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, Which high attempt-punish'd by his own hounds- And mine own eyes to cross me did compel,— At liberty before, alace! now tied, I live expecting my Diana's doom- Finis-1612. ADIEU, my love, my life, my bliss, my being! ROWALLAN'S POEMS. 127 Bright spark of beauty! paragon'd by few; W. M. ROWALLANE, Younger, 1615. SOME gallant spirits, desirous of renown, My Muse is more admired than all the Nine, In lyrics sweet, her beauties I extol, In time's immortal register enrol. Finis-1616. IN beauty, love's sweet object, ravish'd sight, In which most worth and admiration lies; White dangling tresses-yellow curls of gold, All eyes alike, each beauty doth not move. 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: Cum, I haue found our westerne feelds als fair; 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, No, no! braue youth, continow in thy kynd, 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, 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. |