Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is and if you know

Such a one as I have sung;

Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young:

Be assured 'tis she, or none,

That I love, and love alone.

WELCOME, WELCOME DO I SING.

[From a manuscript copy of his poems in the Lansdowne collection.]

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,

Far more welcome than the Spring;

He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring forever.

Love, that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale,

Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields,

Never, never, shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,

Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring,
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring forever.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

1585-1649.

THE fame of Drummond of Hawthornden rests on his sonnets, many of which were inspired by love, and are among the best of the kind in the language. The name of the lady whose name they embalm was Mary Cunningham, a daughter of the Laird of Barns. Drummond fell in love with her, while cultivating his poetical talents at Hawthornden, after the death of his father, in 1610. She returned his passion, and the marriage-day was fixed; but before it arrived she was carried off by a fever. Drummond returned to his poetical studies, and in 1616 published a volume entitled, "POEMS: AMOROUS, FUNERALL, PASTORALL, IN SONNETS, SONGS, SEXTAINS, MADRIGALS,” from which the following extracts are taken. He travelled several years on the Continent, and made the acquaintance of many of the most learned men in France, Italy, and Germany; and returning to Scotland in 1631 or '32, he accidentally met a lady who bore a striking resemblance to his lost mistress, and married her. Her name was Elizabeth Logan, and she is said to have been a daughter of Sir Robert Logan, of Restelrig. Her pedigree has been disputed on the other side of the water, where they care for such trifles one account making her "the daughter of a minister, by one whose sire was a shepherd;" but to us, at this late day, it is of no great consequence who

she was.

In my first years, and prime yet not at height,
When sweet conceits my wits did entertain,
Ere beauty's force I knew, or false delight,
Or to what oar she did her captives chain,
Led by a sacred troop of Phœbus' train,
I first began to read, then loved to write,
And so to praise a perfect red and white,
But, God wot, wist not what was in my brain :
Love smiled to see in what an awful guise
I turned those antiques of the age of gold,
And, that I might more mysteries behold,
He set so fair a volume to mine eyes,

That I (quires closed which dead, dead sighs but breathe)
Joy on this living book to read my death.

O sacred blush, impurpling cheeks' pure skies
With crimson wings which spread thee like the morn;
O bashful look, sent from those shining eyes,

Which, though cast down on earth, couldst heaven adorn;
O tongue, in which most luscious nectar lies,
That can at once both bless and make forlorn ;
Dear coral lip, which beauty beautifies,

That trembling stood ere that her words were born:
And you, her words, words, no, but golden chains,
Which did captive mine ears, ensnare my soul,
Wise image of her mind; mind that contains
A power, all power of senses to control;

Ye all from love dissuade so sweetly me,
That I love more, if more my love could be.

Trust not, sweet soul, those curléd waves of gold,
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow,
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enrolled ;
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their burning rays behold,

Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the Thracian harper have been told.

Look to this dying lily, fading rose,

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice,
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes :

The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers,
Shall once, ay me! not spare that spring of yours.

Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain,

Cut your white locks, and on your foamy face

Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace

The boat that earth's perfections doth contain.

Winds, wonder, and though wondering hold your peace;
Or if that ye your hearts can not restrain
From sending sighs, moved by a lover's case,
Sigh, and in her fair hair yourselves enchain;
Or take these sighs which absence makes arise
From mine oppressed breast, and wave the sails,
Or some sweet breath now brought from Paradise:
Floods seem to smile, love o'er the wind prevails,

And yet huge waves arise; the cause is this,
The Ocean strives with Forth the boat to kiss.

She whose fair flowers no autumn makes decay,
Whose hue celestial, earthly hues doth stain,
Into a pleasant odoriferous plain

Did walk alone, to brave the pride of May;

And whilst through checkered lists she made her way,
Which smiled about her sight to entertain,

Lo, unawares, where Love did hid remain,

She spied, and sought to make of him her prey;

For which, of golden locks a fairest hair,

To bind the boy, she took; but he, afraid

At her approach, sprang swiftly in the air,

And mounting far from reach, looked back and said,

Why should'st thou, sweet, me seek in chains to bind,
Sith in thine eyes I daily am confined?

Are these the flowery banks, is this the mead,
Where she was wont to pass the pleasant hours?
Did here her eyes exhale mine eyes' salt showers,
When on her lap I laid my weary head?

Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread,
Whose tender rind, cut out in curious flowers
By that white hand, contains those flames of ours?

Is this the rustling spring us music made?