QUID GLORIARIS IN MALICIA?-DAVID. SWELL no more, proud man, so high! Raised by fortune, sin, and wit, In a vault thou dust must lie. He who is lifted up by vice, Hath a neighbouring precipice, Dazzling his distorted eye. Shallow is that unsafe sea Over which you spread your sail, Mischief, while it prospers, brings Useless, soon is thrown away. Profit though sin it extort, Princes even accounted good Courting greatness ne'er withstood, Since its empire doth support. But when death makes them repent, They condemn the instrument, And are thought religious for't. Pitched down from that height you bear, When your flattering clients fly, As your fate infectious were! When of all th' obsequious throng That moved by your heart and tongue None shall in the storm appear; When that abject insolence (Which submits to the more great, And disdains the weaker state, As misfortunes were offence,) Shall at court be judged a crime, Though in practice and the time, Purchase wit at your expense. Each small tempest shakes the proud, Yet the just shines in a light VIA TUAS DOMINE DEMONSTRA MIHI. WHERE have I wandered? In what way, Horrid as night Increased by storm, did I delight? On that false ground I joyed to tread, Though every path had a new snare, And every turning still did lead To the dark region of the dead. But with the surfeit of delight I am so tired, That now I loathe what I admired, And my distasted appetite So abhors the meat, it hates the sight. For should we naked sin descry, Not beautified By the aid of wantonness and pride, Like some mis-shapen birth 'twould lie, A torment to the affrighted eye. But clothed in beauty and respect, Even o'er the wise How powerful doth it tyrannize! Whose monstrous form should they detect, They famine sooner would affect1. 1 Love. And since those shadows which oppress To clear and show the shape of sin, May I, before I grow so vile By sin again, Be thrown off as a scorn to men; Where while I struggle, and in vain Some creature that shall have a mind, What justice have I to complain, If I thy inward grace retain? My God, if thou shalt not exclude Thy comfort thence, What place can seem to troubled sense So melancholy, dark, and rude, To be esteemed a solitude? Cast me upon some naked shore, Where I may track Only the print of some sad wreck, If Thou be there, though the seas roar, I shall no gentler calm implore. VERSA EST IN LUCTUM CYTHARA MEA.-JOB. LOVE! I no orgies sing, Whereby thy mercies to invoke, Nor from the east rich perfumes bring, To cloud thy altars with the precious smoke. Nor while I did frequent Those fanes by lovers raised to thee, Did I loose heathenish rights invent, To force a blush from injured chastity. Religious was the charm I used affection to entice, And thought none burnt more bright or warm, But now I thee bequeath To the soft silken youths at court, Who may their witty passions breathe, To raise their mistress' smile, or make her sport. They'll smooth thee into rhyme, Such as shall catch the wanton ear; And win opinion with the time, To make them a high sail of honour bear. And many a powerful smile, Cherish their flatteries of wit, While I my life of fame beguile, And under my own vine uncourted sit. For I have seen the pine, Famed for its travels o'er the sea, Broken with storms and age, decline, And in some creek unpitied rot away. I have seen cedars fall, And in their room a mushroom grow; I have seen comets threatening all, Vanish themselves: I have seen princes so. Vain, trivial dust! weak man! Where is that virtue of thy breath That others save or ruin can, When thou thyself art called to account by death? When I consider thee, The scorn of time and sport of fate, How can I turn to jollity My ill-strung harp, and court the delicate? How can I but disdain The empty fallacies of mirth, And in my midnight thoughts retain, How high soe'er I spread my roots in earth? Fond youth! too long I played The wanton with a false delight, Which when I touched I found a shade, That only wrought on th' error of my sight. Then since pride doth decay The soul to flattered ignorance, I from the world will steal away, And by humility my thoughts advance. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. DRUMMOND of Hawthornden, the first Scottish poet who wrote well in English, was born in 1585. He was bred at Edinburgh, and studied the civil law at Bourges; but on the death of his father he forsook that pursuit, and retired to his patrimony, there to enjoy a literary life. During the civil wars he was compelled by the ruling party to furnish his quota of men, to fight against the king, whom he loved; and when the monarch was put to death by the conquering faction, the spirit of Drummond was so broken, that it brought him to the grave. This happened in 1649. As a poet, Drummond has much sweetness and classic elegance, but little fancy or vigour. His sonnets are, perhaps, the best of his performances. These have been pronounced by the best critics as some of the most finished specimens of this kind of composition. AN HYMN OF TRUE HAPPINESS. AMIDST the azure clear Of Jordan's sacred streams Jordan, of Lebanon the offspring dear When zephyrs flowers unclose, And sun shine with new beams, With grave and stately grace a nymph arose. |