleasantly intruded upon the reader. His thoughts are naturally and gracefully expressed;--both his ideas and his language are remarkably free from the affectations so conspicuous in his contemporaries; he rarely indulges in the crude conceits by which their writings are deformed; and appears to have felt and acknowledged (at times with intenseness) the influence of nature.