Drummond, itabington. Quarles, Waller, Ayton, Cowley, Milton. Byrd, Chamberlayne. Herbert, Denham, Marvel Dryden, Addison, Pore, Parnell, Thomson, oins, Shenstone, Your.g. DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORN DEN, the singular sweetness and harmony of whose poetry reminds us of Spenser,-wrote some touching sonnets in memory of his lost love, whose sudden death occurred just prior to their appointed nuptials. The poet was of noble lineage, and lived amidst the most romantic scenery, at his fine castle on the banks of the Esk. following are his beautiful sonnets on Spring: The Sweet Spring! thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours! Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air, What doth it serve to see sun's burning face? Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll❜d, And all the glory of that starry place? The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace; The stately comeliness of forests old, The sport of floods which would themselves embrace? The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, Hazlitt thought Drummond's sonnets approached as near almost as any others to the perfection of this kind of writing. Here is his Address to the Nightingale : Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers: And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven. HABINGTON'S poem on The Firmament opens with these grand lines :— When I survey the bright celestial sphere, So rich with jewels hung, that night My soul her wings doth spread, The Almighty's mysteries to read The grave and eccentric QUARLES has written some remarkable poems, equally quaint in conceit and curious in structure: for example : Behold How short a span Was long enough of old To measure out the life of man : In those well-tempered days, his time was then Surveyed, cast-up, and found—but threescore years and ten! How soon Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon! And this-how soon to gray-haired night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast:- And what's a life? A weary pilgrimage, False world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight! Thy morning's pleasures make an end To please at night : Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven! Fond earth, thou boast'st-false world, thou ly'st! Here are some of his lines, gilded with a little more sunshine:— As when a lady, walking Flora's bower, |