WILLIAM DRUMMOND. SONNETS. To Sleep. SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, To his Lute. MY lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grové, Or that if any hand to touch thee deign, SONNETS. To the Nightingale. DEAR quirister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn dare shew her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends (Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight; If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune, who like case pretends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight; Tell me, (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing !) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky Enamoured smiles on woods and flow'ry plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I love. THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove But doth converse with that eternal love. SONNETS. SWEET spring, thou turn'st, with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. Dost turn, 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 to sours! But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air To the Nightingale. SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights that present are; SONNETS. TRUST not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold, Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams SWEET Soul! which in the April of thy years, For to enrich the Heaven, mad'st poor this round; And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most blest abid'st above the sphere of spheres! If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe, that all upbears; If ruth and pity there above be found; O! deign to lend a look unto these tears, Do not disdain, dear Ghost! this sacrifice. And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take; let this for me suffice, My heart a living pyramid I raise! And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thineshall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.* This lady was the daughter of a Mr. Cunningham, of Barnes. According to the information respecting her to be gleaned from the praises of her lover, she was not only royally descended, but, with the most animating personal attractions, possessed a highly intelligent mind, a voice of melody, and was constitutionally cheerful. His addresses, fervently offered, being at last accepted, the day was appointed for the celebration of their nuptials; when the expected bride was suddenly seized with a fever, which in a short time terminated her life, in the bloom and "April of her Years!" This shock, that must have seriously affected even an ordinary mind, Drummond never properly recovered. PHOEBUS arise, SONG. And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, Give life to this dark world that lieth dead. In larger locks than thou wast wont before, With diadem of pearl thy temples fair. Chase hence the ugly night, Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. My Love, to hear, and recompence my love! But shew thy blushing beams; And thou two sweeter eyes Shall see, than those which by Penéus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Now Flora decks herself in fairest guise. If that, ye winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Let zephyr only breathe, Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. And nothing wanting is, save she, alas! |