1633, the king created him, by letters patent, Earl of Stirling. He continued to fill the important office which he had so long held, for seven years after this last honor was conferred upon him, and died in his own castle, on the twelfth of February, 1640, in his sixty-first year. The Earl of Stirling published in 1637, a complete edition of his works under the title of Recreations with the Muses, embracing, in addition to the productions already mentioned, a heroic poem entitled Jonathan, and an address to Prince Henry. 'Julius Cæsar,' one of the Earl's tragedies, contains several passages resembling parts of Shakspeare's tragedy of the same name; but it can not be ascertained which was first published. The genius of Shakspeare did not disdain to gather hints and expressions from comparatively obscure authors-the lesser lights of the age-and a famous passage in the "Tempest' is supposed to have been also derived from the Earl of Stirling. In the play of Darius, occurs the following reflection: Let greatness of her glassy sceptres vaunt, Not sceptres, no, but reeds, soon bruised, soon broken:] All fades, and scarcely leaves behind a token. The lines of Shakspeare will, of course, instantly suggest themselvesAnd like this insubstantial pageant, faded, Leave not a wreck behind. None of the productions of the Earl of Stirling, touch the heart or entrance the imagination. He has nothing of the humble, but genuine inspiration of Alexander Hume; yet he was a calm aad elegant poet, with considerable fancy, and an ear for refined metrical harmony. The following is one of his best sonnets: TO AURORA. I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes, And by those golden locks, whose lock none slips, And by the coral of thy rosy lips, And by the naked snows which beauty dyes; I swear by all the jewels of thy mind, And such as modesty might well approve. Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee, Should'st thou not love this virtuous mind in me? WILLIAM DRUMMOND, a contemporary of the Earl of Stirling, and a poet of greatly superior genius, was born at Hawthornden, on the thirteenth of November, 1585. His father, Sir John Drummond, was gentleman usher to James the Sixth, and the future poet received his education, first at the uni Ꭱ versity of Edinburgh, and afterward in France. In 1606 he commenced the study of the civil law, with the intention of following the legal profession; but in 1611, on the death of his father, he succeeded to an independent estate, and immediately took up his residence at Hawthornden. 'If beautiful and romantic scenery,' remarks a writer of that period, 'could create or nurse the genius of a poet, Drummond was peculiarly blessed with the means of inspiration. In all Scotland, there is no spot more finely varied— more rich, graceful, or luxuriant-than the cliffs, caves, and wooded banks of the river Esk, and the classic shades of Hawthornden. In the immediate neighbourhood is Roslin Castle, one of the most interesting of Gothic ruins; and the whole course of the stream and the narrow glen is like the groundwork of some fairy dream.' Drummond had been in the habit of relieving the oppressive weight of his legal studies in France by occasionally courting the muse; but it was not until after he was established at Hawthornden that he assumed a distinct position as an author. His first publication was a volume of miscellaneous poems; to which soon after succeeded a moral treatise in prose, entitled, the Cypress Grove, and another poetical work termed the Flowers of Zion. The death, which occurred about this time, of the young lady to whom he was betrothed, affected him so deeply that he sought relief in change of scene and the excitement of foreign travel. He first visited Paris, and thence passed to Rome, spending, between those two cities, and the intermediate countries, Germany and Switzerland, nearly eight years. He embraced the opportunity also, thus afforded, of making a large collection of the choicest works to be obtained in the Greek, the Latin, the French, and the Italian languages; and enriched with the literary lore of both the ancient and the modern world, he returned to Scotland, and resumed his abode at Hawthornden. On his way thither, he met, by accident, a young lady named Logan, who bore so strong a resemblance to the former object of his affections, that he solicited and obtained her hand in marriage. From this period Drummond passed many years in his delightful retreat at Hawthornden, relieving the sameness of a retired abode by occasional visits to his brother bards of England, and receiving visits in return from Ben Jonson, Drayton, and others, at his hospitable home. Drummond inherited from his father, the deepest reverence for royalty, and the trial and execution of Charles the First, is said to have so deeply affected him as to hasten his own death, which occurred in the latter part of the same year 1649, and in the sixty-fifth year of his age. The poetry of Drummond has singular sweetness and harmony of versification. His Tears on the Death of Mocliades, or Prince Henry, was written in 1612; his Wandering Muses, or The River of Forth Feasting, a congratulatory poem to King James The First on his revisiting Scotland, appeared in 1617, and placed him among the greatest poets of the age. His sonnets are of a still higher cast, have fewer conceits, and more natural feeling, elevation of sentiment, and grace of expression. The general purity of his language, the harmony of his verse, and the play of fancy in all his principal productions, are his distinguishing characteristics. With more energy and force of mind he would have been a greater favorite both with his contemporaries and with posterity. We shall close our notice of this eminent Scottish poet with a few of his Sonnets, and an extract from the River of Forth Feasting. EPITATH ON PRINCE HENRY. Stay, passenger, see where inclosed lies The paragon of Princes, fairest frame At least that part the earth of him could claim You saw where Earth's perfections were confin'd. TO HIS LUTE. My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow Is reft from earth to tune the spheres above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphan wailings to the fainting ear, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE. Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, 1 Milton has copied this image in his Lycidas: 'Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 2 Warbling: from ramage, French. Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, TO A NIGHTINGALE. Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING. What blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps? Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand, And, full of wonder, overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise; What load-star draweth us all eyes? Am I awake, or have some dreams conspir'd To mock my sense with what I most desir'd? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks? Do I behold that worth, that man divine, This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain; My much-beloved prince is come again. So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun does roll: So after tempest to sea-tossed wights, Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights: So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods, And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods: The feather'd sylvans, cloud-like by her fly, Let mother earth now deck'd with flowers be seen, Or with that golden storm the fields adorn Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's snows: Ness, smoking sulphur, Leve, with mountains crown'd, The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nith, loud-bellowing Clyde, To mariners fair winds amidst the main; Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, That day, dear Prince. ARTHUR JOHNSTON, the last of the poets of this period, was so celebrated as a writer of Latin verse, that he received the name of the Scottish Ovid, and even contested the supremacy in Latinity with Buchanan himself. He |