The highest honours that the world can boast, The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be Without Thy presence wealth is bags of cares; In having all things, and not Thee, what have I? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be [WILLIAM BROWNE was born åt Tavistock, in Devonshire, in 1590, was educated at Oxford, and entered the Inner Temple, but did not follow the law as a profession. He lived in the family of the Earl of Pembroke, and realized the means of purchasing an estate. He died in 1645. His best poems were written before he was twenty years of age; and as he published none of them after he was thirty, they contain marks of puerility and imitations of other authors, and are without much vigour.] NOW great Hyperion left his golden throne That on the dancing waves in glory shone, For whose declining on the western shore By steeds of iron-gray (which mainly sweat Moist drops on all the world) drawn through the sky, First, thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains: These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven, BY WILLIAM DRUMMOND.-1585-1649. [WILLIAM DRUMMOND was born at Hawthornden, in Scotland, in 1585. He was intended for the bar, and studied civil law for four years in France; but he abandoned the legal profession when he succeeded to his paternal estate, and returned to Hawthornden, where he wrote some beautiful poetry. The death of a lady to whom he was betrothed affected him very much, and he sought a solace for his grief in travel. On his return, after an absence of some years, he saw a person who strongly resembled the former object of his love, and asking her hand, he obtained it. He died in 1649, it is said of grief, at the execution of Charles I., to whose cause he was greatly attached. Drummond's poetry is sweet and harmonious. His chief productions are remarkable for purity of language not less than for harmony and play of fancy. His sonnets are amongst the finest in the English language.] THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. Thou solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, TO THE THRUSH. A SONNET. WEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours SWEE Of winters past, or coming, void of care; Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers : |