GOOD that never satisfies the mind,

A beauty fading like the April flowers,

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,

A honour that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,

A treasury which bankrupt time devours,

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,

A style of greatness, in effect a dream,

A fabulous thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name,
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death makes us our errors know.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers: Thou turn'st, 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 wast before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems her can restore.

Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine, forgot, lie closëd in a tomb.

D

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

BEFORE A POEM OF IRENE.

OURN not, fair Greece, the ruin of thy kings,

Thy temples razed, thy forts with flames de

voured,

Thy champions slain, thy virgins pure deflowered,
Nor all those griefs which stern Bellona brings:
But mourn, fair Greece, mourn that that sacred band
Which made thee once so famous by their songs,
Forced by outrageous fate, have left thy land,
And left thee scarce a voice to plain thy wrongs!
Mourn that those climates which to thee appear

Beyond both Phœbus and his sister's ways,

To save thy deeds from death must lend thee lays,
And such as from Musæus thou didst hear;

For now Irene hath attained such fame,

That Hero's ghost doth weep to hear her name.

WILLIAM Drummond.

NO TRUST IN TIME.

OOK how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's

queen,

Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead,

Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day;

Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

WILLIAM Drummond.

LEXIS, here she stayed; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,

More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines; She sat her by these muskëd eglantines

The happy place the print seems yet to bear;

Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear;

Me here she first perceived, and here a morn

Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,

And I first got a pledge of promised grace;

But ah! what served it to be happy so

Since passed pleasures double but new woe?

WILLIAM Drummond.