TO DEATH.

EATH, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And death shall be no more-Death, thou shalt die.

MARY MAGDALEN.

HESE Eyes (dear Lord) once brandons1 of desire,

Frail scouts betraying what they had to keep,

Which their own heart, then others set on fire,

Their traitrous black before Thee here out-weep:

These Locks, of blushing deeds the fair attire,

Smooth-frizzled waves, sad shelves which shadow deep,
Soul-stinging serpents in gilt curls which creep,
To touch Thy sacred feet do now aspire.

In seas of Care behold a sinking Bark,

By winds of sharp Remorse unto Thee driven,

O let me not exposed be ruin's mark!
My faults confest,-Lord, say they are forgiven.”
Thus sighed to Jesus the Bethanian fair,

His tear-wet feet still drying with her hair.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

GOOD that never satisfies the mind,

A beauty fading like the April flowers,

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,

A honour that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,

A treasury which bankrupt time devours,

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,

A style of greatness, in effect a dream,

A fabulous thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name,
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death makes us our errors know.

WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly

train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;

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 to sours:
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, lusty, 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.

D

BEFORE A POEM OF IRENE.

OURN not, fair Greece, the ruin of thy kings,

Thy temples razed, thy forts with flames de

voured,

Thy champions slain, thy virgins pure deflowered,
Nor all those griefs which stern Bellona brings:
But mourn, fair Greece, mourn that that sacred band
Which made thee once so famous by their songs,
Forced by outrageous fate, have left thy land,
And left thee scarce a voice to plain thy wrongs!
Mourn that those climates which to thee appear

Beyond both Phoebus and his sister's ways,

To save thy deeds from death must lend thee lays, And such as from Musæus thou didst hear;

For now Irene hath attained such fame,

That Hero's ghost doth weep to hear her name.