  ["A Lover of Old English Poetry," has, in the last London Magazine, a short paper on DRUMMOND of HAWTHORNDEN, a name dear to every poetical mind, and every lover of early song. His intention, he says, is "rather to excite than satiate" the taste of his readers for the poetry of Drummond,—an object in which we cordially agree, and would contribute our offering, had not the task, in the present instance, been already so ably performed. We cannot, therefore, do better than introduce to our readers a few of his judicious selections. They are exquisite specimens of the evergreen freshness of old poetry, and by their contrast with contemporary effusions will contribute to the mosaic of our sheet. By the way, we hear of a sprinkling of the antique world of letters in some of the "Annuals"—an introduction which reflects high credit on FROM THE "HYMN ON THE FAIREST FAIR."I feel my bosom glow with wonted fires: Raised from the vulgar press, my mind aspires, Wing'd with high thoughts, unto His praise to climb From deep Eternity who call'd forth time:— That ESSENCE, which, not mov'd, makes each thing move,— Uncreate beauty—all-creating love... Ineffable, all-powerful GOD, all free,— Thou only liv'st, and all things live by thee... Perfection's sum—prime cause of every cause, Midst and beginning, where all good doth pause... Incomprehensible, by reachless height; And unperceived, by excessive light. O King! whose greatness none can comprehend, Whose boundless goodness does to all extend,— Light of all beauty, ocean without ground, That standing, flowest—giving, dost abound... Great Architect—Lord of this universe,— That sight is blinded would thy greatness pierce. Then follows this noble simile, nobly sustained, and with a flow and harmony of verse not common in the poets of his period:— Ah! as a pilgrim who the Alps doth pass, Or Atlas' temples crown'd with winter glass,— The airy Caucasus, the Apennine, Pyrenees' cliffs, where sun doth never shine;— When he some craggy hills hath overwent, Begins to think on rest, his journey spent, Till mounting some tall mountain he do find More heights before him than he left behind,— With halting pace so while I would me raise To the unbounded limits of Thy praise, Some part of way I thought to have o'errun; But now I see how scarce I have begun— With wonders new my spirits range possest, And, wandering wayless, in a maze them rest. Oh! that the cause which doth consume our joy Would the remembrance of it too destroy! LIFE.Woods cut again do grow: Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done, But we, once dead, do no more see the sun! What fair is wrought Falls in the prime, and passeth like a thought. SONNET.—SPRING.Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,— Thy head with flame, thy mantle bright with flowers: The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,— The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers;— Sweet Spring, thou com'st—but ah! my pleasant hours, And happy days, with thee come not again! The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair, But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air Is gone—nor gold, nor gems can her restore, Neglected virtue—seasons, go and come, When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb. SONNET.Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are,— Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,— A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres—yes, and to angels lays! SLEEP.Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread, And silently her resty coach doth roll, Rousing with her, from Thetis' azure bed, Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole; While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad. The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries, And, looking pale from height of all the skies, She dyes her beauties in a blushing red; While Sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes, And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep, And Proteus' monstrous people in the deep,— The winds and waves, hush'd up, to rest entice,— I wake, I turn, I weep, oppress'd with pain, Perplex'd in the meanders of my brain. Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd— Lo! by thy charming rod, all breathing things Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd, And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, O come,—but with that face To inward light, which thou art wont to shew— With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath I long to kiss the image of my death! Hark, happy lovers, hark! This first and last of joys, This sweetener of annoys, This nectar of the gods, You call a kiss, is with itself at odds: And half so sweet is not, In equal measure got At light of sun as it is in the dark: Hark, happy lovers, hark! |
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