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As when it happeneth that some lovely town

Unto a barbarous besieger falls,

Wbo both by sword and flame himself instals, And shameless it in tears and blood doth drown;

Her beauty spoiled, her citizens made thralls, His spite yet cannot so her all throw down, But that some statue, pillar of renown,

Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls; So after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck That time, the world, and death could bring

combined, Amidst that mass of ruins they did make,

Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind : From this so high transcendent rapture springs That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.

DRUMMOND.

Waritten for Galatea. STREPHON, in vain thou bring'st thy rhymes and songs,

[flowers; Deck'd with grave Pindar's old and wither'd In vain thou count'st the fair Europa's wrongs,

And her whom Jove deceived in golden showers, Thou hast slept never under myrtle's shed;

Or if that passion hath thy soul oppress'd, It is but for some Grecian mistress dead;

Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy breast! How can true love with fables hold a place?

Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love,

Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove : Thou suest for grace, in scorn more to disgrace.

I cannot think thou wert charm’d by my looks,
O no! thou learn'st thy love in lovers' books.

DRUMMOND,
VOL, III.

TT

CARE-CHARMING Sleep, son of the sable night,

Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Destroy my languish ere the day be light,

With dark forgetting of my care's return;

And let the day be long enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth ;

Let watery eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the troubles of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, fond image of my fond desires,

To model forth the passions of to-morrow; Let never rising sun approve your tears,

To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow : Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

DRUMMOND.

To Sir amilliam Alexander. Though I have twice been at the doors of Death, And twice found shut those gates which ever

mourn, This but a lightning is, truce ta’en to breathe,

For late-born sorrows augur fleet return. Amidst thy sacred cares and courtly toils,

Alexis, when thou shalt hear wandering Fame Tell, Death has triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils,

And that on earth I am but a sad name; If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love,

By all that bliss, those joys Heaven here us I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove, [gave,

To grave this short remembrance on my graveHere Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace The murmuring Esk:-may roses shade the place.'

DRUMMOND.

MORE oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear,

Grave what thou hear'st in diamond and gold; I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear, Who have in dust their far stretch'd pride up

roll’d. All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere;

And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold:

This, not believed, experience true thee told, By danger late when I to thee came near. As bugbear then my visage I did show,

That of my horrors thou right use mightst make,

And a more sacred path of living take:
Now still walk armed for my ruthless blow;

Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past,
And live each day as if it were thy last.'

DRUMMOND,

What hapless hap had I for to be born

In these unhappy times, and dying days,

Of this now doting world, when good decays Love's quite extinct, and virtue held a scorn!

When such are only prized by wretched ways Who with a golden fleece can them adorn ;

When avarice and lust are counted praise, And bravest minds live, orphanlike, forlorn! Why was I not born in that golden age, [arts

When gold was not yet known, and those black

By which base worldlings vilely play their parts, With horrid acts staining Earth's stately stage?

To have been then, O Heaven! 't had been my

bliss;

But bless me now, and take me soon from this.

DRUMMOND,

To the Nightingale.
O NIGHTINGALE, 'that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;

Thou with fresh bope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,

Portend success in love; 0, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

MILTON

On his being 'arrived at the Age of Twenty-three., How soon hath Time, the subt.

thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth

That I to manhood am arrived so near;

And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endueth. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the Will of

All is, if I have grace to use it so, [Heaven; As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

MILTON.

On the late Massacre in Piedmont, 1655. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose

bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worship'd stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans

Wbo were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolld Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow

O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow

A hundred fold, who having learn’d thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. MILTON.

On his Blindness. WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he, returning, chide,

• Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, ‘God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'

MILTON.

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