Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, TO A NIGHTINGALE. Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING. What blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps? Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand, And, full of wonder, overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise; What load-star draweth us all eyes? Am I awake, or have some dreams conspir'd To mock my sense with what I most desir'd? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks? Do I behold that worth, that man divine, This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain; My much-beloved prince is come again. So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun does roll: So after tempest to sea-tossed wights, Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights: So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods, And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods : The feather'd. sylvans, cloud-like by her fly, Let mother earth now deck'd with flowers be seen, Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's snows: Ness, smoking sulphur, Leve, with mountains crown'd, The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nith, loud-bellowing Clyde, To mariners fair winds amidst the main; Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, That day, dear Prince. ; ARTHUR JOHNSTON, the last of the poets of this period, was so celebrated as a writer of Latin verse, that he received the name of the Scottish Ovid, and even contested the supremacy in Latinity with Buchanan himself. He was born at Caskieben, near Aberdeen, in 1587; and having first pursued collegiate studies in the university of Aberdeen, he afterward went to Rome, and thence to Padua, where he studied medicine, and took his doctor's degree in 1610. Being at this time only in the twenty-fourth year of his age, he resolved to acquire, before he entered upon his profession, those accomplishments which he well knew nothing but foreign travel could impart. With this view he made the tour of Italy, Germany, Denmark, Holland, and England, and finally settled in Paris, where he continued to practice his profession with uninterrupted success for nearly twenty years. In 1632, Doctor Johnston returned to Scotland, and being introduced to Archbishop Laud, who was at that time in the north with Charles the First, he became, through the influence of that prelate, physician to the king. In this important relation to his majesty, he remained until 1641, when, being on a visit to a married daughter residing at Oxford, he was there seized with a serious illness of which he soon after died, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. Doctor Johnston was an extensive writer of Latin verse, and produced in that language a number of elegies, epigrams, a paraphrase of the Song of Solomon, a collection of short poems entitled Musa Aulice, and a complete Version of the Psalms of David, the last of which is his great performance. He also edited and contributed largely to the Delicice Poetarum Scotorum a collection of congratulatory poems by various authors, which reflected great honor on the taste and scholarship of Scotland at that time. The celebrity of Dr. Johnston's name throughout the learned world, requires this brief notice of his life; but we shall neither make any extracts, nor attempt any translations from his poems. The following beautiful verses will afford an appropriate close to our present remarks. They are supposed to have been written by SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE, while he was confined in prison on account of his adherence to his unfortunate monarch, Charles the First. LOYALTY CONFINED. Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surely Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me: While a good conscience is my bail, Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, I, while I wish'd to be retired, Into this private room was turn'd; As if their wisdoms had conspir'd The salamander should be burn'd; Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. The cynic loves his poverty, The pelican her wilderness, And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus : Contentment can not smart, stoics we see Make torments easy to their apathy. These manacles upon my arm, I, as my mistress' favours, wear; I have some iron shackles there: I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, Like some high-prized margarite; Or like the great Mogul or Pope, Am cloister'd up from public sight. Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to a cure: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant When once my prince affliction hath, And to make smooth so rough a path, Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. What though I can not see my king, Neither in person, or in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine: Have you not seen the nightingale Even then her charming melody doth prove That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corpse confine, Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: And, though immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. My soul is free as ambient air, Although my baser part 's immur'd; Although rebellion do my body bind, |