searches of antiquarianism, is no longer itself, "a phoenix gazed by all." At least, so it appeared to me; it is for others to judge whether I was right or wrong. In a word, I have endeavoured to feel what was good, and to "give a reason for the faith that was in me," when necessary, and when in my power. This is what I have done, and what I must continue to do.

To return to Drummond.—I cannot but think that his sonnets come as near as almost any others to the perfection of this kind of writing, which should embody a sentiment, and every shade of a sentiment, as it varies with time and place and humour, with the extravagance or lightness of a momentary impression, and should, when lengthened out into a series, form a history of the wayward moods of the poet's mind, the turns of his fate; and imprint the smile or frown of his mistress in indelible characters on the scat tered leaves. I will give the two following, and have done with this author:

"In vain I haunt the cold and silver springs,
To quench the fever burning in my veins :

In vain (love's pilgrim) mountains, dales, and plains

I over-run; vain help long absence brings.

In vain, my friends, your counsel me constrains

To fly, and place my thoughts on other things.

Ah, like the bird that fired hath her wings,
The more I move the greater are my pains.
Desire, alas! desire a Zeuxis new,

From th' orient borrowing gold, from western skies
Heavenly cinnabar, sets before my eyes

In every place her hair, sweet look and hue;

That fly, run, rest I, all doth prove but vain;

My life lies in those eyes which have me slain."

The other is a direct imitation of Petrarch's description of the bower where he first saw Laura:

"Alexis, here she stay'd among these pines,

Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair:

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,

More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines;

Here sat she by these musked eglantines;

The happy flowers seem yet the print to bear:

Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear.

She here me first perceiv'd, and here a morn

Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face:

Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
Here first I got a pledge of promised grace;

But ah! what serves to have been made happy so,
Sith past pleasures double but new woe!"

I should, on the whole, prefer Drummond's sonnets to Spenser's; and they leave Sydney's, picking their way through ver 2 bal intricacies and "thorny queaches,"* at an immeasurable distance behind. Drummond's other poems have great though not equal merit; and he may be fairly set down as one of our old English classics.

Ben Jonson's detached poetry I like much, as indeed I do all about him, except when he degraded himself by "the laborious. foolery" of some of his farcical characters, which he could not deal with sportively, and only made stupid and pedantic. I have been blamed for what I have said, more than once, in disparagement of Ben Jonson's comic humour; but I think he was himself aware of his infirmity, and has (not improbably) alluded to it in the following speech of Crites in Cynthia's Revels :'

"Oh, how despised and base a thing is man,
If he not strive to erect his groveling thoughts
Above the strain of flesh! But how more cheap,
When even his best and understanding part
(The crown and strength of all his faculties)
Floats like a dead-drown'd body, on the stream
Of vulgar humour, mix'd with common'st dregs:

I suffer for their guilt now; and my soul
(Like one that looks on ill-affected eyes)

Is hurt with mere intention on their follies.

Why will I view them then? my sense might ask me:

Or is't a rarity or some new object

That strains my strict observance to this point:

But such is the perverseness of our nature,

That if we once but fancy levity,

(How antic and ridiculous soever

It suit with us) yet will our muffled thought
Chuse rather not to see it than avoid it," &c.

Ben Jonson had self-knowledge and self-reflection enough to apply this to himself. His tenaciousness on the score of critical

* Chapman's Hymn to Pan.

objections does not prove that he was not conscious of them himself, but the contrary. The greatest egotists are those whom it is impossible to offend, because they are wholly and incurably blind to their own defects; or if they could be made to see them, would instantly convert them into so many beauty-spots and ornamental graces. Ben Jonson's fugitive and lighter pieces are not devoid of the characteristic merits of that class of composi tion; but still often in the happiest of them, there is a specific gravity in the author's pen, that sinks him to the bottom of his subject, though buoyed up for a time with art and painted plumes, and produces a strange mixture of the mechanical and fanciful, of poetry and prose, in his songs and odes. For instance, one of his most airy effusions is the Triumph of his Mistress:' yet there are some lines in it that seem inserted almost by way of burlesque. It is, however, well worth repeating.

"See the chariot at hand here of love

Wherin my lady rideth!

Each that draws it is a swan or a dove;

And well the car love guideth!

As she goes all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty:

And enamour'd, do wish so they might

But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her:

And from her arch'd brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone their triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily glow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Ha' you mark'd but the fall of the snow

Before the soil hath smutch'd it?

Ha' you felt the wool of beaver?

Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?

Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

Oh, so white! Oh, so soft! Oh, so sweet is she!"

His 'Discourse with Cupid,' which follows, is infinitely delicate and piquant, and without one single blemish. It is a perfect nest of spicery."

"Noblest Charis, you that are
Both my fortune and my star!
And do govern more my blood,
Than the various moon the flood!
Hear, what late discourse of you,
Love and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanc'd your name to see
Set, and to this softer strain;
'Sure,' said he, 'If I have brain,
This here sung can be no other,
By description, but my mother!
So hath Homer prais'd her hair;
So Anacreon drawn the air
Of her face, and made to rise,
Just about her sparkling eyes,
Both her brows bent like my bow.
By her looks I do her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see!
Such my mother's blushes be,
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheeks, of milk and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in.
And, above her even chin,
Have you plac'd the bank of kisses,
Where you say, men gather blisses,
Ripen'd with a breath more sweet,
Than when flowers and west-winds meet,

Nay, her white and polish'd neck,

With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain!
And between each rising breast
Lies the valley, call'd my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my shafts! Her very name

With my mother's is the same.'-
'I confess all,' I replied,

'And the glass hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waist,
All is Venus: save unchaste.
But, alas! thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her sex; but could'st thou, Love,
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more than thou hast spied.
Outward grace weak love beguiles:
She is Venus when she smiles,
But she's Juno when she walks,

And Minerva when she talks.'"

In one of the songs in Cynthia's Revels,' we find, amidst some very pleasing imagery, the origin of a celebrated line in modern poetry—

"Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip," &c.

This has not even the merit of originality, which is hard upon it. Ben Jonson had said two hundred years before,

"Oh, I could still

(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill)

Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil."

His 'Ode to the Memory of Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morrison' has been much admired, but I cannot but think it one of his most fantastical and perverse performances.

I cannot, for instance, reconcile myself to such stanzas as these :

"Of which we priests and poets say
Such truths as we expect for happy men,
And there he lives with memory; and Ben

The Stand.

Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went
Himself to rest,