So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking to have made his purpose sure,

By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure.

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by the event.

When once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
Sweet patience I can learn from him.
Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart;

When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.

What though I cannot see my King,

Neither in person nor in coin,

Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not mine.

My King from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?

Have you not seen the nightingale
A prisoner-like coop'd in a cage;
How she doth chaunt her morbid tale
In that her narrow hermitage?
Even then her charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird whom they contrive
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corpse confine,
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free.

And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King!

My soul is free as ambient air,

Although my baser part's immew'd ;
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
To accompany my solitude.
Although rebellion do my body bind,
My King alone can captivate my mind.

The following lines were written by the Marquis of Montrose upon the execution of Charles the First. He shut himself up for three days, and when Dr. Wishart, his chaplain, and the elegant historian of his wars, was admitted to him, he found these verses, which probably were intended as a sort of vow, on his table. We all know how that vow was redeemed.

Great, good, and just! could I but rate

My grief to thy too rigid fate,

I'd weep the world to such a strain

As it should deluge once again;

But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,

I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds.

LOVE VERSES, BY THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

Sometimes the jargon of the different governments of the day, and sometimes the technical phrases of warfare, are made strange use of in these verses; yet some of the lines are so noble, and many so original, that we forgive this soldierly mode of wooing in favour of its frankness. It is to be presumed the lady did the same.

My dear and only love, I pray
This noble world of thee,
Be governed by no other sway
Than purest monarchy.
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert's too small,

That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shunn'st the prize to bore,
Or that thou sett'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

Or in the empire of thy heart,
Where I would solely be,
Another do pretend a part,
And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,
And goest on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways

Was never heard before,

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,

And love thee evermore.

Could it be in woman to resist such promises from

such a man?

PART SECOND.

My dear and only love, take heed
Lest thou thyself expose,

And let all longing lovers feed
Upon such looks as those;

A marble wall, then, build about,
Beset, without a door,

But, if thou let thy heart fly out,
I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot,
Make any breach at all,

Nor smoothness of their langnage plot
Which way to scale the wall;
Nor balls of wildfire love consume
The shrine which I adore,

For if such smoke about thee fume,

I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise,

Which victuall'd by my love so long,
The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee ruled in that health
And state thou wast before;
But if thou turn a Commonwealth,
I'll never love thee more.

But if by fraud or by consent
Thy heart to ruin come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,
Nor march by beat of drum;
But hold my arms like ensigns up,
Thy falsehood to deplore,
And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did
When Rome was set on fire,
Not only all relief forbid,

But to a hill retire;

And scorn to shed a tear to see
Thy spirit grown so poor,
And smiling sing, until I die,-
I'll never love thee more.

Yet for the love I bare thee once,
Lest that thy name should die,
A monument of marble stone
The truth shall testify,
That every pilgrim passing by
May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why
I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung,

A simple heart, a single eye

A true and constant tongue.
Let no man for more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun shall never end,
Love one, and love no more.

My heart shall with the sun be fix'd
In constancy most strange;

And thine shall with the moon be mix'd,

Delighting still in change.

Thy beauty shined at first most bright,
And woe is me therefore!

That ever I found thy love so light,
I could love thee no more.

Verses written by the Marquis of Montrose with the point of a diamond upon the glass window of his prison, after receiving his sentence.

Let them bestow on every airth a limb;
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboil'd head upon a stake;
Scatter my ashes; strew them in the air :-

Lord! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are,

I'm hopeful Thou'lt recover once my dust,

And confident Thou'lt raise me with the Just.

They who would follow the great Marquis to the last should read the fine ballad called "The Execution

of Montrose," in Professor Aytoun's charming volume