seems

We have been able to obtain no revealings whatever of the particular object of our author's inspiration, and "pleasant dying," Howso ardently breathed forth in the four preceding Sonnets. ever viewed by modern critics, such seems the almost invariable style of Rowallan's musings: and but rarely, if indeed ever, he to have devoted them to other than the two grand concernments-religion and love. The three succeeding should possibly still be viewed as a continuation of the same subject; in its scope, the concluding Sonnet seems a little more general.

SONNETS.

LIKE as Acteon found the fatal bounds,
Whereas Diana bath'd her by a well;

Which high attempt-punish'd by his own hounds-
Turn'd in a timorous hart, he fled, but fell.
So while my Cynthia, who doth her excel,
I did behold cruel Cupid envied,

And mine own eyes to cross me did compel,—
Still gazing on the goddess they espied.

At liberty before, alace! now tied,

I live expecting my Diana's doom-
Either to be preferr'd, or die denied!
Unworthy of the honour to presume.
Yet, though I die-for so I ever do-
Had I more lives, them should I hazard too.

Finis-1612.

ADIEU, my love, my life, my bliss, my being!
My hope, my hap, my joy, my all, adieu!
Adieu, sweet subject of my pleasant dying,
And most delightful object of my view!

ROWALLAN'S POEMS.

127

Bright spark of beauty! paragon'd by few;
Unspotted pearl! which doth thy sex adorn;
Loadstar of love! whose pure vermilion hue,
Makes pale the rose, and stains the blushing morn!
That zeal to thee which I have ever borne,
Sole essence, life, and vigour of my spreit!
By track of time shall never be outworn:
My second self, my charming Syren sweet!
And so, my Phoenix and my turtle true,
A thousand thousand times adieu, adieu!

W. M. ROWALLANE, Younger, 1615.

SOME gallant spirits, desirous of renown,
To climb, with pain, Parnassus do aspire:
By nature some do wear the laurel crown,
And some the poet proves for hope of hire!
But none of those my spirits doth inspire;

My Muse is more admired than all the Nine,
Who doth infuse my breast with sacred fire,
To paint her forth most heavenly and divine!
Her worth I raise in elegiac line,

In lyrics sweet, her beauties I extol,
The brave heroic doth her rare ingine

In time's immortal register enrol.
Since thou of me hath made thy poet then,
Be bold, sweet lady, to employ my pen!

Finis-1616.

IN beauty, love's sweet object, ravish'd sight,
Doth some peculiar perfection prize,

In which most worth and admiration lies;
The senses charming with most dear delight:
Some eyes adore like stars, clear, glist'ring, bright;
Some, wrapp'd in black those comets most entice;
Some are transported with pureayn dyes,1
And some most value green about the light.
Aurora's flaming hair some fondly love;

White dangling tresses-yellow curls of gold,
Others in greatest estimation hold:

All eyes alike, each beauty doth not move.
Eyes lovely brown, brown chesnut-colour'd hair,
Inflame my heart, and senses all ensnare.

TUA SONETS SENT BY MY FREIND, A. S.

THOU kno's, braue gallant, that our Scottich braines Hawe ay bein England's equals ewery way; Quhair als rair muse, and martiall myndis remaines, With als renouned records to this day.

Thoght we be not enrol'd so rich as they,

Yit haue we wits of worth enrich'd more rare:
As for thair Sidneyes science, quhich they say,
Surpasseth all in his Arcadian air,-

Cum, I haue found our westerne feelds als fair;
Go thou to work, and I schall be thy guyde,
And schew the of a sueitar subject thair—
Borne Beuties wonder on the banks of Clyd!
Philocle and Pamela, those sueit twain,
Quho lake bot thee to eternize thair name.

1 Purple, or blue.

ROWALLAN'S POEMS.

129

PLAY thou the Sidney to thy native soyle,

And rousse thy silwer pen, yat sleept this quhyle, And spair not for thy tyme-beguyling toyle;

Nor spend thy gallant spirit in exyle!

For first, thou art ane Lower by thy style,

Then borne ane Westerne, quhair those Ladyes wse,And they the only object of this Ile

Quhoise rair renouned worth I kna thou lowse,
May moue thee as thair Champioun, quhom they chuse,
To cheir thy braines and grace tham with the best.
Sprang thou from Maxwell and Montgomeries muse?
To let our poets perisch in the West!

No, no! braue youth, continow in thy kynd,
No sueitar subject sall thy Muses fynd!

Of the author of these spirited lines, there appears no clearer intelligence than what the prefixed initials afford. However, they were probably written about the year 1617; and in some editions of the Sempills of Beltrees' contemporary satire of the Packman and the Priest, appears a not unequal sonnet ascribed to an Alexander Sempill: if correct, possibly a son or near relation of the family, and it may be, the writer of these laudatory verses addressed to our author.

The name of Maxwell, which here occurs as a then recognised poet, has perhaps perished! The relation, however, assigned him to Sir W. Mure, whose grandmother was a daughter of Maxwell of New-wark, Renfrewshire, would seem pretty certainly to indicate his descent from that branch of the Maxwells. Almost nothing, indeed, seems known of the history of poetry in the West Lowlands of Scotland. And it is pleasing to learn, Mr. Motherwell of Paisley purposes soon to supply an entire and creditable edition of the poetical writings of the Sempills of Beltrees above alluded to, with memoirs of that interesting and very remarkable family.

The orthography of these two Sonnets, and of the Epitaphs which follow, has carefully been preserved as in the original papers. Small thanks, we are aware, must be due to us by the antiquary, for the pains we have taken to conform the preceding portion of these selections, to the spelling of the present day; but in a compilation more intended for ordinary than antiquarian use, such an alteration seemed somewhat imperious. This, however, is the utmost license which has been taken, as, we think, the critical reader will easily be satisfied of.

THE EPITAPH

OF THE RYT. VENERABLE GODLY AND LEARNED FATHER George, be GRACE FROM GOD ORDERLY CALLIT, AND BE HIS PRINCE APOYNTED

TO BE GREATEST PRELATE IN SCOTLAND, ARCHBISCHOPE OF SANCTANDROIS, &c.

BEREFT of breath, yit nocht from lyfe depoised,
Heir lyes inclosid Sanctandrois richest treassour:
A pearle but meassour hath ye wordill loossed,
Quhoise mynd repoissed in no decaying pleassour.
A matchles Phoenix, quho from mein estait,
Becam a Prelat and a Prince's mait.

A painfull Pastour, worthy such a place;

Too schort a space his natioune hath decoired; Quho now, restored to earth, doth rest in peace;

Receaued in grace, the heawinis in Sanctis hath stoired: Quhoise corpis t'intomb, glaid ar ye sensles stones, Promou'd to honour by his buried bones.