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Habington, Quarles,

Waller, Ayton, Cour.ey, Milton,

Byrd, Chamberlayne, Herbert, Lenham, Marvel, Dryden,

Addison, Pore, Parnell, Thomson,

Collins, Chenstone,




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. The following are his beautiful sonnets on Spring :

Sweet Spring ! thou turn’st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with fames, thy mantle bright with Aowers ;
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 in sours !
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,

Delicious, wanton, 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 closed in a tomb!

What doth it serve to see sun’s burning face?
And skies enamelld with both Indies' gold?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot rollid,

And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth’s beauty to behold,

The mountain's pride, the meadow's Aowery grace ;
The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of foods which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs,

The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?

For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Sith she, for whom these once to me were dear,
No part of them can have now with me here?

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,
Of winter's past or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,

Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling Aowers:

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy 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 lowers.
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 reverent eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays.

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
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;

My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward Aies,

The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.

The grave and eccentric Quarles has written some remarkable poems, equally quaint in conceit and curious in structure : for example :

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!

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