Imágenes de página
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]
[graphic][subsumed][ocr errors]


Habington, Quarles,

Waller, Ayton, Cowley, Milton,
Byrd, Chamberlayne, Herbert, Denham, Marvell, Dryden,

Addison, Pope, Parnell, Thomson,
Collins, Shenstone,


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]


DEN,—the singular sweetness and harmony of whose poetry reminds us of Spenser,-wrote some

touching sonnets in memory of his lost love, whose sudden death occurred just prior to their appointed nuptials. The poet was of noble lineage, and lived amidst the most romantic scenery, at his fine castle on the banks of the Esk. The following are his beautiful sonnets on Spring :

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors]

Sweet Spring ! thou turn’st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with Aames, thy mantle bright with Aowers;
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers

Thou turn’st, 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 in sours !
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;

But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems her can restore.

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot, lie closed in a tomb !


[ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small]

ome a

[ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors]

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face?
And skies enamell’d with both Indies' gold ?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot rolld,

And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth’s beauty to behold,

The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace;
The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of foods which would themselves embrace ?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs,

The wanton merle, the nightingale’s sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?

For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Sith she, for whom these once to me were dear,
No part of them can have now with me here?

Hazlitt thought Drummond's sonnets approached as near almost as any others to the perfection of this kind of writing. Here is his Address to the Nightingale :

« AnteriorContinuar »